“I understand.” Kristoff wanted to ask how long they would have waited if it wasn’t a well-populated city, or perhaps a city in the desert, but he held his tongue. Instead he added, “I was planning on training Rowen tonight. He needs training in control—apparently his powers have begun to manifest when he gets angry.” Lorana raised an eyebrow. “Can you request… Lila, to help him with that?” Rowen was likely most comfortable with the person who taught the school. “With something like this, I’d rather not wait.”
“Lila will be leaving for the north tonight.”
Damn. “Franken, then?” He hoped Franken wouldn’t bring Benjamin. Then again, if the point was to make Rowen angry, the annoying kid would probably do a good job.
“Very well. Good luck, Kristoff Hurricane.” Using his name like that was a clear dismissal.
He took a breath, heading out of the governor’s building into the rain, which still lashed at the ground. He traveled to the coast before reaching out with his perceptions, grabbing hold of tendrils of air that wound and howled in the storm.
He worried about Rowen, but he had work to do. Franken had warned him about that early on. And until Rowen could sense the air on his own with enough finesse to trust being held by another Storm Lord’s control, Kristoff didn’t want to fly with him and bring him along. He could always hold him the way he had before, but that had been borne of necessity. The thought of holding him like that now was too tempting, and Kristoff focused on the task in front of him instead.
A rush of spinning air and he was up, arcing on fast-moving cold air over the ocean, the rain stinging his eyes and the wind whipping his hair. Another tendril of air and it calmed, Kristoff blinking the rain out of his eyes as he hovered higher, surrounded by the white and gray of sodden clouds.
Linland was northwest, and it would likely take most of the afternoon and evening to get there. He could bring the storm tonight, gathering it while he flew, and dispel the heat spell as fast as he could before getting a room at one of the inns.
It was after a few hours that the heat spell became obvious, a beacon of blankness sending colder air winding around it and flowing like a current around a well. Kristoff took a breath, focusing hard. This would be more difficult than the paltry heat spell on the Storm Lords’ island. The span of the heat was enormous, and from the way the colder air moved around it, the pressure was too. He would have to whip up a tropical storm to break this, and he had to admit, if they had waited for the heat spell to fully form, the hurricane required to break it would probably be disastrous for the people living along the coast. The governor had been right to hurry.
He pulled water-laden wind from the ocean, sending it spiraling around the heat spell, gathering moisture and speed. He flew in the center of the storm where the air was calm, much like he had when finding Rowen that day, weeks ago.
Had it really been just a month since he had found Rowen? The young man had taken up all his thoughts since they had met—waiting for him to heal, teaching him about how magic worked, and waiting while Rowen strived to learn to communicate.
Kristoff didn’t know if how he felt about him was acceptable. He idly gathered up more tendrils of air, the wind around him whirling into a crescendo. Below, waves were lashed into whitecaps, and the green and brown coast of Linland loomed, the buildings of the city of Blackthorn darker in the distance. At first, as Rowen healed from his injuries, Kristoff only wanted to protect him. Now, though, as he saw Rowen more as a person than as a student….
Was he supposed to do that? Talia saw him as a peer, but that was now, when Kristoff had finished his studies. Rowen was just beginning, and Kristoff would be training him for years. But it was hard to see a man, nearly his age, as a student. Especially one as attractive as Rowen.
That was the true problem, Kristoff thought. He couldn’t deny his attraction to Rowen any longer. As Rowen began to blossom, learning and writing to communicate and becoming more of his own man, it just got worse.
Kristoff channeled his frustration into his storm, almost losing track of the tendrils of air he had summoned as they were twisted violently into the eyewall, lightning sparking through the dark clouds. That was enough. It was time to send the storm in.
The final push was always the hardest. He had to move the entire storm, the cold front, quickly enough to destroy the heat spell. He closed his eyes, using his sense of the air to pull himself and the storm toward the empty space of the heat spell.
Doing so would strengthen the storm even further and was the least predictable part of storm calling. The interaction of warm and cold air could turn an ice storm into a lightning storm or a tropical storm into a hurricane. If Kristoff had done his job right, the storm he had called would turn into a tropical storm when the heat spell broke.
The rocks and shoals of the coast moved past his feet, the city of Blackthorn growing larger as the storm barreled across the sky. The city got its name from the enormous trees that had once filled the landscape. The Linlanders made good use of them, constructing buildings larger than any Kristoff had seen in other countries. Their ships too were well made, although they didn’t compare to the lighter, fleeter craft the Darseans sailed and lived on.
The Iron Clock caught Kristoff’s eye, the numbers reading 8:52. He appreciated the exactness that the Linlanders liked to use. But the purple dusk of the summer day was soon swallowed up by dark gray clouds.
Kristoff’s body jolted as his wind and water hit the heat spell, and for a moment his heart jumped. What if it wasn’t enough? What if he had erred?
But then the winds picked up further, deafening in their howl, and lightning rippled in a sheet down the eyewall. Talia’s lessons came back to him, her voice full of pride. “You’re strong, Kristoff. You can summon hurricanes alone. Be proud. But always, always be careful. Know when to land.”
For anything stronger than a tropical storm, it was safer to land.
He would have to wait until the eye passed over the city. Below him, the leaves on the trees whitened as they twisted on their branches, some of them swirling away, and there was no sign of anyone, animal or human, on the streets. A broken sign bounced across the cobblestones, faded letters proclaiming the presence of spirits from the far south. The streets and stone buildings were dark with rain. Beyond, where the city was less dense, crashing and scattering leaves told him the winds were uprooting trees.
Kristoff took a breath, letting himself fall while the storm spun around him. Soon enough his feet touched ground, and he gave up control.
The wind nearly blew him over, the rain soaking him to the bone with its force. Yes. Definitely a tropical storm. It was time to find shelter, and fast.
His feet slapped on stone that was still warm from the heat spell, sending up splashes of water, and he wished not for the first time that Linland was as naturalistic and cozy as the Storm Lords’ island. The people here loved technology, integrating the use of iron into their architecture, but all it did in his mind was make the entire city seem uninviting and drab. And unlike the Storm Lords’ island, they hadn’t used it for efficient plumbing, so the water in the streets built up and would flow into the sea on its own time. It made summoning storms here riskier than it should be, and every time Kristoff hoped no one was flooded into poverty.
He walked down two streets before he found a building with the mark of the high priest of Linland, a symbol of hospitality at every inn in the country.
“By the sky, man, where did you come from?” the woman who opened the door asked. “First the heat, then the storm—I assume you want a room?”
“Just for the night,” Kristoff said. “Until the storm passes.” Inside, men and women sat at tables, a fiddler on a small stage playing over the sound of the rain. No fire was lit—probably because of the earlier heat.
Kristoff would relax for a time, gathering as much information as he could about the heat spell. In large cities it was easy, since strange travelers weren’t seen as unusual. Gathering informa
tion was impossible in the small tribes of the northern territories—or in the southern regions, where he had found Rowen. If he had been more proactive about learning how the people there lived and what happened there during heat spells, maybe he could have done better by Rowen.
He hoped his student was doing well.
Chapter 26
ROWEN WAITED for a time before realizing Kristoff likely wasn’t coming back that day. He had said he would arrange something for that evening, but it was going on toward afternoon, the storm still lashing against the side of the house, and there was no sign of him or anyone else. Sharon and Elise were likely studying or napping, and Volkes…. Rowen didn’t want to worry about Volkes.
It was a day off, and he should be enjoying it, but all he wanted to do was work. Rain meant it was time to conserve, to put out bucket after bucket and clean as much as one could, or go out and shore up foundations so mud wouldn’t destabilize his or the neighbors’ houses, or even dig extra holes so water would collect and drain into prepared wells. None of that was necessary here. He could continue practicing his letters, of course, but his body wanted real work, physical work, and there was nothing to do. Life here was almost too easy.
He wished Kristoff were here. He could try to use his magic or learn to swim again… although the thought of getting into the ocean while the rain beat down against him and the wind stirred the waves made his legs feel weak.
Rowen paced, frustration buzzing through him. He hoped this wasn’t another symptom of his losing control of his magic. Maybe it was just like heat boredom, when it was too hot to leave the shelter of one’s home, but a strange sort of opposite of that, when it was too rainy to leave. But it was less boredom and more annoyance, frustration, made worse by the incessant sound of the rain against the windows. It was like the rushing of the ocean, a cold presence that begged him to do something about it, to use it and survive another day.
This wasn’t a desert, and he knew that, but a lifetime of caution and fighting to survive on almost no water meant water like this, pouring down in sheets, made him edgy. He hoped he would one day get over it.
During the worst of the heat spells, people rested and relaxed. He wasn’t tired, but he had to try and do the same. He didn’t want to get upset like before and use his magic by accident and ruin Kristoff’s storm. The last thing he wanted to do was somehow disappoint him.
He gritted his teeth, taking a deep breath. He picked up the book on the table before putting it down in favor of blank paper. The images in the book were gorgeous. Maybe he could try to do that, like the paintings the Darsean man had shown him. They had certainly been soothing.
Willing himself to be calm, he sat down and began to sketch. Nothing came to mind except Kristoff, his smiling face and blue eyes, and the little stone he always wore around his neck. Rowen wondered what it was or what it meant to him. No other Storm Lords wore necklaces that he had seen. It was one of the first things Rowen had noticed that day when Kristoff saved him. Maybe it was Kristoff’s chosen item from his home.
That image began to come alive on the paper, a drawing of Kristoff hovering in the air, his hand outstretched. Forked lightning split the sky behind him, and Rowen added harsh lines. Rain, or maybe the pain he had been in, made the houses behind Kristoff look as though they were melting against the stormy sky, and Rowen smudged the charcoal intentionally. But Kristoff was clear, his eyes searching as he reached down to save Rowen.
Kristoff was beautiful, even in drawings. Rowen swallowed, realizing with a guilty flush that he was getting aroused by all the thought required to draw Kristoff so accurately. His hips, his thighs, his bare chest, even the delicate arches of his feet…. Rowen could imagine them perfectly as he reproduced Kristoff on paper.
He wished he could tell Kristoff how he felt. He remembered how his own voice had sounded, deep and strong. Maybe if he could talk….
No. That thought wouldn’t get him anywhere. It was past time he accepted it. Besides, Kristoff liked men, but he was also a full Storm Lord, and Rowen just a student. A poor student, so far.
No one is going go after someone who can’t even fucking talk. The memory of Volkes’s words was like a splash of spilled water, cold and promising future dread. Suddenly he felt alone, as alone as he had that horrible year after his parents had died.
Rowen frowned. He would learn to write, at least. He may not be able to be with Kristoff, or with anyone, but he could still be a good student and a good Storm Lord.
He had to believe that.
A knock at the door brought him out of his thoughts, and he pushed the paper away, putting it under the book on the table.
“Hello.” Franken greeted him at the door, and Rowen looked around but saw no sign of Benjamin. “Just me today. Kristoff wants me to help out. Ready to work?”
Rowen smiled, the bleak mood lifting. Finally.
It was still raining when Franken brought Rowen up to Seer’s Hill, the sky beginning to dim to purple. The wind had lessened, at least, and now it was a rain close to what Rowen was used to, a light drizzle that would soak the sands and fill wells that he and his father would dig in the morning. There, the rain had been warm. Here, rain fell like pricks of cold on his skin and made the air smell like soil and the grass leave stains on his shoes.
“So,” Franken said, facing Rowen and crossing his arms. “Kristoff tells me you’re losing control of your magic, eh? When you get angry?”
Rowen nodded.
“But you’re not aware of yourself doing it?”
Another nod. He wondered where Benjamin was, but Franken hadn’t offered any explanation. Maybe it was too late for the boy to be awake.
“About time, I suppose. You’re the oldest student I’ve seen, but it’s the older ones who usually have that problem. Their magic develops late, and they don’t know how to control it, like a developing boy who doesn’t know his own strength. So. First thing.” Franken held up one finger. “Have you ever tried, on your own, to use your magic? Not sensing. I mean bringing in weather of some sort.”
Rowen shook his head.
“Fair enough.” Franken tapped his chin with one finger. “It’s the second step to sensing. The easiest thing for anyone to do is bring the air toward them. You sense it, and then you pull it in. A lot of people end up doing it when they’re uncomfortable, like during a heat spell—they want to be cooler, they sense cool air in the distance, and boom—” He snapped his fingers. “They bring it in. With you, when you’re mad, you must have wanted something. Something to ease discomfort?”
He supposed getting Volkes to leave him alone was like that. Rowen nodded.
“All right, good. So perhaps instead of thinking of something that makes you angry, think of the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been. Close your eyes. Really imagine it.”
Rowen frowned. His mind leapt, unbidden, to his worst memory—finding his parents. He had been thinking of home too much lately. The sight of them lying on their sleeping pallet on the dirt floor of their wooden cottage, both of them lying apart, too hot to even stay together to find comfort.
He had never wanted to think of it again. His mouth twitched, the urge to cry heating his eyes. Why had they died and he had lived? They were healthy, healthier than he was, having lived all their lives in the village, used to the heat. His father used to laugh at him on summer days. “Come along, Rowen. The sun burns, but the shade of the tunnels is nice.” His mother once boiled water during a heat spell, cooking a lizard she had caught, when it was too hot for anyone else to eat cooked food. The heat hadn’t bothered them.
And then they had died. The heat spell had killed so many. Why had he lived?
He remembered the cloying, stifling heat, the sting of sweat on his skin, and the bitter taste of the pit seeds on his tongue. After that had come the numbness, which was worst of all. Goose bumps had flashed over his body, the sensation like thousands of tiny ants marching across his skin that sent pinpricks of false cold. His throat tightened, a
nd his eyes began to burn, tears massing behind the closed lids.
Franken spoke up. “Now instead of ignoring the memory, or pushing it away, bring in something new. Think of a nice, cool breeze from the sea or a nice, soothing rain. Keep your eyes closed. Imagine the breeze blowing away or the rain washing away whatever you’re feeling.”
Rowen thought of the ocean and the cold of the water and how the air prickled his skin when he was wet from learning to swim with Kristoff. But that just felt like the pit seeds, a false sensation. And he had to admit, he didn’t much like being wet. The annoyance and frustration of the sound of the rain just made it worse. Rain wasn’t a relief for long, only motivation to work harder to prepare for the long dry weather ahead.
He thought of the dry desert wind instead, hearing in his mind the soft rush of falling dirt when it blew through the tunnels of the wells he and his father dug. It wasn’t hot, but not cold either. It anchored his awareness, a soothing combination of relief and warmth that thawed the anxiety of bad memories. He could imagine it easily, how it would send dust spiraling across the village ground like rippling sheets on a bed. Here it would be hot, he supposed, and slow, barely enough to budge the enormous green trees and fronds all over the island.
“Good, Rowen,” Franken said. “Can you sense what you’re doing? You haven’t summoned anything yet, but you’re clearly using magic. You’re gathering it up, like a little storm cloud gathers water.” Franken chuckled at his own words. “Keep imagining whatever it is you’re imagining. This time, keep your eyes open and keep track of how you feel.”
The lights from the torches nearby hurt his eyes when he opened them after keeping them closed for so long. Other than that, he didn’t feel anything except for the steady drops of rain on his skin, although he kept imagining the breeze. He flicked his gaze to Franken, raising one eyebrow.
The Storm Lords Page 20
