Franken stopped a distance away, and Kristoff read the wariness in the way he stood. He was still Kristoff’s friend, but he, like many others on the island, didn’t fully understand or trust the silent man everyone called Rowen Firestorm. If they could interact with Rowen more, they would adore him, the way Kristoff did. But even Kristoff knew that Rowen’s power wasn’t one that made it easy for him to live close to others. He still remembered waking up in their new home, choking on hot, humid air, and Rowen next to him, feverish and ill. He had called a heat spell in a dream after a long day spent training.
That had only happened twice, and Kristoff could dispel it each time, but that was enough to put deep fear into Rowen. When people feared him in turn, Rowen let it happen. It made Kristoff sad to see. But he understood it.
He just hoped one day Rowen would move past it and see his power for the gift it was.
“We’re only here briefly,” Kristoff said. “Off to work, as usual.”
“Stop by for a drink later, maybe?” Franken said. “I’ve heard you can get the best beer from Sharon’s crew. No one to share with over on that island of yours. Share the wealth here!” He laughed, then turned and shook his head at Benjamin. “You can wait a few more years for that.”
“Right,” Benjamin said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll wait.” He locked eyes with Rowen and smirked, and Rowen smiled back.
“Sure thing, Franken,” Kristoff said. “I’d be glad to.” Franken waved as they headed away, toward the beach.
Kristoff still liked the Storm Lords’ island. It was his first home, where he had learned a lot about the world and his power. The old trails and paths were all still familiar. He wondered if Rowen had any fondness for them. Those few weeks, five years ago, were fresh in Kristoff’s mind but must have passed like a tornado for Rowen.
Affection flowed through him, and he moved closer to Rowen, taking his hand. Rowen’s fingers curled around his, and they stopped for a moment to kiss, alone and peaceful.
Rowen walked more lightly as they headed toward the beach after that.
They only passed one more person. Volkes Lightning. Old possessiveness flared in Kristoff, but the blond passed them on the path with nothing more than a respectful nod—at Rowen. Typical of him to respect power he couldn’t have. Or maybe he had finally toned down his attitude after the incident in Linland.
Rowen gave Kristoff a smile and a knowing look when Kristoff took his hand again after Volkes passed by, but Kristoff didn’t mind.
Their lives had changed a lot, but in some ways, things were the same for Kristoff. He was still a Storm Lord. He still kept in touch with people. And now he had Rowen, a lover. He didn’t regret a single choice he had made.
He hoped the same was true for Rowen.
“Ready to go save your old village, Rowen?” Kristoff asked.
ROWEN HELD tightly to Kristoff’s hand as they flew. He was long used to it by now. But he wanted Kristoff close anyway.
The ocean beneath their feet turned into rocky cliffs, and then into the familiar brown and tan sand, dotted here and there with brush and scrub. Five years ago he had been in pain and too ill to notice how large it was, and now he had seen maps of his old home, but it filled him with awe to see how long and far the desert stretched on. It was like an ocean, in its own way, with the only colors the blue of the sky and the dusty brown of the sloping sand.
They landed on ground so hot it sent his feet tingling through his shoes, and Kristoff cursed, hopping in place. Rowen huffed a laugh at him, and Kristoff gave him a playful swat.
“Is it nice to be back?” Kristoff said. He was smiling, and then it faded. “Rowen, what’s wrong?”
Nothing, really. Rowen sighed, breathing in the warm air of the desert. The air he had grown up with. The sand shifted under his feet, and a few feet away a small scrub bush sat, unmoving. Rowen picked out tiny dimples in the sand, signs of a lizard or maybe a scorpion nearby, and a dip between dunes where the sand was less loose told him that if he dug here, he might find a shallow well.
He hadn’t lost those instincts, even after all this time. But of course he hadn’t. This was his home. He pushed away the strange anxiety that crawled over his shoulders. Or at least it had once been his home.
He took out his pen and paper. I’m fine. He wrote quickly. He was better than most at writing, he often thought, because he had to do it so often. After more lessons, it had become natural, like drawing, which he also knew he was good at.
Kristoff leaned over to read it. “Right,” he said. He sighed, wiping sweat off his forehead. “Well, then, my student,” he said. “Show me what you can do. The village is two hundred miles south. Pull the heat spell away, and I’ll disperse it.”
Rowen nodded. It was time to save his home, the way Kristoff had helped him train for. His own way.
He closed his eyes. When he had first learned to do this, he had been confused, unused to his own senses and what his magic was telling him. Now, it was easy to spot the heat spell, his mind drawn to it like a drop of water to the ocean.
He inhaled and the heat spell rolled toward him. He imagined the energy in the air, the energy that created it and made it move. He painted the picture in his mind, the way he could paint in reality, of shimmering heat waves moving away from the huts of his village, out over the dunes, the planted scrub brush that would yield pit seeds, and then out over the white-hot sands. He flew in his mind the way Kristoff did in reality, forcing the heat toward him with every intake of breath. The air chilled against his skin, and he knew his body was heating.
It wasn’t often that he let the heat spell get this close, and his lungs burned. He stopped, the only image in his mind rolling white dunes.
“My turn, then,” Kristoff said. “Fly with me, Rowen.”
He took his lover’s hand. Kristoff winced at the heat but didn’t let go.
Rowen was always shocked at how violent Kristoff’s storms were. The air whipped in every direction, dust devils lashing the sand and tearing the hardy scrub out of the ground. Rowen pitied it. But soon they were aloft and howling toward the heat spell, Kristoff’s face pinched in concentration.
This was how they worked. Rain began to pelt them, dark clouds forming out of nowhere. The stone around Kristoff’s neck was blown in a circle so it hung down his back. The dunes below them turned dark with the rain, their shapes melting.
Something pulsed in the distance, from his village, and Rowen turned his head.
“What is it?” Kristoff shouted over the storm. Rowen looked back at him, appreciating how beautiful he was. This was how he had first seen him, all those years ago.
He tore his gaze away, back toward home. Marin had told him to keep his senses alert. There was something there.
His eyes widened when he felt the pulse of power again. He knew what it was.
He pointed, and Kristoff nodded. They left the heat spell, and the storm destroying it, behind.
Rowen was going home.
They landed outside the village, and memories almost overtook him. He had walked these paths before. But now they were covered in scrub brush, in the lifesaving plants that would grow pit seeds. His power had finally given the Storm Lords the reprieve they needed. His village had never once been left to suffer.
Rowen walked slowly, Kristoff behind him. There was no sign of fresh graves. No one had died from the heat spell.
His village came into view over the horizon, and he stopped. Pain clutched at his chest, just for a moment.
Lucas’s blacksmith shop was in the same place as before, and then the same row of three huts. He had lived in the middle one. Someone had swept the streets recently, and a little girl played outside, jumping in place. A bucket of water sat by every hut, and some huts were built up almost like houses. The community bucket was marked half-full. There was another one too—a pail of pit seeds, also marked full.
“Are you all right, Rowen?” Kristoff asked. “Do you want to see it?”
Rowen n
odded. He walked closer. The door of the nearest hut swung open, and a man stepped out, peering at them both. Rowen turned his head away. He knew him. The northerner who had sacrificed him. A dark mark marred the other man’s face.
As he got closer, he spotted his own hut, and his heart jumped. A lizard scuttled outside on the ground under the narrow eaves where he had used to sit in the shade. A chair made of wood sat next to the door, and a crutch leaned against it.
“Heat spell has lifted!” someone shouted. Rowen jumped, whirling, as a young girl began banging on a pot. “Heat spell has lifted!”
Someone came out of his hut, a familiar man hobbling on a crooked leg. Anthony. Rowen’s old home was being used.
It wasn’t his anymore.
Rowen took Kristoff’s hand. Good. That was good. This was all good.
He had made a difference. Moving heat spells, making it easier for Storm Lords to do their work… he had saved his village, in his own way, year after year.
His heart warmed as people began to leave their homes, participating in the familiar rituals he remembered after a heat spell. Begin the gathering. Account for any water. Make sure no one was confused or dazed from the heat. He saw a family of five, including a tiny squalling infant, and they took extra pit seeds and placed them in the bucket in the center of the village.
“Barely needed any this time,” the man said. “You… hey. You look….”
It was Andrew. One of the ones who had helped sacrifice him.
Rowen met his eyes, looking for any sign of recognition.
“We’re travelers,” Kristoff said, breaking Andrew’s gaze with Rowen. “I… what are those?”
“Pit seeds. Used to be worth more than gold when the heat spells were bad, but now….” He dropped them in the bucket, and they barely made a noise as they fell onto the pile. “There’s more than enough. You should take a few if you’re traveling on. They lower your body heat. It’s a good time for traveling again, I hear.” He gave Rowen one last look, then turned away.
Kristoff met Rowen’s eyes. “Is this what you came for? Maybe these can help with the fevers.”
Rowen nodded. It was a good idea. He took a handful, the seeds cold in his palm. He remembered their bitter taste and the last time he had held them. It felt like a lifetime ago.
It was a lifetime ago. Kristoff was right. He had a new life now, with Kristoff. He didn’t need to worry if anyone recognized him or not. He took his hand, squeezing it tight, and Kristoff smiled.
But the seeds weren’t the full reason he was here. He felt the pulse of power again, and someone shouted in a familiar accent. “Hey, Jessy, stop!”
A little girl with blonde hair ran up to him, her eyes wide. She couldn’t be more than four or five.
But more importantly, Rowen could sense her power. Even now she was trying to pull back the heat spell, the one Kristoff’s storm was destroying.
Rowen wasn’t the only one. Not anymore. He put his arm on Kristoff’s shoulder.
“I know, Rowen,” Kristoff said, his eyes wide. “I sense it too.”
Rowen took a deep breath. He had wanted to be alone. He had sacrificed socialization for five years. But Kristoff had stayed with him, and he had used his power to help save his village. And the rest of the world.
Maybe their home wouldn’t be a Storm Lords’ island. But it could be a heatcaller’s island.
“Jessy!” Her father, the man who had sacrificed him five years ago, ran up to her, dragging her back by the arm. “What have I told you about going outside? The sun burns, you hear? You want to die like your mother?” The mark on his face was splotchy and black. Rowen knew immediately it would grow and kill him, probably very soon.
He couldn’t save everyone. He watched the girl be pulled away by her doomed father.
But he knew he would have to come back for her and give her a choice. The same choice Kristoff had given him.
“I’ll help you teach her, Rowen,” his lover said. “When the time comes.”
Rowen nodded, taking Kristoff’s hand in his. Once his father had told him not to tell anyone in the village about how he felt about men, but he kissed Kristoff in public anyway, uncaring.
He had done his job, and they didn’t need him here anymore. So much had changed since the last time he had been here, after a gathering where dozens had been reported dead.
Rowen didn’t need them anymore. He had his memories. It was time to move on to the life he had made for himself.
He took a handful of pit seeds and tilted his chin up. Kristoff grinned.
“All right, Rowen,” Kristoff said. “Let’s go home.”
RAVON SILVIUS lives in a tiny apartment with two tiny cats in a tiny town in the United States. Despite the cramped living quarters, Ravon enjoys coming up with big ideas for novels, with some plots coming from Ravon’s current profession as a neuroscience researcher and others coming purely from Ravon’s imagination. A huge fan of anime, video games, and science fiction and fantasy, Ravon appreciates a good story that is well-distanced from our current reality, whether it be in the far future, the distant past, or on a completely different world altogether.
Website: ravonsilvius.blogspot.com
Twitter: @RavonSilvius
E-mail: [email protected]
By Ravon Silvius
The Storm Lords
Published by DSP PUBLICATIONS
www.dsppublications.com
Published by
DSP PUBLICATIONS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
www.dsppublications.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Storm Lords
© 2017 Ravon Silvius.
Cover Art
© 2017 Aaron Anderson.
[email protected]
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact DSP Publications, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dsppublications.com.
ISBN: 978-1-63533-667-2
Digital ISBN: 978-1-63533-668-9
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017902301
Published August 2017
v. 1.0
Printed in the United States of America
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