Blood and Tempest

by Jon Skovron

  “I’m not hiding,” she said, perhaps too quickly. It sounded defensive, even to her own ears. “I’m just preparing. And I’m not ready yet.”

  She glanced at Uter, who snored softly, his expression a picture of innocence.

  “Besides, I have this one to look after now. You’ve seen what he’s like. I can’t just unleash him on the world.”

  Wentu nodded, but said nothing. He didn’t need to, because they both knew she really was hiding after all. And not just from Racklock. Red was still out there, turned into something terrible because she had failed to rescue him. If worse came to worst, she would face Racklock and probably death. But she didn’t know if she could summon up the courage to face whatever had become of Red.

  After their return to Galemoor, things settled into a routine for Hope, Uter, and Wentu.

  Hope spent much of her day rereading sections of Hurlo’s journal, meditating, and training. The last was not out of any conviction that she would be fighting anyone in the near future. Rather it was a comfort for her. A way to release the slow buildup of worry that she was always trying to convince herself she didn’t feel. Wentu occupied himself happily as he always did with domestic chores such as cleaning and cooking. Uter was thrilled merely to have a whole new island to explore. He would often be gone all day and stumble into the temple for supper shortly after sunset, covered in dirt and fresh scrapes.

  Hope wasn’t sure she was getting through to the boy about his cavalier attitude toward death. When she spoke to him about it again, he seemed to understand. But the next day, he came home with a pack of resurrected snakes slithering dutifully behind him, and was genuinely surprised when Hope scolded him for it.

  Wentu was far more patient, and Hope would have thought the boy would prefer the gentle old man’s presence. But Uter still preferred Hope, and he seemed desperate to share activities with her. At first, she wasn’t sure what those might be. But when she discovered that Vikma Bruea hadn’t taught him to read, she decided to set aside time each day to teach him.

  He picked up the letters easily enough, but once they started combining those letters into words, things became more challenging. They sat on the floor every morning in the dormitory and worked with a small slate and chalk.

  “The cot says moo.”

  “Cow,” Hope corrected him.

  He looked down at the short sentence written on the slate and shrugged. “Cow, then. The letters are mostly the same.”

  “They’re very different words with very different meanings.” Hope could hear the irritation in her voice.

  “I know, I know,” he said, his eyes already trailing off to stare at the ceiling.

  She had a hard time understanding why he didn’t seem all that interested. She remembered feeling starved for the knowledge when Hurlo had taught her.

  “Uter, learning to read is important,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Because then you can learn about everything else.”

  “Like what?”

  “History, science, poetry. It’s all open to you once you learn this basic skill.”

  He gave her a dubious look. “Could I learn about whales?”

  “Yes, reading will help you learn about whales.”

  “I guess it’s worth it, then,” he said.

  “Thank you. Now, let’s try a different one. And this time, pay attention to all the letters.”

  That afternoon, Hope confessed her frustration to Wentu.

  “It is an excellent exercise in patience for you,” he told her as the two hung laundry up in the breezy courtyard.

  Hope watched Uter run past the open gate after a pack of seagulls.

  “It is,” she agreed. “I’d always considered myself even tempered, but this experience has shown me otherwise. When he cannot grasp something that seems so obvious to me, my frustration is immediate, and I’m afraid it shows more often than not.”

  Wentu smiled as he hung up a heavy black robe on the line. “We all have our weak points. There was a young brother named Stephan who could not cook to save his life, and it drove me mad at times.” He hung up one of Uter’s new makeshift smocks made from the scraps of an old Vinchen robe. “I do think you and the boy are good for each other, though.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Uter ran past the gate again in the opposite direction. But then the boy jerked to a halt and stared at something farther down the path. After a few moments, he turned to Hope and jumped up and down, waving his hands above his head.

  “A boat!” he shouted, then began running toward her. “Someone’s here to visit!”

  Hope and Wentu exchanged surprised glances.

  “Perhaps the Vinchen have returned?” she asked.

  “Doubtful,” said Wentu. “They made it pretty clear that they were finished with this place.”

  “Merchants, then?”

  “We haven’t had those in years. Not since Racklock shut down the distillery.”

  “What, then?” asked Hope as Uter came up to her and began pulling excitedly on her clamp.

  “Come on, Hope!” he pleaded. “Come see!”

  Wentu nodded. “Perhaps we should do as the boy asks.”

  “Alright,” said Hope. “But, Uter, stop trying to pull my clamp out.”

  He immediately let go, his face concerned. “Could I do that?”

  She ruffled his mop of white hair. “Of course not. But you don’t need to drag me.”

  As they walked toward the gate, Hope was keenly aware of the emptiness at her waist where the Song of Sorrows used to hang. If these visitors were hostile and well armed, she didn’t know how she would defend against them.

  But when they reached the entrance and Hope looked down the path, all her anxiety left. The small boat at the dock was already turning back out to sea. It had left behind only a single person.

  Old Yammy was walking unhurriedly up the path toward them.

  “Well, look who it is,” said Wentu, an odd twinkle in his eye.

  “You know Yammy?” Hope asked. She would never have imagined that someone from Red’s past also had connections to Wentu. But she supposed if anyone was capable of straddling such different worlds, it would be Old Yammy.

  “How long has it been, Yameria?” Wentu called to her as she came near.

  “Apparently long enough for you to become quite distinguished and wise-looking, Brother Wentu,” she said.

  “Still such a flatterer, I see,” he said.

  Hope turned from one to the other. “How … do you know each other?”

  Wentu laughed. “It’s hard to avoid her.” He turned back to Yammy. “Still everyone’s favorite meddler.”

  “This is the last time,” she said mildly. “I promise.”

  Wentu gave her a strange look, like she’d just said something troubling.

  “Will you be my friend?”

  Hope thought she’d locked up all the sharp objects on the island, but Uter pulled a small paring knife from his pocket. Before he could lunge at her, Old Yammy smiled down at him.

  “Sweet boy, we’re already friends.”

  “Are we?” He looked surprised and lowered his knife.

  “Of course,” she said. “Anyone who is friends with Hope and Brother Wentu is automatically friends with me.”

  “So … I can get more friends just by having friends already?”

  “Only if you do it my way,” Hope said as she snatched the knife from his hand.

  Uter gave her a grudging look. “Maybe your way really is better. When it works.” He turned back to Old Yammy. “My way always works, though.”

  “I’m happy to see you, Yammy,” said Hope. “Or should I call you Yameria?”

  “Whichever pleases you,” said Yammy. “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “What are you doing here, though?” asked Hope.

  “I’m here for you, of course,” said Yammy. “Don’t you remember? I told you months ago that we would have our time together. And I always keep
my promises.”

  “I see,” said Hope. “Where is Vaderton?”

  “I have given Brice his own set of tasks. But you and I must begin ours immediately if we are to be of any help in the struggle to come.”

  “Begin what?” asked Hope.

  Yammy put her hand on Hope’s cheek and smiled fondly. “It’s wonderful that you have resolved to turn away from the path of vengeance and death glorified by the Vinchen code. But as you’ve discovered through your work as Dire Bane, simply adopting someone else’s path won’t yield the result you’re looking for either. You must find your own way.”

  Hope looked out at the distant ocean as she massaged her forearm. It didn’t really bother her the way it used to, but she still found the action soothing. “I’ve been trying. And at times it feels almost maddeningly within reach. I’ve meditated, I’ve studied Grandteacher Hurlo’s writings. But I just feel like there’s … something missing.”

  “Yes, dear,” agreed Old Yammy. “You’ve been missing me.”

  5

  What in God’s name is it?” Stephan asked.

  Hectory shook his head and said nothing.

  The two young Vinchen warriors stared at what appeared to be a forest of fifteen-foot-tall mushrooms arrayed in a random assortment of bright colors.

  “Has to be some kind of biomancery,” declared Hectory. Then he suddenly looked unsure. “Right?”

  “I don’t know what else could make such a thing,” said Stephan. “Let’s get a closer look.”

  Stephan wasn’t too clear on what had actually happened on Dawn’s Light. Some sort of clash between the biomancers and the blasphemer. This was the last place anyone had seen her, so Grandteacher Racklock had told them to comb the entire island and look for clues as to where she had gone next.

  “Do you think the real biomancers did this?” asked Hectory. “Or was it that female biomancer allied with the blasphemer?”

  Stephan didn’t respond because something caught his eye at the base of the nearest mushroom. He moved closer and knelt down to get a better look. His new, untested black leather armor creaked quietly.

  It was teeth. Too small to be adult. No, it was a set of … children’s teeth embedded in the base of the thick mushroom stalk.

  “What in all hells …,” he whispered to himself.

  “What is it, Steph?” asked Hectory.

  “Shut up for a minute,” Stephan said tersely. Still on his knees, he moved to the next stalk. Was that a small skull partly sticking out? And the next one, was that a tiny, shriveled hand? As he moved deeper into the rainbow mushroom forest, a sick dread grew in his stomach.

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” said Hectory. “We don’t know what kind of biomancery this is. It could still be dangerous. I mean, why put a bunch of giant mushrooms in a field? Maybe they’re poisonous. Or … alive.”

  But by now Stephan was deep into the heart of the forest, and he had seen enough to have a pretty good idea what kind of biomancery it was.

  “They’re all children,” he said.

  “What?” Hectory had reluctantly moved a short way into the forest, but the thick stalks seemed to absorb the sound, making the words between them muted.

  “Every one of them.” Stephan gestured to the mushrooms that loomed over them. He tried to sound brave, but his voice was tinged with horror. “These used to be children.”

  “Oh, God.” Hectory flinched back from the nearest stalk, suddenly unwilling to touch it. “So it must be that female biomancer with the blasphemer who did it.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” said Stephan. “Don’t you think regular biomancers would be capable of something as awful as this?”

  “I … don’t know.”

  But Stephan knew. His father had worked with a biomancer many times. He had seen the horrible things his father’s “friend” could do firsthand. Even as a young boy, he’d known it was wrong, and he’d spoken out against it as often as he could. Eventually his father had tired of his attitude, and shipped him off to be a Vinchen. It was ironic, really, that many years later, his grandteacher would also decide to align with the biomancers. But what could Stephan do now? When he took his final vows as a Vinchen, he had sworn to obey the grandteacher in all things.

  “What’s that over there?” Hectory pointed to a small clearing in the middle of the forest.

  Stephan caught a glint of metal and approached the clearing. As the object came into view, he moved faster, forcing his way through the thick stalks. He dropped to his hands and knees beside a sword handle that protruded from the ground. The handle was intertwined with white and black fabric. He brushed the loose dirt away to reveal a golden hilt and pommel.

  “It can’t be …”

  He grasped the handle and pulled it free from the earth. Dirt fell away from the shining blade, which hummed mournfully even though there was no wind within the mushroom forest.

  “The Song of Sorrows!” He held it triumphantly over his head.

  “We must take it to Grandteacher Racklock immediately,” said Hectory.

  “Yes, of course,” Stephan said quickly. He felt ashamed that he’d allowed himself to feel—even for a moment—that he had claimed the treasured blade as his own. Obviously it would go to the grandteacher.

  To prove to Hectory (and perhaps himself as well) that he was honored to deliver the Song of Sorrows into the hands of his grandteacher, he leapt to his feet and shoved his way back through the stalks of rainbow mushrooms that had once been children until he reached the open field. Then he ran across the rocky soil toward the dock.

  He held the blade aloft as he ran so that any brothers he passed would recognize it. When they saw it, they immediately stopped their own search and followed him. The shame of having the Song of Sorrows wielded by the blasphemer all these years had weighed heavily on everyone in the order. Seeing it returned to its rightful hand was a momentous occasion that none wanted to miss.

  A small military pavilion had been erected for Grandteacher Racklock in a clearing near the dock. It kept the sun and wind off him as he waited in quiet meditation for his warriors to bring what information could be gleaned from this island. His hair was mostly gray now, but his broad shoulders were still thickly muscled, and none had yet been able to best him in a sparring match.

  A grandteacher usually received his honorific either from his predecessor, or by consensus from his fellow Vinchen. But Racklock had given himself the name “Racklock the Just” when he’d taken power. None dared contradict him, especially after he reinstituted some of the older, harsher disciplinary measures of the Vinchen code that Hurlo the heretic had abandoned.

  Now, as Stephan approached the grandteacher’s tent, he thought of the other honorific that he and some of his fellow brothers whispered when they were alone and safely out of hearing: Racklock the Cruel. It was difficult to know how the man would react in any given situation, and several brothers had accidentally irritated or offended him. Punishment for such slips, even unintentional ones, was swift and painful.

  Stephan could feel the tension twist up his spine the closer he got to the entrance. When he saw the grandteacher in silent meditation, Stephan even considered letting one of the other brothers deliver the blade.

  But no, that would be cowardly.

  So he quietly entered the tent and knelt in front of Grandteacher Racklock. He bowed his head and presented the sword with one hand on the hilt and one hand on the tip of the blade, as was customary. Behind him, he could hear the other brothers gathering just outside the tent. He guessed they all felt a mixture of jealousy and trepidation for him.

  “Forgive me for intruding on your meditation, Grandteacher,” said Stephan.

  Racklock slowly opened his eyes. When he saw what Stephan held out to him, his eyes grew even wider.

  “There is no need for forgiveness,” he said. “Not for the one who brings affirmation of the righteousness of our cause.”

  Racklock’s thick hands shook with
what Stephan could only assume was eagerness as he took the sword. Stephan guiltily acknowledged to himself a tiny pang of loss when it left his hands.

  “Grandteacher, why would the blasphemer release the Song of Sorrows now, after all these years?” he asked. “Do you think she is beginning to see the error of her ways?”

  It was bold to ask even such innocent questions of the grandteacher, but it truly troubled Stephan. Why now? How could anyone give up such a magnificent weapon?

  Thankfully, this time Racklock didn’t seem bothered to be asked a question. His eyes were riveted to the sword in his hand. He responded almost absently, “It makes no difference why she did it. Only that it has made her death all the more certain. This sword was her last, best chance of survival. Now her fate is sealed.”

  6

  Red decided to disembark from the Harrowing Sky when it made port at Hollow Falls. It was tempting to stay on until Paradise Circle, but he thought it best to check Pastinas Manor first. If Alash had returned, he might have a good idea where Hope was. And if Red’s cousin still hadn’t come back, his aunt Minara might know where he was. Even if she didn’t, Red felt he owed his aunt a visit. The biomancers had murdered his grandfather, which she probably hadn’t minded too much. The gaf had been a complete cock-dribble, after all. But he was sure she hadn’t been happy to learn that Alash’s inheritance had been stripped and given to her wayward illegitimate nephew. If nothing else, he could tell her that he’d managed to fix that part.

  Besides, the Harrowing Sky was a largo cargo ship, much slower than the Lady’s Gambit. It had taken nearly a week to get from Stonepeak to New Laven. Captain Yevish was a decent enough wag, but his constant complaining over the last few days had set Red’s teeth on edge.

  Merivale had paid Red very well these last few months, so rather than walk all the way from the harbor to the manor, Red decided to hire a carriage. That way, even if he didn’t get any leads from his aunt, it would be a fairly quick ride down to Silverback, where he might get some information from Old Yammy. There was no reason for her to know anything about Hope’s whereabouts, of course, but Yammy had a habit of knowing a lot of stuff that probably wasn’t her business.