The Storm Witch

by Violette Malan

  Xerwin stiffened, turning to look at Naxot carefully for the first time since he’d arrived in his rooms. The man’s face was drawn, and the worry line between his eyebrows was new. Thank the Caids he’s not looking at me, Xerwin thought. His face was his weak spot, he knew; he still had trouble controlling his expression quickly. Nothing on Naxot’s face gave him any clues, so Xerwin decided to treat his friend’s words lightly.

  “It won’t be that much longer,” he said. “Surely you can find some court woman willing to amuse you, if that’s the problem?” Xerwin deliberately chose the one possibility guaranteed to make his friend blush. Naxot’s family were devoted followers of the Slain God, and notoriously orthodox in their social behavior, expecting even their sons to wait for marriage. Not for Naxot the casual encounters which made Xerwin’s life more tolerable. Of course, this orthodoxy made Naxot’s Noble House excellent allies—the very reason Xerwin had suggested the betrothal in the first place.

  But this time the little half-smile of embarrassment that usually followed any teasing along the sexual line failed to form on Naxot’s face. This was serious, then.

  “My father the Tarxin would be very angry,” Xerwin said, judging that bluntness was called for. “Such a request would do more than damage the alliance between our families, it would be an insult he could not overlook. I would not advise your father to approach mine on this subject.”

  Naxot set aside the breastplate he’d been toying with, staring down at the smoothly tiled white-and-black floor between his feet. “That’s why I was hoping you might speak for me.”

  Xerwin felt his face stiffen into what he thought of as his court mask. “I? I might speak? You wish to break off a betrothal which was made at my suggestion, and you think I might speak for you?” Xerwin took a deep breath. It would break Xendra’s heart if he let this happen, but at the same time he had to wonder what could make Naxot back away from an alliance equally advantageous to his own family.

  “When I proposed this match a year ago, you seemed pleased enough,” Xerwin said, aware that a hint of steel sounded in his voice. “Come, Naxot, what’s changed you?”

  “I haven’t changed,” Naxot said finally, straightening his shoulders in a way that reminded Xerwin of one of his junior officers bringing him a bad report. “But Tara Xendra has.”

  Xerwin’s hands balled into fists. He could see Naxot’s nose smashed and bleeding on the carefully fitted tiles. The pattern began to make his eyes swim. He took a calming breath, keeping his face turned away until he had himself under control. Even if he didn’t take his sister’s feelings into account, he could not afford to lose the favor of such a powerful family. True, Xendra had been ill, very ill after her accident. For the longest time they feared—but the worst had not happened, thanks to the Healer and the other Marked from the Sanctuary. Xendra was still not quite herself, that was true. But to suggest that there was anything out of the ordinary . . . Xerwin turned back to his friend.

  “Xendra’s fine,” he said. He picked up a bathing robe and pulled it on. “I haven’t had a chance to visit her yet, but my advisers tell me her health has continued to improve during my absence on the frontier.”

  But Naxot lowered his eyes. Just like that junior officer.

  Xerwin’s advisors had also told him the rumors.

  “My sister is not Marked.” Xerwin frowned, finding his sword inexplicably in his hand. He put it down, slowly. “You know as well as I that the Sanctuary has examined Xendra and declared she has no Mark. Do you suggest that my sister, daughter of Xalbalil Tarxin, the Light of the Sun, is in some way unworthy of you?”

  “I would not care if she were Marked,” Naxot said, so simply that Xerwin believed him. “She would still be your sister. But,” he shook his head. “It is I who have become unworthy of the Tara Xendra. She is too far above me now.”

  Xerwin blinked at Naxot’s unexpected words. “She has the same rank she’s always had.” A Tara could not inherit the Tarxinate, but it was not unheard of that the husband of a Tara should become Tarxin himself.

  Naxot leaned toward him, eyebrows drawn down. “There may be things even your advisers were not prepared to tell you. The Tarxin, Light of the Sun, has been to see your sister many times in your absence. Each time he comes from her with some new wonder.” Naxot’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She has explained the magic of the lodestone, and has caused rain to fall.”

  Xerwin sat down heavily on the bench behind him. What was Naxot saying?

  “We are living in the age of miracles.” Naxot’s voice was thick with awe. “First, Paledyn are reported in the lands across the Long Ocean, and now, Mages arise in our midst. The days of the Caids return.”

  Xerwin blinked. Naxot’s orthodoxy wasn’t lip service, he realized. Wasn’t—like the Tarxin’s—a political expediency.

  “It is clear Tara Xendra has an Art,” Naxot continued. “The Scholars of my House say that the Witches are Holy Women. Brides of the Slain God. They do not marry, but . . . bless only those whom they choose.” Naxot blushed deeply. “I cannot . . .” Naxot’s voice cracked, and he lowered his eyes. “Such things—I cannot presume.”

  Xerwin felt the hairs on his arms rise. Holy Woman. It couldn’t be. Little Xendra? His Xendra, who only a few short months ago was begging him to teach her to play peldar?

  This time it was Xerwin who looked away, as the implication of his friend’s words sank in. Really sank in. Holy Woman. Storm Witch. This is what had been happening in his absence, and not a word from his so-called advisers, nor from his father, the wily old jackal.

  Xerwin licked his lips, drew in a deep breath through his nose, and straightened his shoulders. Naxot was right. The betrothal should be set aside, no doubt. And Xerwin should talk to his sister.

  Six

  WHEN THE KNOCK CAME, Carcali raised her head with a jerk. The room spun for a moment before settling down again. She gripped the edge of the table, blinking and shaking her head. This wasn’t her room. Where was her desk? Why didn’t her feet touch the floor? The knock sounded again, and it all came flooding back. Her room was gone, her whole world—she swallowed and pushed that thought away.

  “Come,” she said, and shivered at the sound of the light voice that piped from her lips. She could get the commanding tone right, but would she ever become accustomed to the voice?

  She rubbed at her still unfamiliar face, looking up as the door swung open to reveal her senior lady page. The woman had likely functioned as nurse or governess, but in the months since Carcali had awakened in this body, Kendraxa had acted less and less like a nurse.

  “Have the maps come?” Carcali asked. She picked up the quill pen that had fallen to one side, resting it against a smoothed chunk of marble where it would not drip on anything important. She was only now coming to terms with the tools and equipment they used here, and much valuable time had been wasted before she’d learned about the Scholars, and then still more convincing those around her that she was serious about an inquiry to them. It had finally taken an order from the Tarxin himself for her requests to be acted on.

  “Well now, no, my dear. I mean Tara Xendra.” Kendraxa fiddled with the loose ends of her headdress. “The copies are being made, but it can’t be done quickly.”

  Carcali shut her eyes. She’d forgotten the forsaken things had to be copied by hand. That Art had been lost along with the rest of the civilization she’d destroyed. Her nails bit into her palms as her hands formed fists. She wasn’t going to think about that.

  “The Tarxin is waiting for the results of my work,” she said.

  “The Scholars have their work as well, Tara. Your father the Tarxin, Light of the Sun, understands this.”

  Carcali wrinkled her nose, unconvinced. The Tarxin hadn’t struck her as the kind of man who liked excuses.

  “Why are you here, then?”

  Kendraxa blinked, her eyebrows slightly raised. Carcali bit her lower lip. Again. That was blunter than anyone expected from her, since
the Tara she appeared to be was only eleven years old.

  “You have visitors,” Kendraxa began.

  Ice crawled up Carcali’s spine. “Not the Healers,” she said, skin crawling at the thought of the six-fingered man. “The Tarxin promised . . .” Carcali’s voice faded away as her mouth dried up. The Tarxin. The father of the body she was wearing. He’d promised her no more Healers when she told him what she could do. At first, he hadn’t believed her, but she’d been able, as frightened as she was, to call clouds to cover the sun. That, and what she’d told him about the lodestone had bought her his promise that the Healers wouldn’t make any more attempts to push her out of Xendra’s body.

  But now, with all this delay—

  “Please,” she said, trying her hardest to push the fear out of her voice. “Please don’t let them in.”

  “No, my dear, of course not. They can stay outside. It’s a petition only, from House Fosola, south of the city. They have had two nights of cold winds, earlier than would be expected at this time of year, and now the winds have died away, they fear a killing frost in the next few days if conditions do not improve.” Kendraxa waited and when Carcali didn’t reply, she added, “They come with your father’s permission.”

  Carcali’s breathing was already returning to normal.

  “What do they grow?”

  A pause, not very long, perhaps, but long enough that Carcali knew she had done it again. This was something the girl Xendra would have known. She pressed her lips together.

  “Peaches, Tara Xendra. Peaches, grapes, and other soft fruit.”

  “Is it only warmth they need? Not rain?”

  “The petition asks for warmth only, Tara Xendra.”

  “Very well.” Carcali was already picturing the crude map of Mortaxa she had in her possession. If she brought the winds up from the west, across the sea, was there enough coastal plain for the moisture to drop before the winds hit the higher ridges? She became aware that Kendraxa was still standing in front of her.

  “Was there something else?”

  Kendraxa looked at her steadily for a moment, her eyes narrowed, and her mouth in a determined line. Finally, she came closer, clasping her hands together under her bosom. “You must rest, my dear. You are looking very thin, and I know you are not eating enough.”

  Carcali stared, but the older woman did not lower her eyes. Finally, Carcali nodded.

  “Once I’ve dealt with this frost, Kendraxa,” she said. “I’ll lie down. I promise.”

  “Shall I close the shutters?”

  “I’ll take care of it. Thank you, you may go.”

  The woman smiled stiffly, bowed, and let herself out.

  Carcali sat for a few minutes, one hand hovering over the map of Mortaxa before she grabbed the map next to it. She unrolled it carefully, using the weight already on the table to hold it open. She studied it for a few minutes before she nodded. The lands belonging to House Fosola were close enough to appear on a map of Ketxan City. That gave her more detail and should make things easier for her.

  She rubbed her face, wincing at the feel of unfamiliar cheekbones, unfamiliar lips, skin, hairline. They were asking for just a small fix, a tiny change really, in the big scheme of the climate. But it would be useful, she’d be helping people. And she should be able to do it easily, without full immersion in the weatherspheres. She’d done exactly this kind of thing plenty of times before—even apprentices could do it.

  And she had to do it, she told herself. Her Art was her way to safety, here in this strange new world.

  Carcali began to take slow, deep breaths, feeling the tingle of the Art move through her bones, dance along her muscles until she could feel the hairs lift on her arms. She closed her eyes, let her head fall back, and raised her arms, reaching literally as well as figuratively for the spheres—she brought her arms down abruptly and wrapped them around herself, biting her lip.

  It was all right. No problem. She hadn’t lost the connection to the body. She just had to be more careful, that was all. She couldn’t risk—she wouldn’t risk.

  She refocused her attention on what she was doing.

  Spoke the words.

  Felt herself lighter, lifting. For a moment, floating, she looked down and saw her body, not her real body, but her body now, Xendra’s body. This was the body she now wore, this dark-haired child, and this was the body she was anchored to, and would return to. She forced its imprint on her floating consciousness, solidifying the connection, making sure it wouldn’t break.

  Delicately, Carcali let herself float, keeping a firm grip on her anchor, on the body. Not the best way to perform the Art, not very accurate, but safer, so much safer, and the only way now that there were no other Weather Artists to help anchor her.

  She let her eyes wander, looking for the rich reds and golden oranges that would tell her of warm air. It was farther afield than she would have expected, and full of the gray mist that meant moisture. A great soggy warmth over the sea.

  She hesitated, frowning. There were two ships on the surface of the water, the sinuous movements of beasts beneath the surface. She moved closer. These had to be Nomads. No one else had ships. She looked back at the warm mass of air. Without surrendering herself to the weatherspheres, there was no way to be absolutely certain, but she was sure that the ships were far enough away. They’d be safe enough. A little rain, a little wind, nothing they couldn’t handle.

  Turning, careful of the anchor, like a kite on a breeze, Carcali gathered the chosen currents together, tugging the warmth free of the moisture. Suddenly, she lost control, felt the air mass twisting and spilling away from her. She refocused her attention, and reached for the warmth again, breathing it in, making it more closely a part of herself, building it into a skin around her. Turning, she looked for the place she wished the warmth to be, and found it.

  Gently at first, and then with more force, she released what she had gathered, breathing out the warm air, pushing it toward the coastline where western Mortaxa met the Long Ocean, over the islands, across the coastal plain and east to the rolling hills and fruited valleys that needed protection from the frost.

  They did not meet the Skydancer until after midday. The wind had been freshening and dying away all morning, making the topsails flap and the ropes creak. The sun that had scorched them so badly the day before was hidden behind a sky heavy with haze, making the air, if it were possible, even hotter and the sea a dull gray mass of crumpled pewter. Parno Lionsmane had taken out his pipes, but had set them aside almost at once. Dhulyn had called for a very short Shora that daybreak, but they both had very little energy in the breathless heat. They had been sailing northeast, and north again toward the waist of the world.

  What wind there was now blew against them, and the Wavetreader hove to as soon as the other Pod was sighted. Parno had thought the Wavetreader large, but Skydancer was half again the smaller ship’s size, four-masted, and with at least two more decks. As she bore down on them, Parno glanced around, narrowing his eyes and tightening his grip on the rail when he saw no one, most especially not Dhulyn, seemed at all concerned.

  Blooded sailors, he thought. You could never tell whether to be worried or not. It did seem, however, that this was a time of “or not,” as it took the other crew only a few moments to spill the winds from their sails and bring the two ships together, riding side by side—though not close enough to board in the manner of pirates. Parno could see the faces of the Skydancer’s crew clearly, see gold and silver glinting at wrist and throat, almost make out the color of their eyes. They were much the same physical type as the Nomads he already knew, wiry and small, though there seemed to be more variety of skin shading and hair color than on board the Wavetreader.

  “Can’t they get us any closer?” he said to Dhulyn, thinking it must involve some deep seafaring lore he knew nothing of. “At this distance they’ll have to put a boat over the side.”

  “Look down.”

  Of course. How could he have forgo
tten. This was more than a meeting between the two crews. Parno scanned the water between the ships and saw Crayx swimming in the open space between the two hulls. Unlike the humans, there was very little variation in color between the two Pods, but somehow Parno knew that he was looking at members of both groups.

  #Welcome# #Pleasure#

  Parno jerked upright and stepped back from the rail as if avoiding the point of a sword.

  “What?” Dhulyn closed her hand around his wrist, her palm cool and dry against his hot skin.

  Parno licked his lips. “I heard them just now, they speak to one another.”

  “And not just to one another, I think.” Dhulyn shot a glance over her shoulder.

  Parno looked around. The crew of the Wavetreader were gathering on deck, crowding the rail and climbing into the rigging the better to see their kin on the other ship.

  “No one’s saying anything.” he said. “No greetings, no questions, nothing.”

  “The younger children are not here,” Dhulyn said.

  “Only those over the age of ten were allowed on deck.” And how do I know this? he thought. There were several of the older youngsters close by them, round-eyed with anticipation. And while a few were waving, and some were wriggling and shoving each other with excitement, none of them were making a sound, neither calling across to the other ship, nor chattering to each other.

  Dhulyn was right. It was not just the Crayx speaking to each other. Like a humming in his blood, only just beyond the reach of his own underdeveloped Pod sense, Parno could feel the communication taking place around him.

  Movement on the other deck caught his attention as two ruddy-haired men, as alike as matched daggers, bronzed and freckled by the sun, approached the rail of the Skydancer just as Darlara and her brother came to the rail not far to Parno’s left.

  “What do you wager all the ships’ captains are twins?” Dhulyn spoke in her nightwatch voice, a thread of sound audible only to him, and then only because they stood close enough to rub shoulders.