Storm Lord's Bride (Rite of the Raknari Book 1)

by Alana Serra

  It was better for both of them if they met here, or at other neutral territories throughout the lands. The same was true of the other Drotuns. Jorn, Vara’s chosen, a man carved of pure stone, was far easier to tolerate here than in the unyielding Earthen Peak. And Hidrin, Marev’s Chosen, was not someone Rheor could have ever interacted with in his own domain, the Thunder Peak.

  Here, they could coexist. While he might not have had as strong a bond with the other two as he did with Brunyr, he counted them as his equals. His brothers, each pledged to the Tempests alongside him. And as he looked upon their faces, he could see the same things reflected in their eyes. Something was amiss. The Tempests were displeased, and everyone had felt the effects.

  “I would guess, judging from the dour expressions all around, that everyone else’s journey was as treacherous as ours.” Brunyr took his place upon an obsidian throne, gesturing for his men to take the chairs beside it.

  Rheor nodded, sitting upon his own throne—pure white rock encased in glacial ice. “It is Kiova’s fury alone, the closer we are to the Peak. Yet as we passed the bridge, there were signs of all four Tempests.”

  “We experienced the same,” Jorn said.

  “As did we,” came Hidrin’s agreement.

  “Then what are we to do about it?” Brunyr’s manner had always been free and easy. That was all most saw, though Rheor had been witness to his temper burning out of control on more than one occasion.

  “I have tried to find Kiova’s favor again,” Rheor admitted. “My people have done everything we can to honor her. We even traveled to one of the human villages and relieved them of a powerful winter storm that was keeping their people hungry.”

  Jorn snorted. “How very magnanimous of you. That is not the way your kind typically do things, if I recall.”

  Rheor bristled at that, his fingers gripping hard around the arm of the throne. It was true Jorn’s people, the people of Vara, were sturdy and patient and did what they could to exist alongside the humans in their domain, but they were still arrogant, prideful creatures.

  “Rheor,” Brunyr said. “Your hand.”

  He met his friend’s gaze before looking down, expecting to find he’d perhaps applied too much pressure to the throne. What he saw instead was a sheet of ice encasing the entire arm of the chair, cracking beneath his fingertips. It was an extension of Kiova’s blessing, but not one he’d summoned himself.

  “Did you mean for that to happen?” Hidrin asked.

  “No.” He would not lie, even to save face. “I did not even realize it was happening.”

  “There is an answer to this problem, but none of you are going to like it,” Hidrin said. “I certainly do not.”

  As if it was not evident from the Drotun’s tone, Rheor could see sparks dance along his skin, the gold runes on his body lighting up in response. His elbows rested on the arms of the tall, spire-like throne, his hands folded in front of him, but there was nothing calm about his demeanor. It was merely a prelude to the storm that was yet to come.

  “Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Brunyr said, gesturing to him.

  “I believe the Tempests have converged. They are at war again. You can see it in the very skies above us now.”

  Rheor looked above them, at a sky that was normally clear. Heavy clouds blocked out the light of the sun, their shadow covering the entirety of the crater. Lightning danced within, so close it made not a sound as it passed from cloud to cloud. An oppressive heat blew in from the south, warring with a chill from the north, cracking the very earth beneath their feet.

  He was right. The Tempests were fighting for dominance, as they did every few hundred years, whenever it suited them and they grew tired of their solitary dominion. Rheor had not been alive for the last. None of the Drotuns had been, save Jorn.

  “You’ve seen this before,” he prompted, his gaze settling on the still, unyielding visage of Vara’s Chosen.

  “I have, and I cannot say I wish to see it again. The last time the sisters warred with one another, there were none alive who knew how to set them at ease. We had to learn the hard way, and that meant a great deal of destruction before we figured it out.”

  Much of the Raknari history was passed down in stories and songs, and Rheor could remember his father telling him of the Great Calamity when all the elements converged in violent fury, leaving scars upon the lands that were still healing to this day. It was why many of the paths between the Peaks no longer existed, why so many of the regions humans called home were unable to be lived in by any creature. If that was happening again, the devastation would be cataclysmic. For everyone.

  “Then what do we do about it, exactly?” Hidrin asked.

  Deep down, Rheor knew the answer. They all did. There was only one thing to be done about it, and it was something he’d been resisting for years. As soon as his powers began to spiral out of his control, as soon as Kiova turned her favor away from him. He wanted to hear something else, anything but that one word. Yet he knew he wouldn’t get his wish.

  “Roinim. We must each seek Roinim, and soon, if we are to stop this from happening.”

  Brunyr looked genuinely surprised by this, his brow furrowing in a way that made Rheor deeply uncomfortable. If he was concerned, there was certainly a good reason.

  “I’ve… tried for Roinim, several times.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw and drew in a breath. “I’ve noticed things I did not care for, over the past several months. My temper is far shorter than usual. I’ve been a terror to those I care about. I assumed this was the cause, and so I began to seek a Korun. I have yet to bond with anyone, nor have I felt anything close to it.”

  “Then you will have to keep searching,” Jorn said, “we all will. It must be a priority, because if it is not, we will all suffer.”

  They spoke more, the other three Chosen debating among themselves, some of their men joining in. Rheor barely heard them. His attention was driven inward, centered upon the storm that raged inside. The same storm he’d felt last night and this morning. The storm he felt whenever he was too close to Imara.

  He felt the bond with her. That undeniable pull that gave a rational, reasonable Raknari over to the primal force of the elements. That draw that made him crave Roinim more than anything else. Many said that bond could only be felt with one person, and he’d experienced it before. He’d always assumed there would never be another, and certainly that she wouldn’t be…

  “Can the Korun be human?”

  The question came from his lips before he even had a chance to think it through. If Kiova was acting through him, she had certainly done so in that moment. But he didn’t shy away from the scrutiny of the other Chosen. He sat tall and straight in his throne, easing his fingers around the arms of it before he froze the entire thing.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Hidrin scoffed. “Humans are weak creatures. There’s no way they could accept the blessing. It would kill them.”

  “Perhaps not,” Jorn mused. “The humans in my district are strong. They have endured a great many things I would not have thought possible.”

  “Roinim is not just another thing. It will elevate whoever bonds to each Drotun. The humans will hear about it, and it will grant them an equal voice at our seat.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “You’ve seen the petty feuds they start among themselves!”

  The argument continued, with Hidrin becoming more and more unstable as it progressed. Lightning crackled, thunder rumbling in the distance, yet Rheor only thought of Imara. Was he truly bonded with her? Was she the one who was supposed to be his Korun? Supposed to undergo Roinim, to lead his people at his side?

  Just the thought of it filled him with such a confusing, conflicting storm of emotions. It felt as right as it did wrong. As inevitable as it did impossible. And all throughout, Rheor couldn’t help wondering if Roinim with another woman would ruin the bond he’d had before. Even if it ended poorly, even if it was doomed from the start, it still felt
deeply wrong.

  He didn’t know the answer, but he could feel Brunyr looking at him. He knew the truth of it. He was the only one who was even remotely aware that he’d achieved Roinim before. Rheor ached to say something, to present that truth to the group as a whole, but he could not share his shame with them. As Jorn and Hidrin continued to bicker among themselves, he found Brunyr’s gaze still on him. To Rheor’s surprise, Igvis’ Chosen spoke with the voice of reason:

  “I think it’s worth considering. We don’t exactly have a glut of choices here, and if the humans can potentially be our Korun, then we’ll never achieve Roinim if we exclude them.”

  This prompted another round of arguments for and against, but Rheor was focused on the words his friend didn’t say and the steady look in his eyes. As the meeting continued, he put forth a few comments—mostly neutral ones—and resolved to speak his fears to Brunyr once they had a moment alone.

  Afterward, once Jorn and Hidrin began to head for their respective Peaks, Rheor was not surprised to see Brunyr lingering behind.

  “Walk with me?” he gestured toward a path that wound around the southern edge of the crater, dipping behind the nearest expanse of rock.

  Rheor nodded, giving instruction for his men to wait at the crater. Many of them got on rather well with Brunyr’s, and he suspected they’d come back to find them engaged in some kind of game. A far brighter prospect than the turn he knew his conversation with his friend was about to take. He could sense it in Brunyr’s posture, the tense way he held himself, the fact that he wasn’t making his usual warm, somewhat inappropriate jokes.

  Rather than leave it to chance, Rheor decided to simply lead into the topic he knew Brunyr would wish to discuss. “I do not know if Roinim will work for me again, or if I even wish to seek it out.”

  “No pleasantries?” A smirk tipped the corner of his lips before it faded. He put a hand on Rheor’s back and guided him along the path until they were even further out of earshot. “I figured as much, though I also assume there’s someone you believe you might bond with. A human?”

  One black brow arched at him, reminding Rheor of the challenging look Imara sometimes adopted. He wondered idly if she had managed to get Tiva’s cubs to take to the bottle. She was certainly persistent. He had no doubt he’d still find her trying when he returned, even if she’d had no success.

  “I told the villagers I wanted a human in exchange for my powers,” he said, feeling the slightest twinge of shame over it now.

  Brunyr just laughed. “Adopting the old ways? A bit crude for your tastes, but I’m not opposed.”

  Much like the North, the South had a reputation for pillaging lands and taking what they wished in ancient times. Neither Rheor nor Brunyr held to those methods now, but he’d been feeling particularly prideful that day and not eager to provide Kiova’s aid to humans who no longer even worshiped the Tempests. He didn’t explain this to Brunyr, though. He didn’t feel he had to.

  “She was meant to be a trophy. Something to bring back, under Kiova’s guidance. I intended to give her a home, and—”

  “Partake of her whenever you pleased?”

  Now he remembered why it was unwise for he and Brunyr to interact more than once every few months. He found himself wanting to forcibly remove that smirk from his friend’s face.

  “Once. And only because she… tried my patience. I wanted a taste, and I told myself I would take one night from her, and give her one night in return. But when I summoned her to my chambers, I could not control myself. I felt as though some other power was taking hold of my senses, and it demanded that I engage in Roinim.”

  “I will be honest with you, that hardly sounds like a hardship,” Rheor growled, but before he could say anything, Brunyr continued, “for me, at least. I understand why it is for you. I would not wish to tarnish your memory of Atja.”

  He drew in a breath to steady himself, his eyes closing. Even now, it was difficult to hear her name from Brunyr. She’d been everything to him, and yet he’d given her the power that led to her destruction.

  “Even if it is possible for me to engage in Roinim, I cannot say I am eager to do it.”

  “You may not have a choice, my friend.” Brunyr looked to the North, toward the Frozen Peak. “I’ve never seen so many storms centered around your side of the mountains. Now this talk of extended winter in the human villages, and the renewed interest of the Svag. It’s time, Rheor. It’s probably past time.”

  He drew in a breath through his nose, everything in him wanting to rail against Igvis’ Chosen. What could he possibly know about it? He was as informed as the rest of them, as subject to the whims of the Tempests. He was merely projecting his own fears, attempting to force Rheor into making a decision he was not brave enough to make on his own.

  But those were fearful thoughts. He knew that. And if he was wrong, there was every chance Kiova’s blessing would consume him. He could feel it doing so already. Carving permanent hollows into his soul, covering every aspect of who he was with thick, impenetrable sheets of ice. He’d just assumed it was grief and a desire to protect himself from further harm, but there was more to it than that.

  “And what of the Molten Peak?” he asked, suddenly feeling a desperate urge for kinship. “What of you?”

  For the most part, Brunyr fluctuated between two moods. That glowing warmth that pulled everyone toward him as though he were the sun itself, and the blazing, blinding heat that sent them all running in the opposite direction. He spent very little time in between, yet he was there now, wearing a reserved and somewhat sad smile.

  Clapping Rheor on the shoulder, he said, “At least you have someone who might take to the Roinim.”

  “There are none on your mountain…?”

  “None. Though not for lack of trying.” Though Brunyr’s grin tried for cavalier, he couldn’t reach it. His eyes gave him away.

  “I would recommend searching the human villages, I suppose, but I do not know if humans can accept Roinim. Perhaps the pull I feel toward Imara has nothing to do with Kiova.”

  “I doubt you would feel so drawn to her otherwise. I’ve never known you to want anything to do with the humans, and yet you asked for one as payment for something you could have easily managed. Now you are having difficulties denying yourself; denying the things you feel.” His lips quirked into a genuine, mischievous smile. “Am I close?”

  The sound Rheor made was halfway between a growl and a groan, but it likely told Brunyr everything he needed to know.

  “Don’t act as though this is some great hardship. As I said, Rheor: You have an option the rest of us currently do not. If you squander that, you are a greater fool than even I can defend.”

  Perhaps he was. Looking at Brunyr, he could see the subtle effects of Igvis’ fury. The barely visible fissures where molten heat peeked through. The overabundance of soot on his skin and in his hair. The lack of that old, familiar spark in his eyes. This was not the carefree young Drotun who’d taken his seat around the same time as Rheor. He was struggling, and it was only through sheer force of will that he kept on.

  Looking toward the South, he could see all of this reflected in the Molten Peak, a ring of smoke lingering throughout the entirety of their meeting.

  Brunyr would need to seek Roinim soon, as well. Very soon, from the looks of it. If the humans were capable of taking and sustaining the magic of the Tempests, then perhaps there was hope. All Rheor needed to do to blaze that trail was claim what had been offered to him, something his body wanted desperately.

  And something his heart might get a say in no longer.

  Chapter 13

  It was late when he returned to the Frozen Peak. He fully expected the human—far less hardy a creature than Raknari—would already be abed, wrapped in blankets and furs to hide away from the encroaching cold that Rheor so enjoyed.

  But while there were several Raknari safely tucked away in their homes, the gentle glow of light emanating from their windows, he found Imara
in the stables, pressed against the wall of what had once been Tiva’s whelping den. He’d originally sought out Loken to ask after the cubs, but his guards informed him the warrior was in the stables with Imara, and had been for much of the day.

  She’d mentioned wanting to help, of course, but Rheor assumed there was very little she’d be able to do, no matter how determined. So few Machai cubs survived from each litter even when their mother was alive and healthy. These ones seemed destined to join their mother, something Rheor had already accepted as an unfortunate consequence of his mistakes and lack of foresight.

  But when he looked into the stall, he found four fat, wriggling cubs waddling and rolling about Imara’s feet while one was held in her arms, its paws holding a bottle as it sucked noisily. Loken stood off to the side, meanwhile, portioning milk into more of the glass bottles, letting a drop of it drip onto his wrist before he scooped up a cub himself.

  The cub he held fussed, making high-pitched growling noises in the back of its throat as it pawed at him.

  “Let him smell the spot of milk on your wrist. He won’t know what you’re offering otherwise.”

  To Rheor’s surprise, Loken listened attentively and did as she bade, bringing the cub’s nose to his wrist. The tiny cat sniffed, made a sound that seemed more inquisitive and searching than agitated, and began to suckle at his wrist.

  “You’re not going to get more milk that way,” Loken muttered.