Stormfire

by Jasmine Young

  “Everyone talks about Kaippon and Glaidde and the War of The West. But what about Larfour? The Earth Kingdom?”

  The stares he got back was like he just announced Lord Jaypes was God of Sausages.

  Something between a laugh and a scoff came out of Sojin. He briskly skipped down to the lower floor.

  Finally, Florin said, “Prince, the Earth Kingdom shut its borders a thousand years ago. No one has seen a Larfene since. We know nothing of them, or of their High King, or if they are even still alive. It has long since been the Three Kingdoms.”

  “Oh.” Jaime looked away. Hilaris would know that. If he were still alive.

  Florin Menander shook his head. “And soon, it will be the Two Kingdoms after your father consumes our posterity.”

  Chapter Ten

  Jaime barely stepped through the threshold of his new home, the rickety box where Lady Prescilla grew up, when low drums beat through the early morning air.

  The lady’s face went paler than goat’s milk.

  “What is it?” Jaime whispered.

  They were gathered in the foyer—him, her, and Toran, freshly departed from the stoa. Her guards waited for her outside. More on the terracotta rooftops of the perimeter. Everyone taut as twine.

  Lady Prescilla suddenly squeezed his wrist. “Stay here. Don’t let anyone see you. I must find Florin.”

  “But—”

  “No one, Prince. No one can see you.”

  With barely a curtsey, she streamed back out, a hand to her forehead. The sound of snorting horses and low murmurs buzzed from the other side of the door.

  Jaime and Toran stared at each other.

  “Let’s go see what’s happening,” Toran suggested.

  They raced each other to the second floor. Made of mud and clay, this house had sparse furniture and earth floors that chafed against his feet. A slew of other rickety boxes like it surrounded them. The agora, only three blocks away, blanketed their alley under noise.

  Toran threw open the shutters of their bedroom. The coil in Jaime’s chest twisted tighter.

  Even without Prescilla telling him, Jaime knew the truth.

  These were the same drums that played the night the royal lochos posted their banners all over Mount Alairus.

  “Must be the daimyo everyone keeps talking about,” Toran sniffed.

  On his way to the window, Jaime rammed his knee into a three-legged stool. He swallowed a curse. Grabbed his pocket for his breather. Remembered he lost it. And this time, let the curse out.

  “I’m going to go outside to look,” he said.

  Toran poked out his head. “Hello? Didn’t you hear what the lady said?” His brown curls trembled against the stormwinds.

  “I don’t care. Move over.” Jaime shoved his way past the hill of Toran’s belly. “I’m not going to hide while the King’s men come and burn people. I made that mistake before. If they want me to fight for them, I need to see who my enemy is.”

  “I don’t know, man . . . ”

  Jaime fitted himself through the window and crawled onto the roof. Toran watched him, fiddling with his fleshy fingers. Most of roofs here were made of terracotta tiles, unlike the flat, thatched or mud-clay roofs at home. Twice, he almost slipped.

  Gods. I wish I was home.

  It wasn’t hard to track the royal lochos. It was like some great twister was sucking the people out into daylight. Workers in only their loins. Beggars holding empty bowls. Clusters of women in thin, sleeveless peploses, murmuring to each other as they set down their clay jugs of water. Bodies clogged the banks of Panathea, the fifteen-foot main road.

  Jaime slogged out of the alley, soaked to the ankle with mud, slop, and household waste. Ugh. He tried not to grimace. But no one noticed him—he fit right in with the crowds twisting their way up to the akropolis.

  The propylaea, the columned gateway, cast diagonal shadows over the steps. Panting hard, Jaime broke away from the other bodies and climbed up a pillar of scaffolding to get to the roof.

  Two standard-bearers stained the sandy uniformity of the akropolis with their albino dragon banners. The hundred riders that followed wore the standard Jaypan army wear: steel corselets and greaves half an inch think, wooden shields gilded with bronze, throwing spears, and shortswords at the belt.

  But his eyes were glued to the Kaipponese foreigners in the front.

  Deer horns twisted out of his helmet and nape guards hung over his shoulders. In place of flesh, his face was black lacquer molded into a ghoulish grin. Leather plates served as his thigh guards and sleeve armor. A seven-foot-tall kendao in a decorated silk cover was strapped to his back.

  Jaime swallowed.

  The Council was already gathered outside City Hall, bowing in their white togas. Sojin was in full Jaypan armor, but as much as he was also Kaipponese—born in the Kingdom of Fire—his lower lip twitched. Chori, his fourteen-year-old son, fidgeted beside him.

  Mayor Florin stood at the front, curls freshly oiled. He exchanged glances with Prescilla before the latter squeezed his hand and let go.

  The Lord Mayor kneeled before the giant coursers, placing a fist against his chest.

  “The City-State of Arcurea sends its warmest greetings, Lord Haigen. We have prepared food and drink for your men. Please, will you join us inside?”

  It was so quiet that the only noise was his father’s bloody banners whipping against the high winds.

  Sojin took a step forward. “My lord, there is something imperative we must discuss.”

  Lady Prescilla slung a dirty look at him. Jaime’s heart skipped a beat.

  He means to tell the daimyo I’m here.

  His eyes darted to the freckled, full-eyed boy at his waist. Jaime understood. Sojin’s son was of age. Somehow, Chori Tadamora was exempt from the Royal Decree—maybe he was crippled, too. Or maybe the sons of royal officials got special rights.

  But if something went wrong—if the daimyo found out Jaime was here—Chori would burn.

  Fortunately, the center rider, the daimyo, waved Sojin off. The City Captain obeyed with a bow. Jaime shoulders sagged in relief when the daimyo removed his mask—he did have a man’s face. The skin under his dark, beak-shaped eyes sagged.

  “Do you know why I am two days late, Mayor? You will never believe what is happening out there.”

  His accent was crisp, and his laughter slit the air. One-by-one, the other Councilors laughed along nervously.

  Florin began, “Pray, tell—”

  “All the lands I am charged with in this cursed province have fallen to anarchy.”

  “Anarchy?”

  “Because of the return of that little Sageling choku who calls himself the Prince.” The daimyo turned aside and spat. “Fourteen years he has been missing, good gods! And I hear rumors that Arcurea is quietly supporting the rebel alliance, eh?”

  Sojin started to open his mouth, but Florin deliberately interrupted him. “I assure you, my lord, Arcurea plays no part in this new war. We remain neutral as always.”

  “Neutral?”

  “Loyal, my lord. To the true King.”

  Haigen smiled. “Of course, of course. Please forgive my ill mood, Florinokles. You must understand, I lost my sister’s son in the riots. He was but twelve years of age.”

  “Mercy gods. I am sorry for your loss—”

  “Say, is your pretty wife well?” Those inky eyes fell on Lady Prescilla. “How is your son? What is his age again, fourteen?”

  “Turning fourteen next month, my lord,” she said evenly.

  “Eh, yes. Born in the Prince’s year, isn’t he? Where is the boy? Is he so tactless that he would not come out to greet me?”

  Florin smiled tightly. “He is unwell. I sent him off to his grandaunt in the north, where the air is cleaner.”

  “Of course you did.” The daimyo
leaned forward in the saddle. “Why do Jaypans conduct themselves with such bad manners?”

  “My lord?”

  “How is your bow to your liege lord?”

  The Councilors pursed their lips and turned away. When Lord Haigen continued to wait, Florin grit his teeth and lowered himself onto his face, his white toga stamping the dirt. The standard-bearers behind the daimyo—also Kaipponese—curled their lips into sneers.

  “Now, please, pronounce your fealty to His Holiness the King! Louder! Or I will cut out your tongue if you cannot make use of it.”

  Lady Prescilla stormed between them. “Lord Haigen, what have we done that you humiliate my husband without provocation? Our loyalty is with the King. You know this. Or shall you stand us before His Holiness to show our parts and play the flute?”

  The Kaipponese handed their banners to two Jaypans and dismounted. Florin lifted his head from the dust. One of them seized his wife. The other drew his kendao. The formation of Councilors broke, and Florin bellowed—but the halberd’s blade stopped against the surface of Prescilla’s throat.

  “Or shall I cut out your tongue, you horrible snake?”

  “Lord Haigen!” Florin rose, struggling to keep his voice civil. “As I said, there is food and drink—”

  “Get back on your belly! The only food and drink I prefer in this pit of misery is your wife. I shall ease the hysteria of her lower parts since you seem unable to do so, Mayor.”

  Jaime’s eyes widened as two Jaypan soldiers seized Florin. He leapt off the cornice to get to ground level. The standard-bearer drove a stake into the ground, and a lard-faced Jaypan drew his shortsword. Prescilla screamed. They hacked off Florin’s toga and tied him naked against the standard.

  “You there!”

  Lord Haigen pointed two fingers in Sojin’s direction. The Captain shifted uncomfortably. Not him. Chori, who stood meekly at his father’s hip.

  “Take this horse’s droppings—” The daimyo tossed him a burlap sack, “and give the Mayor a wipe, please.”

  “Lord,” Sojin reached for his kendao. “I object—”

  “Gozai’masu, baikan! Any commissioned Kaipponese who whores around with Jaypans should lose his head!”

  Chewing his lip, Chori glanced at his father. The elder man gave a curt nod. Jaime’s nails dug into his palms as opposing gales tore his mind—one screaming at him to step in and fight, the other warning him to stay hidden or get them all killed.

  What’ll Lord Haigen do to this city if you run in front of Florin to protect him?

  Chori dragged the sack and stopped before the Lord Mayor, kneeling. One hand closed around a tiny turd.

  “More!”

  The boy flinched, and he scooped up a handful. He wouldn’t look at Florin. Chori whispered something to the Mayor. Florin’s eyes were low, but he nodded.

  Hands trembling, Sojin’s son rubbed wet dung against the Lord Mayor’s chest. The royal lochos broke into roaring laughter. The Arcurean Councilors clenched their fists and forced their gazes away.

  “His face!”

  Chori froze.

  “His face, boy!” Lord Haigen reined his horse forward. “Open your mouth, Lord Florinokles, and orate! Or I’ll stick your wife’s throat.”

  Laughter clapped and rolled over the akropolis. Lady Prescilla dropped her eyes, but they blazed with fury.

  Hunched over, one hand to his belly, the daimyo yelled, “So, Captain! What is it you needed to discuss?”

  Jaime’s heart leapt into his throat. It’s time. He’s going to hand me over.

  Sojin held his steel gaze steady. “Taxes, Lord. The people are not equipped to meet the rising rates.”

  Taxes?

  Jaime wheeled away into an alley, pressed himself against the propylaea.

  He didn’t give me away. Why?

  Suddenly, he realized these high lords were as powerless as him. Actually more, since they weren’t Sages. It was so clear now. So long as he refused to lead the war, this would continue to happen forever. Traitor airpriests and petty constables forcing humiliation, and pain, and death on thousands of Jaypans—just so the King could punish him.

  Jaime’s breath shallowed.

  Earlier that day, Lady Prescilla had told him: “Priest Achuros lives on Chikos Pagos Hill, on the southside of the akropolis.”

  He knew what he had to do.

  Overhead, the blustery sky darkened into early afternoon. Wind turbines hummed furiously as he climbed a wooded outcropping across the akropolis. The winding path ended at a small square temple.

  Melancholy song notes eddied through the olive trees.

  The eerie melody stirred up ancient memories from his past. It was the same song Lady Prescilla hummed to him his first night at the stoa.

  Where do I know that from?

  And there he was—a white-robed, shaggy-maned shape on cracked steps of the temple, peeling fingers moving across a wooden flute. The medallion sat across his lap.

  “Your Grace?”

  The song continued.

  “ . . . Achuros?”

  The priest lowered the flute. Jaime shuffled forward. “How do you know that song?”

  A soft snort. “It’s a Jaypan lullaby. When Lairdos Ascaerii was King, any Jaypan would have known it.” The priest’s eyes thinned as Jaime sat down beside him. “What are you doing?”

  “I want to learn Air.”

  The priest’s eyes narrowed even more.

  “Look, I get that I’m Usheon’s son. But this is about more than us. Didn’t you see what they did to Florin today? And did you hear the awful things Haigen said about Lady Prescilla?”

  “I did not. I prefer not to involve myself with worldly affairs.”

  Jaime clenched his fists. “Then I’ll tell you about it! Or do you want me to tell you about the day my brother burned, what that was like?”

  The priest rose. “You’re a Fire Sage.”

  “I can learn Air.” He clenched to the medallion. “It responded to me before, on Mount Alairus. I raised a banestorm—”

  “Tch. Tomorrow morning, first light.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The King’s daimyo departed that night. But the Menanders were nowhere to be seen. Neither did they send word about his training.

  It’s not unlikely that they’re dead.

  Soon as blue dawnlight waxed against the earth floor, Jaime shoved off the blankets. A chiton awaited him inside a strongbox under the window, a single white sheet of fresh linen. It was there when he first arrived to his new home. But it cut his heart to consider shedding off the exomis his mother hand-wove for him.

  After a pause, he stripped off his old clothes, slipped it on, and fastened the leather belt around his waist. The sandals came on last, strapped up to his calves. This was the kind of thing Hilaris used to wear.

  Jaime glanced across the room. Toran was in the other bed, his eyelids fluttering. Low pleas escaped his mouth.

  Toran Binn also had nightmares.

  About what?

  He stepped forward to shake his friend awake—and stopped. A silhouette the size of his fist was slinking down the wall above Toran.

  Spider.

  Four owlish eyes, a tuft of hair standing straight up from its head. It didn’t stop until it was on Toran’s bed. As if sensing Jaime’s gaze, it lowered its hairy pincers, blinking at him.

  Jaime’s breathing quickened.

  It looked like the first spider he saw on Toran the first time they met in the Krete Forests. Only this one was slightly bigger. The size of two thumbs put together.

  One, two, three, four . . .

  Counting. His breathing uneven.

  Jaime glanced around the room for an object to smash it with. But the second it settled onto Toran’s chest, his friend’s desperate murmurs went silent. The nightmare
s faded into tense sleep.

  Jaime stared at the spider. The spider stared at Jaime.

  You’ll be late if you don’t get going. Toran can help you kill it later.

  He forced his back to the disgusting thing and hurried out the door.

  It took less than ten minutes to reach Chikos Pagos with a brisk jog. Today, the private courtyard was empty. Jaime slowed his pace, glancing at the dried fountains, the headless bronze statues of Jaypan heroes guarding the temple with their crumbling spears.

  He climbed the steps, stuck his head between the pillars.

  The single-roomed temple, stale and musty, smelled like a long forgotten past. Old charcoal crusted the empty firepits. At one time, the frescoes of great Jaypan orators and scribes must have been a brilliant sight; now, they were faded, covered in sloppy scrawls.

  His sandal stepped on a loose panel. Jaime glanced at the ground. What is that?

  “You’re late.”

  The voice behind him startled him around. A shadowed face stood between the pillars, blocking out the daylight.

  “No, I’m not!” Jaime cried. “You’re early.”

  The priest circled him.

  He tapped a fan against his palm—it was the length of Jaime’s arm, two tassels of dyed purple cascading from a gilded handle. The individual panels were tipped with the ivory from elhorn antlers.

  Where could a deadbeat like Achuros have gotten something as extravagant as this?

  “Sallow complexion, small as a goat—what, were you the runt of your family?”

  “Were you the drunkard of the High Temple?” Jaime pointedly glanced at the open bottles of wine stacked behind the firepit. The priest glared at him.

  “Outside.”

  His new teacher took them to a wide, paved step at the edge of the cliff, where the land dropped off sharply into wild country. No barricade, no walls, nothing to keep him from falling to his death.

  For a flash second, Jaime’s heart panged. This rock-hill reminded him of the steep escarpments of Mount Alairus. He wanted to see the silver skies again, smell the minty nips of the frostwinds.

  No, you don’t.