“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you want. While you’re burning in the Capital, that’ll buy us more time to prepare. The King’s eyes will be on you, not us. It’s a perfect plan.” Chori threw up his head and gaggled. “Gods, may the Ottegas destroy themselves!”
Jaime shoved the clothesline aside. The gusts suddenly picked up, snapping at their heels. Jaime was about to lunge when a shadow fell over them.
“Gozai’masu, Chori!”
Abruptly, the laughter stopped.
The City Captain towered above all the agora’s heads. His white mantle cascaded down his destrier’s flank. All of the Kingdom’s skylight seemed to glint off his sculpted breastplate.
Sojin Tadamora flicked his head to one side. Chori dipped his chin a few times in guilty apology and dashed away.
The elder man’s face was barely visible in the diamond-shape of his helmet, plumed with magnificent black horsehair. But Jaime could feel a scorching glower behind the eyelets.
He refused to balk.
“Chori told me everything. If you ever lay hands on me again, I’ll kill you.”
The Captain’s laugh was deep and throaty. “We shall see. If you cannot draw Air by the time I return in the spring, I will make you the Archpriestess’s chattel.”
Jaime balled his fists.
A sudden gust, sharp as a spear, rose above the rest. It threw off the City Captain’s helm. Bronze and steel clanked loudly, rolling away against the cobblestones.
The creases and wings on the edges of Sojin’s black eyes extended.
With Jaime’s every breath, the banestorm above them rumbled louder, like a growl lodged a mountain lion’s throat.
“Captain!”
A Jaypan officer kicked his courser in their direction, snatching up the helmet from the ground.
“All are present and standing by for your departing order, sir!”
Sojin’s eyes flickered back to Jaime.
“I will see you in the spring.”
The City Captain swiveled away and snatched his helmet from the officer, his horse’s tail flicking behind him. Sojin Tadamora raised his monster-sized kendao in the air. Barked a command. Everyone obediently fell in line.
The great company thundered down the agora.
“Why’s Sojin so bent on getting rid of me?”
Jaime peered up at the sky, his knees notched to his chest. The last hour of meditation was nothing but circling thoughts of his spat with the City Captain earlier that morning.
“Hmm.” Achuros sat against a temple pillar, scribbling away in his ledger.
“You know what Chori told me today?”
Jaime recounted everything that happened, the tips of his ears steaming. Achuros continued writing.
“Those two talk bigger than the size of their own heads,” the airpriest said. “You needn’t worry about Sojin.”
“Not worry?” Jaime twisted his head around. “How can you say that when he’s been threatening to chain me up since the day I got here!”
“The Mayor of Korinthia is Florin’s friend. Decades ago, Prescilla helped Romulus’s wife deliver her first child. She was a midwife before she married the Mayor.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Romulus’s wife had many miscarriages before Prescilla. That couple will do anything Florin asks.”
“But Sojin said he’s going to replace me with a lochos—”
“Our City Captain talks nonsense just to make himself feel important. Florin ordered him to bring back the lochos.”
“Why, Achuros!”
“Because, you fool, he is ready to fight back against Lord Haigen. Florin is preparing a full-scale rebellion. The time for hiding is over. And I am telling you, boy, our Lord Mayor is a religious man. He will never give you up.”
Jaime breathed down a gust. “Sojin doesn’t like Florin, does he?”
Achuros slammed his ledger shut. “You won’t just cork that spigot of yours, will you?”
“I just want to protect myself.”
“Don’t speak of things you don’t understand. Sojin throws his temper at anyone who does not see things his way. He and Florin disagree on many things, but that is all. Sojin Tadamora swore to serve the Menander bloodline so long as he lives.”
“Why?”
Achuros huffed. “Because, years ago, Sojin came to Jaypes with the King’s host. After the Royal Decree was issued, Sojin’s orders were to seize every Arcurean boy born in the Prince’s year. But Florin’s father crushed his forces. After Sojin was captured, he fell in love with a Jaypan woman inside these walls.”
Jaime blinked. “He did?”
Achuros tilted his head.
Understanding coursed into Jaime. That’s why Chori looked so distinct—he had a Kaipponese’s ink-black hair and irises, but the round, full-shaped eyes of a Jaypan.
He’s a half-blood. Like me.
“What happened?” Jaime said.
“Sojin deserted to our side, obviously. Rheia gave him two sons. But Lord Haigen didn’t think well of that. He punished Sojin’s disloyalty by locking his family in his home and setting it to fire. Florin’s father is the only reason Chori is still alive. Benetto wasn’t able to save the others.”
Jaime shivered. “Oh—I didn’t know.”
That’s why Sojin hates me. The same thing that happened to Hilaris happened to his wife and first son.
“Well, what about Lord Haigen? He still lets Sojin serve as Arcurea’s City Captain?”
“Haigen’s clever, boy.” Achuros pinched a scraggly patch of beard on his neck. “He saw that Sojin had great influence over our City-State, so he put his former vassal in charge of keeping the peace. If Sojin failed, Lord Haigen would burn the very place he loved to the ground.”
“Not if I burn Sojin first.”
“Sojin is our true hero, not Florin or Prescilla or any councilor breathing in the south. Sojin is the one who keeps this great stinking hovel standing. The Arcureans are his wife’s people.”
Achuros retreated behind the firepit and retrieved a bottle of wine. Without turning to look at Jaime, he pulled the cork and guzzled.
“You two are more alike that you realize. One day, you’ll see that. In war, enemies are really your friends. Friends are your enemies.”
“Sojin will never be my friend.”
His mentor laughed, choking as tears of blood-red wine ran down the bulge of his throat.
“You’ll see, boy. You’ll see what I mean. And on that day, may Achuros of the High Temple be dead.”
Chapter Fifteen
Four months later, in mid-February, a banestorm of a surprise disrupted his training.
A heavy book slammed down at his feet. Jaime jolted out of meditation. The front cover bore the symbol of Jaypan classic architecture: a pillared marble temple.
Priest Achuros stared down at him severely.
Jaime stopped breathing.
“Is that a book on . . . Jaypan architecture?”
A smile twitched across the priest’s face. “It includes a copy of the Colosseum’s plans. Gods know you’ll need it.”
“But—what about meditation?”
“It’s obvious we’ll need more time for that, which we have little of. From today onward, we will spend the morning meditating and the afternoon learning the mind techniques needed for currents. I might just throw in some history, philosophy, and music to culture you.”
Jaime’s chest swelled. Achuros was offering him the same gift Gaiyus Sartorios offered his brother eight years ago.
“I thought you said the days of the Sages were over,” Jaime quipped.
“Did I? Hmm. I can’t remember.”
Jaime smiled. “Guess I can’t remember either.”
“What you truly ne
ed is hidden in the Library of Nandros, outside the city proper. The Mayor granted us permission to leave the walls. We’ll study there until springtime.”
Without thinking twice, Jaime dropped the books and threw his arms around the priest’s neck.
Achuros widened his eyes, nearly toppling over.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Alright, alright, before I change my mind.” The airpriest handed Jaime a fan much smaller than his own. It was tatty, the folds sparkling with a flamboyant pattern of cows.
Jaime looked up in dismay. The priest grinned.
“Before Usheon’s reign, we used to give the young Air Sages fans when they began their training at the High Temple. Once you learn to draw air currents, it will focus your power.”
The back of Jaime’s mouth went dry. They’d nabbed at each other for so long that he didn’t know what to make of this.
Achuros waved him along. “Come on, let’s go meet Thunderman.”
“Thunderman?”
A playful smile tugged at his mentor’s mouth just before he vanished into a one-stall stable behind the old temple.
They rode Achuros’s silver mare to the edge of the Krete Forests, just outside the south gate. An ancient two-story structure slumped under a tunnel of firs and pines. One gate dangled off its hinges. On the other gate, the Air Emblem eyed him through its splintered wood.
The airpriest led him through the courtyard. Jaime lagged behind. His eyes lingered on the rotting awnings, the piles of shattered pottery, the stillness behind the archways.
Invisible wisps of energy scampered away from him, teasing him to follow.
“Can you feel that?” Jaime whispered.
The priest skipped up the chipping steps. Jaime turned his head around, the surface of his skin tremoring.
“Achuros!” he called. “The air feels funny here. Can’t you feel it?”
“We are standing above a reservoir of Empyrean energy,” the old man replied. “Pockets like this exist all over the Four Kingdoms, little tears in our world that connect us to the spirit one. Most of our libraries and temples were built on these pockets.”
Jaime peered over his shoulder. He didn’t like not being able to see the shafts of energy. They were quick and impish as game darting under forest brush. Like they were alive—as alive as him.
Priest Achuros stopped at the top of the steps, observing him closely.
“It’s good you can sense them. Most people cannot. That means your bond with The Empyrean is getting stronger.”
Jaime stuffed his hand into his pocket, aching for his breather.
If the spirit world is real, are the mist-monsters real, too?
“I don’t like this, Achuros. I couldn’t feel any of this stuff on Mount Alairus.”
The airpriest’s iron eyes grew unreadable.
“Boy . . . ”
Jaime turned around to look at him.
“A whole world exists out there that you don’t know about. If your goat shepherds could see the things I’ve seen, their spleens would come retching out of their throats.” Jaime swallowed. “This is a world meant only for Sages, and a few others.”
Pause.
It looked like Achuros was about to disclose something important, maybe even a heavens-upturning secret. Jaime held in his breath. But the priest’s lip pursed.
“For you, it begins with the books in this library.”
Then the airpriest turned around and disappeared into the darkness between the crumbling columns.
With one last shiver, Jaime raced up the stairs after him.
It was dark inside. Occasional shafts of skylight broke through the crumbling ceiling. Great arches and corridors stretched above him, guarded by marble statues watching him between the upper-level pillars.
“Who are they?” Jaime said, keeping close to Achuros. His voice echoed off the rows of empty bookshelves like a ghost.
“Great scribes of the ancient world.”
They cut through the circular floor of the center hall. Ancient Empyrean characters were carved into the center pillar. Achuros recited it, and translated: “Wisdom is knowing you know nothing.” He tugged at the footstone. Jaime flinched. The entire library echoed from the noise.
His breath flowed loose when Achuros turned back around, two massive tomes pressed to his heart.
“This,” he handed Jaime the first, “is The Legend of the Four. Our history. Very, very precious.”
Jaime caressed its gritty goat-skin cover.
“Its author is unknown,” Achuros cooed, “but in my opinion, Sutta wrote it. The greatest of my kin, the ancient scribe-priests. They say he saw Jaypes Ascaerii in his mortal body before he became the God of Air. Can you imagine? Living and breathing in such an epoch?”
“My brother—” Jaime began, but the priest, carried away by passion, blustered on.
“The Legend is a total of six books, but alas, alas, Books Five and Six were lost a long time ago. We can only surmise how the rest of our origins history ended. So many speculations. Yes. Many, many theories from the best academics. The truth is dangerous. You realize history can shape our culture, place certain mortals in power? It can transform our entire system of government!”
Jaime mumbled, “Hilaris, my brother, gave me a copy the night we were supposed to run away from Mount Alairus.”
“What a remarkable brother!” Achuros exclaimed. “Hilaris—was that Gaiyus Sartorios’s ward? He gave you Book One? And all the other books?”
“I guess just Book One.”
“What an illustrious gift! Only a few copies survive in all the Four Kingdoms. Where is it now? Or did you regift it to the Archpriestess?”
All he could remember was throwing himself at Hilaris, and spitting fury, that his brother would give him a tome couldn’t read. Now he felt like a pile of manure.
“Yeah.” Jaime looked away. “She probably took it.”
“A shame. Well, no matter. We’ll use this copy to practice your reading.” Achuros handed him another book. “And this—this is just as precious. The magnum opus of House Ascaerii.”
Jaime’s arms sagged under its weight. Numerous pages stuck out between its binding like loose teeth.
“The Queen entrusted it to me when I was still living in the Capital.” Achuros gave a ghostly smile. “Only the Air Sages of our divine House are permitted to write in it. It’s a compilation of every air sequence known to man.”
His heart skipped faster—he almost dropped both books.
“This belonged to Lairdos Ascaerii,” Jaime breathed.
“You will meet Thunderman in there,” the priest nodded. “He is best friends with every Temple apprentice who ever graced our loving Kingdom. Come, let’s study outside—”
“Great!”
Jaime dashed ahead, setting the books down and perching on the library’s top step. He flipped to the first page.
The wizened parchment revealed a sequence of three images: the first was of a man, the second a short tunnel of air spiraling away from the man, and the third was a direct hit at a sackcloth fifty meters away.
“Thunderman never misses.” Achuros slouched down beside him.
“How do I create this current?”
“You memorize the sequences.”
Jaime blinked. “That’s it?”
“After you make the bond. Once your avai is connected to The Empyrean, you recreate the current in your mind.”
Jaime flipped to the next page. The ink stains formed a similar current-sequence, but now Thunderman’s target was one hundred yards away.
“This tome is organized by difficulty,” Achuros explained. “Easiest currents in front, advanced ones in the back. We will spend our remaining time mastering the first few pages.”
Jaime kept flipping through till he reached the l
ast entry. The final picture displayed Thunderman in control of a banestorm. His heart sank into sick dread. The entire mind sequence was fifty-one pages.
“As I said, we have only until springtime to learn Air,” Achuros sniffed. “This sequence would take the best Air Sage half a century to master.”
“Could Lairdos control them? Banestorms?”
The priest looked out into the crumbling horizon.
“He was the one who wrote this entry.”
Jaime ran his fingertips over the ink, imagining the precious moment in time when Lairdos Ascaerii handwrote these pages for his descendants. The individual steps were mind intensive: you had to keep your focus on multiple points of the storm all at once, while shifting strings of air across a boundless expanse of sky.
Gods, how much physical energy would it take to do this?
“Alright. Start memorizing the basic air current.” Achuros pulled out his ledger to begin his scribbles.
Jaime propped his hands against the ground. His chest was thundering with renewed excitement.
“Can you tell me more about the King? What should I expect if I’m Dueling him?”
The priest rolled the quill between his peeling fingertips. “Are you familiar with the ritual of the Duel?”
“What does that mean?”
“Of course not. I should assume you know nothing. There are two rules: a Sage cannot refuse another Sage’s call to a Duel. And both Sages must fight to the death with their element only.”
Jaime stared at the tome tucked in his lap. “What if they break the rules?”
“You cannot break the rules, boy.” Annoyance flashed over Achuros’s face. “They are written in the Sacred Codex. The international laws written by our gods?”
“I don’t think Usheon cares for the Codex.”
“I don’t think Usheon cares for anything.”
As Jaime was opening his mouth in a reply, Achuros shut off their conversation by resuming his scrabble in the ledger. Jaime sat up straight and began memorizing.
The day flew into evening.
That night, after two bottles of wine forced Achuros into slumber, Jaime slipped fleeting glances at Lairdos Ascaerii’s entry on the banestorms.
Stormfire Page 11
