Tempests and Slaughter

by Tamora Pierce

  The fifth time he raised a barrier of his own power in front of Arram to slow the spell down. It incinerated his barrier and finally scorched only the chunk of wood.

  “Is that the desired outcome?” Ozorne queried. Chioké whirled as if to shout at him, but Ozorne gazed calmly at the mage.

  Finally Chioké managed a hint of a smile. “Your Highness is always ready with a joke.”

  Arram looked at the sky. “That’s lightning,” he said nervously. “We should go in.”

  He could more than see it. The hairs on his arms stood. The storm was moving fast. The lightning did not disappear instantly. Some of the bolts lingered and moved, like…“I really think we should go inside,” he repeated desperately. The wind rose; drops of water struck the ground hard enough to raise dust.

  Ozorne and Chioké were talking quietly and very earnestly. “—see what I mean,” Ozorne was telling the man. “How wonderful it would be to have him in battle—”

  “Without control he’s—” Chioké interrupted.

  A triple arm of lightning reached out from the tower over the Mithran Library and brushed three fingers over Arram’s face. He closed his eyes, trembling, hearing Ozorne shout, “Arram!”

  “Don’t worry,” he called weakly. “It’s only lightning snakes.”

  More of them came to hold his hands and explore his shoulders, chest, and legs. He was jittering now, their energy flooding his veins. He would have given anything to see this from the outside. Then the rain came pouring down with a vengeance. Laughing softly in voices that crackled, the snakes moved on with the leading edge of their storm. After a moment hands seized his arms and towed him along. He looked up and saw only black. The rain stopped.

  “Your hair’s in your face.” Ozorne swiped it away with one hand so Arram could see the shield of protection Chioké had placed over them. Ozorne, book bag over his shoulder, gripped Arram’s arm. Chioké clutched Arram’s other arm; he had Arram’s book bag. Preet thrust her head out of its opening and chattered at him.

  “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he tried to say, but his tongue felt swollen and clumsy.

  To his dazed shock, Ozorne’s surprise, and Chioké’s considerable irritation, Faziy came running up to them through the rain, her face alive with excitement. “Which of you did it?” she cried. When she reached them, she grinned. “Arram, you did it! They found you!”

  “Woman, get out of our way!” Chioké shouted. “If you haven’t noticed, we are getting soaked!”

  If Faziy was put off, it was impossible to tell. She was dancing as she walked backward. “Arram and I had talked about the lightning snakes, and they found him! Have you ever seen such a thing?”

  “Nonsense!” Chioké barked as he nearly pushed Arram into his workroom. “Sheer tribal superstition!” Ozorne followed, while Chioké remained in the doorway, arguing with Faziy.

  She seemed not to notice the rain. Ozorne, frowning behind the master’s back, cautiously threw a rain shelter charm out over Faziy. She didn’t seem to notice that, either. “Tribal?” she cried. “In Arpis Narbattum’s Of Elementals, he writes not only of his own experience in sighting them, but of several of the masters in the academy where he worked. They saw them clear as I see you, dancing on the rim of a volcano! The book contains their testimonials, attested to and sealed by an advocate!”

  “Seven hundred years ago,” Chioké snapped. A gust of wind blew rain into his face. Ozorne glanced at Arram, who tried to look innocent. Preet made a chuckling noise.

  Chioké backed inside and beckoned to Faziy to follow. Ozorne let his protective spell drop when she entered the room. Chioké continued, “Doubtless Narbattum and his companions were giddy on volcano fumes when they attested to it.”

  “They were masters just like the masters here,” Faziy retorted. “Would they make so foolish an error? Was Somava Gadav giddy on fumes when she wrote of it in Children of Fire? She saw them many times in her life, and created a glass to show them to those who looked into it!”

  Chioké frowned. “I have never heard of this glass or this book.”

  “The book is in the library of the Unsettled Age. I’ve borrowed it,” retorted Faziy.

  While the pair argued, Ozorne pushed Arram behind a tall screen. He motioned for Arram to remove Preet’s bag. Once Arram did so, Ozorne stood silently for a moment, then lifted his hand, palm out. His Gift streamed over Arram, covering him with pure warmth. Arram sighed with contentment, then winced—it had turned a little too warm. He signaled Ozorne, who relaxed. Now the temperature was just right again. Ozorne let him enjoy drying out while he returned to witness the argument.

  After listening to Chioké and Faziy squabble over which authorities and reports were more reliable, Arram could tell that the two masters were now friendlier. Just as good, his clothes were dry. He gathered up Preet’s bag and came out from behind the screen. Ozorne was perched on a tall stool. Chioké and Faziy stood beside the fire, while the master brewed a pot of tea. Both adults fell silent and looked at Arram.

  He cleared his throat and said, “I would prefer no one else knew what happened out there. Whatever you want to call it.”

  Chioké leaned against a counter lined with models of miniature war machines. “I shall have to tell Cosmas. He is the master in charge of your learning.”

  Arram looked at the floor. “About the lightning snakes?”

  Chioké sighed. “Young man, until a group of masters in this century of the academy says otherwise, there is no such thing as ‘lightning snakes,’ except in old tales and those of tribal shamans.” He deliberately did not look at the scowling Faziy. “There is a perfectly good reason that whatever we saw happened. I would speculate it was a mixture of your Gift and mine that created those conditions, though to be honest, I would not care to experiment. Next time neither of us might be so lucky.”

  “So except for Cosmas you won’t tell?” Arram asked. “I don’t want people looking at me strangely any more than they do.” He glanced at Faziy. She shook her head.

  “I may explore the matter on my own, I trust?” Chioké raised his brows.

  Arram goggled at him. He was a master. “I can’t stop you, sir. Ozorne?”

  “I’m steadfast, Arram, you know that.” Ozorne gripped Arram’s shoulder in reassurance.

  The university bells began to ring. “Very well. Time,” Chioké said. “Tomorrow we shall continue to work on battle magic and control.” A bit awkwardly he added, “Honored Faziy, if you would care to continue our private discussion?”

  Once outside, Ozorne cast a rain protection spell over both of them and said, “Surely you didn’t mean I wasn’t to tell Varice!”

  Arram stumbled a little as they trotted down the path. Ozorne steadied him.

  “Won’t it upset her? The snakes? You saw them, didn’t you?” Arram asked, checking that Preet was fine.

  “I saw something. Besides, I think your hair will upset her more,” his friend said, laughing. “You look like one of the deep-jungle tribesmen who combs his hair out in a huge ball around his head for sacred occasions. Doesn’t he, Preet? Wouldn’t he make a fine nest right now?”

  Preet, who remained in the shelter of Arram’s book bag, only grumbled.

  “Chioké improves as you get to know him, I swear. Apparently I didn’t prepare him for how surprising you are,” Ozorne said as they ducked into the nearest building.

  “Ozorne, please don’t let him try to make me into a battle mage. I wish you’d told me that’s what you wanted.” Arram stopped and grabbed his friend by the arms. “I won’t do it. I’m not a killer. I’ll never be a killer.”

  Ozorne eyed him curiously. “Not even to defend Varice, or Preet, or me?”

  Arram sighed. “That’s different, and you know it. I don’t want to be a battle mage, not ever. I don’t want to sweep away a troop of men with a sigil and a snap of my fingers—or a bolt of lightning.”

  “You are the worrying-est fellow,” Ozorne said, and shoved him down the hal
l. “Let’s hurry, or Master Lindhall will mark us late.”

  —

  After that day, it didn’t seem to stop raining. The jokes about turning into water plants or water birds were far less funny in March than they had been in February. Little fights broke out over nothing at all, even between Varice and Ozorne for a day. Everything smelled slightly of mildew, no matter how hard the students and workers cleaned and dried everything that got wet.

  Preet’s song was Arram’s chief comfort. The little bird sang Lindhall’s people and animals to sleep at night and to wakefulness in the morning. In return, Arram always found gifts of her favorite foods in baskets or napkins by the door: any fresh fruits and vegetables that could be had, multi-seeded breads, and pistachios. He never had to worry about Preet going hungry, though she didn’t grow. He assumed that was part of her disguise.

  In late March Ramasu was gone for five days. It was not unusual for a healer, not as it would have been for Yadeen, Cosmas, or Sebo, who rarely left the university. Arram had duties in Ramasu’s workroom if the master was not present: peel, seed, or chop any plants left in baskets on the main table, tend the contents of the cook pots, and follow the lesson instructions on the slate, put there by Ramasu’s chief assistant.

  On the sixth day of Ramasu’s absence there were no instructions. Baffled, Arram began to catch up on his reading.

  He had not been at it for long when the master himself came in. He wore an oiled cloak and hat, both of which streamed with rain, and carried a heavy basket. This he set on the floor. Coat and hat he set on hooks in the covered walkway outside.

  “Put those away,” he instructed Arram. “We are going to change course slightly.” As soon as the worktable was clear of Arram’s books and papers, the master set cloth parcels from the basket on its surface. “Name these for me,” he ordered.

  Arram touched the red bundle with his fingertips and his magic. “Shepherd’s purse, for diarrhea and lesions in the intestines,” he said. Putting his fingers on the brown one, he said, “Red raspberry leaves, to fight nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea.” He did the same for the others, which included white willow, licorice, and herbs that soothed pain or calmed stomach and intestinal spasms. Well before he finished he realized what Ramasu wanted to treat with these herbs.

  “Typhoid?” he asked softly.

  The healer rubbed his chin. “There went my next box of candied cherries from Maren. I wagered Sebo you wouldn’t know why I needed them. And she’ll gloat, too, which is unbecoming in a woman of her age and humiliating for me. Yes, typhoid in the Riverfront District of the city, and in Sweet Hollow. I’ve been at Riverfront.”

  “I’ll go with you, Master,” Arram said impetuously. “I can—”

  Ramasu held up a hand. He settled into the chair beside his desk. “Start with the shepherd’s purse. Grind it for medicine, as fine as possible. Grind all of it that’s in the cloth. Place it in a jar from those cupboards.” He pointed to show what he meant. “The ones with cork stoppers. Do that with each bundle of herbs. Don’t disturb me until you’re done.” He began to examine papers on the desk. A fire sprouted in the braziers in the room, driving back the chilly dampness.

  Arram gathered the materials he would need: a big mortar and pestle and a necessary jar. He settled Preet near enough to a brazier to be comfortable. She fluffed herself up and gave a soft cheep of contentment.

  Arram surveyed the table, wondering if he had everything. There was a cone to transfer the ground herbs into the jar. He’d gotten a brush to clear the herbs from the pestle, and a cloth to wipe it out.

  “You have forgotten nothing,” Ramasu said, looking up from his papers. “Staring won’t get the work done. If anyone knocks, you don’t know where I am. This is my first sleep in three days.” He closed his eyes, then raised a hand. “Onestu will bring us lunch. Wake me for that.” He arranged his booted feet on a hassock next to his desk and linked his fingers on his belly. Within moments he was snoring.

  Carefully Arram lifted the cloth under the dried plants and poured them into the mortar until it was half full. Then he went to work turning and grinding, mixing and pushing, until he had a fine powder. Carefully, using the funnel, he poured it into the jar.

  He’d worked his way through the shepherd’s purse and started on the raspberry leaves when a man he didn’t recognize knocked on the door. He was a big man, a Scanran, with muscular arms and legs, and corn-gold hair that he wore in braids. “I’m Onestu,” he said quietly. “His ragze. I brought him a proper lunch, since he’s been eating nothing but infirmary fare.”

  Arram stood aside. “I didn’t know he was married,” he whispered. “Forgive my bad manners.”

  The big man chuckled. “I’d be surprised if he ever talked to you about anything but medicine.” He saw a clear spot on a counter and laid out dishes and utensils, a soup thick with beef, chickpeas, and dumplings, fried balls of lamb kibbeh, eggplant dip, pieces of chicken, and fresh flatbread. “Help yourself to some of this. Let him sleep—”

  “I need food as much as sleep,” Ramasu announced as he lurched out of his chair. “You were good to come, Onestu.” He walked his husband outside and returned shortly, looking tired but cheerful. “He’s a glassmaker,” he told Arram. “And he looks after our children when I’m called out like this. A fine man—I don’t deserve him. Where’s the soup?”

  Arram dished up a bowl for the master, then fed Preet and gave her water. Once everyone had been cared for, he got back to work.

  Some plants were dry, lacking the greenness, or vigor, that the others had. He talked to them silently, a trick he’d learned from Master Hulak. Stand up for yourselves! he told them, letting the words float on his Gift. You can be just as strong as the fresh plant—I know it’s still in you!

  Slowly he felt their swelling pride and growing strength. They would do well.

  When he looked up from the last jar, Ramasu had finished his meal. Arram hadn’t noticed his movements, any more than he had seen Preet fly to perch on the master’s shoulder. Ramasu was watching him, an odd look in his eyes.

  “Do you often talk to plants?” he inquired.

  “Master Hulak does,” Arram said defensively. “He says it helps them to grow.”

  “I don’t believe even Hulak talks to them after they’re dead.”

  “I just thought they might like it,” Arram replied, looking at the floor. “They were older than some of these others, and they felt bad about it.”

  Ramasu stroked Preet’s chest feathers. “It’s very interesting, where you live, isn’t it, Arram?” He tapped his forehead to show what he meant. “Does Hulak know you can do this?”

  “He lets me encourage living plants, if things go well,” Arram replied. “He says it’s a reward, but I’m not sure why. The plants do it for him when he’s just there.”

  “Perhaps it’s meant to be a reward for you,” Ramasu suggested. He was staring at Arram as he rubbed his hand over his unshaven chin.

  Arram tried not to fidget. He was not quite comfortable with Ramasu. The man was always aloof and dignified. His snoring and the introduction of Onestu had made him seem more human, but the look in those eyes was making Arram nervous all over again.

  “Well, you aren’t getting any younger,” Ramasu said at last. He reached for paper and a pen. “Can someone take your bird for a time?”

  “Well—well, yes, of course,” Arram stammered, not understanding the reason for the question. “Ozorne, Varice—they’re my friends—Master Lindhall, of course…”

  “Lindhall! Perfect!” Ramasu picked up a small glass globe and passed his hand over it. It whirled with colored fires as the blaze of Ramasu’s power formed a circle around it. “Lindhall, it’s Ramasu.”

  Arram jumped when he heard Lindhall’s impatient reply as clearly as if Lindhall stood there. “Great Mithros, surely you know I’m teaching a class!”

  “Yes, but I am returning to the city. I want Draper to go, and I need you to keep his bird. There’s no
telling when I will return the boy,” Ramasu told the globe.

  “Haven’t you been in—” Lindhall began. Then his voice softened. “Oh. Must you? Your other beginners are at least three or four years older.”

  Arram didn’t like the sound of that.

  “He is splendid with herbs. He strengthens ones that are weak. We knew he’d have to go into a plague center at some point, Lindhall. Let it be now, while we might yet keep the disease contained.”

  “He’s in your workroom? I’ll send Ozorne; he’s here.” The globe went dark.

  “How did you do that? May I have one?” Arram asked, his fingers twitching with excitement. “Water scrying isn’t as solid.”

  Ramasu looked at him as he tucked the globe into his pack. “May you have one? If I gave a globe like this to a student, Cosmas would have my head. Leave your bird. She may not go with us.”

  Preet began the most woeful trilling Arram had ever heard her make. Ramasu picked her up. “The place is poor, dark, and wet,” he told her softly. “Young and old die there while their refuse flows on the floor. The stench is unspeakable. If you were seen—if you were heard—you would be caged and sold in a minute. It is too sad for you, my dear.” He stroked her as she quieted, until Ozorne knocked on the door. Arram had gathered her things by then.

  He accepted the bird from Ramasu and passed her to his friend. “I’m helping the master in the city,” he explained.

  Ozorne frowned. “The city?”

  “A plague center,” Arram said quietly. “She can’t go with me.”

  Ozorne looked at Ramasu. “Surely you have more senior students to help you. Arram’s no healer. He—”

  “I am his master, and I determine what he is suited to,” Ramasu replied firmly. “I know that he is your friend and that you are concerned, but you are a student of fire magic, are you not? You understand there are no safe roads in our studies, not in the long run. At least, I hope you understand this.”