The Storm Weaver & the Sand (Books of the Change)

by Sean Williams

  “What sort of precautions?”

  Even as he asked the question, the answer came to him.

  The dreams. The dreams of a storm rolling across the wide plains, unstoppable and indefatigable, clouds thick and roiling above, wind tugging him as a wall of water rushing toward him and lightning stabbed from the encroaching darkness…

  “The storm is the Change,” Highson said, speaking rapidly, passionately. “It destroys what once was, and sows the seeds of what might be. It simultaneously powers the wheel of life and swings death’s axe; in its nature lie both things. As a result, you cannot wield it without some sort of cost. It is simply not possible. In the case of a simple storm—for a storm is a simple thing when compared to some of the workings of mages and wardens in the past—the cost may not be immediately visible. But try harder, and the consequences are steeper. Perhaps you could have fought your way out of here, as I fought to free Seirian behind the scenes. Perhaps you could be the greatest mage or warden in the World, and finish what you did the day you struck the Alcaide. But what would that solve? Might isn’t the same thing as right, and you have to earn the right to get your way, even more so with the Change than anything else. Using force to get through a wall might leave you buried under rubble, not free. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, but—” Sal shook his head, remembering a dream exactly like that he’d had in the Interior, while he was wondering how to escape the Mierlos. Just before he summoned the storm. “But you invaded my mind. You invaded me.”

  “People do that every time they talk to you using the Change. Does that bother you? And I swear to you that that’s all I did. All we did, for I didn’t undertake this action on my own. We did it as a group.”

  “The Weavers?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had no right.”

  “Didn’t we, Sal? You were immensely powerful, and you were coming right at us, just like the storm. In that sense, you are the consequences of my actions, long ago. When I set you free, I always knew there was a chance you would come back to me, looking for answers.” Highson’s expression was weary and guarded. “You don’t have to be that storm, Sal, if you don’t want. That’s all the dream is trying to tell you. You can just be you for a while, and then decide.”

  “Decide what?”

  “What you’re going to be, of course.”

  What am I going to be? Sal wondered. He had put so much thought into getting away from the Sky Wardens that he had spared little on what came after. He could avenge his mother’s death, somehow, on the ghosts or on the Syndic—but what would that solve? It wouldn’t bring his mother back to him. And what would it make him?

  Perhaps he could be a Weaver, like his real father. They had both created storms, one real and one dream. They had both taken steps to mould the future. Perhaps that was what the golem had meant, on the bank of the tide pool, about being afraid of him. Do I dare to be a Weaver, Sal asked himself, just because I attempted it once?

  “For now,” he said, certain of only one thing, “I just want to be free.”

  “That’s as fine an aspiration as any.” Sal’s real father patted him on the shoulder, and he allowed the intimacy for the moment. “The older you get, the clearer it becomes that there’s no other goal worth aspiring to…”

  When Sal emerged from the catacombs with his father, Shilly’s first impulse was to hobble to him in the best imitation she could do of a run, so glad was she to see him alive.

  She had taken barely three steps, however, when the collar around her neck sent stabbing, purple fire down her back and into her brain.

  She flinched, clutching her head and hissing in agony between her teeth. All conscious thought ceased. She felt as though her skull was being cracked open like a walnut. When it finally subsided, she found herself weak and sweating all over, gasping for breath.

  And something had changed. She put her hand to her throat. The collar was gone.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Highson. “You came within the minimum distance before I could deactivate the charm. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you, simply to deceive the Syndic.”

  Shilly shook her head, still getting used to the idea that Sal’s real father had been on their side all along. The return of the connection to Sal, restored with the removal of the collar, prompted a surge of relief that was as strong in its own way as the pain. Everything was going to be all right, now. Everything was back the way it should be.

  Sal approached nervously. She grabbed him and pulled him into a bear hug. She had never been so glad to be close to someone before. They had been separated for only a few hours, but those hours, when they had been the beginning of forever, had been awful. The thought of never seeing him again had been worse than the thought of never using the Change. With him back, she could have both.

  If he was startled by the intensity of the hug, he soon recovered. His arms came around her back, and he relaxed into her. He breathed deeply next to her ear, as though smelling her. She panicked briefly about when she’d last had a shower, but reassured herself with the thought that he had experienced her under far worse conditions.

  When they pulled apart, everyone was there, watching: Skender, Kemp, Highson Sparre, Stone Mage Luan Braunack, Alcaide Braham, and the Surveyors guarding the newly-found Ruins. The Weavers, she thought, flushing in the unnatural glow of the Change-rich air. The ghost had warned that the closer she got to the truth the more likely it was to be a lie, but as long as those calling themselves the Weavers were helping her she was quite happy to believe it.

  She let go of Sal so the Mage Braunack could hand him his pack. She didn’t stop smiling, though. The Golden Tower turned slowly on its side behind them, its mottled surface the most bizarre backdrop she could have imagined.

  The Alcaide cleared his throat.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” he said. “I’m not here out of the goodness of my heart. I’m here to put an end to this, once and for all. There’s no doubting your talents and how useful you could be to us, but locking you up is only going to turn a firework into a bomb. And I for one would rather have you explode somewhere far away, where I won’t get hurt.”

  Again, thought Shilly, noting the way the Alcaide’s purple-red scar gleamed in the Change-light.

  “I’m going to let you leave,” he said, indicating the Way entrance in the wall behind them. The words were welcome, but they came with ill-tempered grace. “I’m also going to do my best to stop pursuit. Nu will suspect, but she will never learn the truth. I’ve done everything I can to frustrate her so far, to make sure you didn’t fit in. She wanted Sal to meet Highson; I made sure the only time available conflicted with your classes. And so on. I’ll continue to confuse her efforts to find out what happened here today. Unless you come back, she will never know.

  “If you do decide to return one day, well and good. I won’t stop you. If you don’t return, I can’t say I will be particularly heartbroken. We are not allies, and we will never be friends. That goes for all of you.” The Alcaide’s glower swept over Sal’s real father and the other adults behind him. “Whatever you think you are, whatever you think you’re doing, I am not part of it. Our goals just happen to overlap.”

  “We understand, Dragan,” Luan Braunack said patiently. “There are no illusions between us.”

  Highson Sparre stepped forward. “Our plan is to reopen the Way so you can use it to get out of the Haunted City. We will close it behind you, ensuring that your destination will be unknown. You can go anywhere you want, provided you know what your destination looks like. The further it is, the better you need to know it. Apart from that, the choice is yours.”

  Getting rid of the problem, Shilly thought. Indeed!

  “What do you think, Sal?” she asked. “You said we should take a holiday when all this is over. Here’s our chance.”

  “I could show you the Keep,” said Skender. “D
ad would take you back.”

  Sal shook his head. “That’s the first place they’d look.”

  “It’s a big place.”

  “They’d have the Synod behind them. We would be defying the decision made for us, after all. They’d find us eventually.”

  Skender looked disappointed, but he understood.

  “Where, then?” asked Highson.

  Sal looked at Shilly.

  “I know,” she said. And she did know. The right decision burned in her like a psychic brand. What’s more, she suspected that Highson knew too, for why else would Lodo have been there?

  Sal nodded. “Lodo’s workshop.”

  “In Fundelry?” said Kemp.

  “Well, it’s not in Fundelry,” said Shilly. “It’s actually closer to Tumberi, a hundred kilometres away. But the only exit at the moment is near Fundelry, so that’s sort of right.”

  “Why would you go back there?”

  Shilly glanced at Sal. “It’s a start.”

  He nodded. “‘Athim will go home.’ Tom said that earlier. He was talking about Lodo without knowing it.”

  “If that’s what you want to do, we can help you.” Highson turned to Skender. “Would you go with them?”

  The boy hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I think I’ll go back with Beli Brokate. I’ve had enough adventures for a while.”

  Highson nodded, and Shilly turned to face Skender. If they made the decision to open the Way into the workshop, they would be going their separate ways. She might never see him again.

  But…Home, she thought, feeling the call of it as strongly as she had when she’d learned that the underground workshop was still intact, the entrance hidden in the sand dunes near Fundelry, impossible for anyone to find but her. Not only did she know it as well as she knew herself, having lived most of her life there, but there were books, and Lodo’s tools, and maps, and all manner of things they might need to teach themselves the Change. They could open another Way somewhere else, one day. They could open a dozen Ways and explore the world from the safety of their new home. The possibilities were endless.

  Returning to the workshop would solve all their problems. They would be safe at last.

  “Is that your decision?” Highson asked.

  Sal looked at Shilly. She agreed without hesitation.

  “Skender?”

  The boy looked surprised that he had been asked. He swallowed.

  “It’s the right thing to do,” he said, “although I’ll miss you both. You know I’ll never forget you.”

  Shilly nodded, grateful for Sal’s hand in hers. “It’s not forever,” she said.

  “It’ll be never if we don’t get a move on,” snapped the Alcaide. “Behenna has raised the alarm. There’s only so much time we have left.”

  Shilly’s heart skipped a beat. “Behenna did what?”

  “Don’t worry,” Highson said in a calming voice. “Shom was supposed to do that. You don’t have to be afraid of him any more. It was only a matter of time before the search parties came here. This way, they won’t surprise us.”

  “Enough talking,” the Alcaide growled. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it now.”

  Shilly nodded, agreeing. There was no point dragging it out. Even if the thought of being on their own was suddenly looming terribly large and scary ahead of her—a real possibility, instead of a vague dream—she would rather run to it than drag her heels. Especially with the Syndic swooping down on them at that very moment, wanting to snatch them back.

  Highson took Sal’s hand. Shilly took Skender’s. Skender linked with Luan Braunack, who connected through Iniga to the Alcaide. Only Kemp stood apart, not naturally Change-attuned. When the line was complete, Shilly felt a rich vibration run through her. The golden haze seemed to grow brighter. Having the minds of so many strong and talented people so close to hers was like sinking into a warm sea with the sun shining brightly above. There was nothing they couldn’t achieve.

  “The key, Skender.” Through her mind, Highson Sparre’s voice wasn’t hoarse at all. It sounded surprisingly like Sal’s. “The golem gave you the pattern required to open the Way. Do you still have it?”

  “Of course I do,” the boy responded. “Here. Shilly knows how to work it.”

  The tumbling, distorted clover leaf pattern appeared before her. She folded her mind around it, feeling its shape and its need to connect like a force tugging her forward. The linked minds gathered behind her as she willed one end of the pattern to attach to the oval entrance before her. The other end flailed about for a moment, looking for purchase. She thought hard, wishing she had Skender’s perfect recall, but what she was looking for wasn’t hard to remember at all.

  Golden veins snaked through red-brown walls sealed with a clear glaze. Light flowed like honey from tongues of fire frozen in cages of glass. Rocks glowed every colour of the rainbow in a room furnished with cushions and low tables. There were alcoves for beds and toilet, and rugs made of animal fur stitched together. A large, black stone occupied the centre of the room, from which a flickering blue ring of fire fuelled by the Change could be summoned. The room was always hot.

  Lodo liked it hot.

  Shilly was unable to swallow the lump in her throat as the Way snapped taut between the entrance before her and the workshop’s antechamber. An impossibly short corridor, barely a dozen metres long, crossed the thousands of kilometres between the Haunted City and Fundelry. She felt the power of its existence humming in the air, vibrating with tension, and knew that it wouldn’t last forever. It would drift or snap, just as a narrow bridge would sway in a stiff breeze. She didn’t know how long it would hold.

  “That’s it.” She heard the words through her ears and felt Highson disengage from the link. “You’ve done it!”

  She opened her eyes and saw the Way stretching ahead of her exactly as it had in her mind. Freeing both her hands from Sal and Skender, she stepped eagerly forward.

  “I’ll go first,” said Iniga, cutting her off. The woman’s tattooed face was unexpectedly stern. “Wait here until I return.”

  “But—”

  Highson held her back as the woman headed down the Way.

  “Surveyors know methods to test the stability of Ways,” he said. “If everything is safe, you can go next.”

  Shilly reined in her excitement. Getting back into the workshop had been one of her goals, but not one she had considered likely to come true. Now that she was on the brink of achieving it, she was afraid that it would be snatched from her. She couldn’t bear to lose it twice.

  Before long, Iniga returned up the Way, her brown robes flapping behind her in the cramped space.

  “All clear,” she said. “The air is a little musty, but that’s easily fixed.”

  “There’s a chimney,” Shilly said. “I’ll open it.”

  “I’ll walk you down,” said Highson, gesturing mock-gallantly. “After you.”

  On the verge of stepping inside Shilly realised that she probably wouldn’t be coming back. She turned to give Skender a quick hug.

  “Thank you for everything.”

  He nodded. “And you.”

  “Tell your father thank you, too. And the Mage Erentaite.”

  “Hey, you can tell them yourself, one day. Right?”

  “I hope so. And say goodbye to Aron. I’m going to miss him.”

  “I will.”

  She turned to Kemp. “Do you want me to pass a message on to your family?”

  The albino shook his head. “No. That’s not your job. Probably best to steer clear of them. That’s my advice.”

  She nodded, still not comfortable with the idea of Fundelry’s bully suddenly being an ally. “Thanks.”

  That was the end of her obligations, as far as she was concerned. She didn’t stop to watch Sal’s farewells. Instead she du
cked her head and walked as fast as she dared along the Way.

  The light from behind her lasted several metres, after which she found herself in complete darkness. She was glad that Iniga had gone first, and that she could assume nothing dreadful waited for her at the end of the Way. As she neared the end, a faint glimmer of light appeared. Some of the light-stones were still working, despite having been left unattended for months.

  She stepped over the threshold of the Way and into the workshop’s antechamber, where a second Way led to the sand hills. The air was indeed musty, but it was also rich with familiar scents: candle smoke, fish oil, cured skins and the earth itself. She breathed deeply. It smelled like Lodo. It smelled like home.

  Footsteps from behind her urged her forward, into the workshop itself. Nothing had been touched since the last morning she had spent there, prior to their sudden flight from Fundelry. Everything was exactly as she’d left it. Her clothes hadn’t cleaned themselves; the dishes still needed washing; a book lay open at an exercise Lodo had given her to keep her occupied. It felt as though time had stood still for all the weeks she had been on the run with Sal.

  Another wave of sadness washed over her. If only Lodo could see it…

  As though answering her thought, Highson Sparre came down the tunnel, followed by Iniga. Between them, they carried Lodo on his stretcher. The old man was still unconscious. He might never recover consciousness again, but Shilly was glad that he was there with her, where he belonged.

  She pointed at the pile of animal skins that had once been his bed. “Put him there.”

  “Are you sure you can look after him?” Highson asked.

  “We’ll manage,” she said, thinking: two or three days, probably no more. If he lasted longer than that she would happily do everything he needed, but there was no mistaking the mortal thinness of his skeleton. At least they’d made it home in time.

  “You know that you can always call for help—”

  “We won’t. But thanks. I appreciate everything you’ve done for us.” Shilly was amazed that she was thinking so coolly. She couldn’t decide whether her brain had shut down from too many surprises in too short a time, or her emotions were simply worn out.