Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

  D. Thourson Palmer

  For Mephit. Dear friend, your storms have passed.

  —Regarding Maps—

  E-readers aren't terribly friendly to maps. As such, I've made the map of Feriven and The Gharv, created by cover artist John Pohlman, available as a download and in print at dthoursonpalmer.com/OursIstheStorm.

  —Regarding Pronunciations—

  The Huumphar people of Ours Is the Storm have an atypical naming system. As far as pronunciations, I've attempted to make things mostly phonetic, with one caveat: two of the same vowel (aa, ee, ii, oo, and uu) are pronounced as the long version of that vowel (sounding like bait, beet, bite, boat, and boot, respectively), while single occurrences are pronounced as the short version (bat, bet, bit, bot, and but). Two different vowels in a row are each pronounced separately. Thus, Ahi'rea is "Ah-hih-rey-ah," Haaph'ahin is "Hayf-ah-hin," and Ruun'daruun is "Roon-dah-roon."

  All Huumphar bear the name of their most well-known parent. Thus, Haaph'ahin's given name (Ahin) goes to his daughter, Rea, giving her the full name Ahi'rea. This allows the nomadic Huumphar to more easily remember and trace their lineages.

  “There is such a thing as the feeling of a rainstorm. Along the way, you meet with a rain shower and hurry down the road so as not to get wet. But even though you make your way beneath the eaves, awnings, and what have you, there is no escaping the damp. If, from the beginning, you were certain of getting wet, there would be no pain in your heart, for it would be all the same to be soaked. This is a way of understanding that extends to many things.”

  —Yamamoto Tsunetomo, Hagakure

  —One—

  Teh’rahin did not come back from the hunt, and he was the first warrior Ahi’rea had known well who did not return. Father said they had been hunting evil spirits, but Mother, when she returned, bearing news of Teh’rahin, was more forthright. She said they were hunting men.

  “You should not speak of these things before Ahi’rea,” Father said to Mother. “She is too young for such evil thoughts.”

  “She must think on them soon enough. Halkoriv knew we were coming, and his soldiers were ready.”

  “Halkoriv,” Father said. He shooed Ahi’rea from the tent, telling her to go wait by the fire.

  She stepped into the cold night and shivered, pulling her doeskins tighter. The winds were swift and harsh over the plains, and the dry grasses whispered around the camp. She heard her parents’ voices from within, muffled and low. Ahi’rea could see the glow of the fire ring from around the Huumphar tents, and the shadows of the returned warriors and their kin. She smelled steppe yams and red squash cooking, and the stinging-yet-sweet vapors of bonebark tea. There would be no meat for days, not until after the Sendings, and her stomach was already growling at the thought. She heard Naph’oin beginning the Sending songs for Teh’rahin and the others. She heard Rahi’sta, trying to sing with him, but crying instead, for her father would never return.

  Ahi’rea did not go to the fire. She circled the tent, stepping soft, placing each foot with care, as Mother had taught her. She focused her mind, as Father had taught her. The Sight came to her. She shut her eyes, so as to cast no light, and Saw.

  Inside the tent, her parents whispered in anxious tones. Mother was angry. She jabbed her finger out, toward the tent flap and the world beyond. “He may never come this close to our lands again. We should go back. We should call the tribes and kill him now.”

  Father’s eyes were downcast. “Lasivar’s son will come to us when it is time. Until then, we cannot beat Halkoriv. We will go deeper into the plains, and await Lasivar’s son.”

  “And what if he does not come?”

  “He will.” Father looked up. Though he was smaller than Mother, he always seemed taller in the Dreaming. He took Mother in his arms and kissed her. “You must trust me. I cannot lose you now, and that is what will happen if you attack Halkoriv. All the warriors in the plains and the skies could not defeat him—but we can hold him where the grasses end. I need you. Ahi’rea needs you.”

  Mother returned his kiss, and embraced him. They held each other for a long time, but as Ahi’rea was about to cease her Sight and go to the fire, Mother spoke again. “He butchered them. Halkoriv. He butchered Teh’rahin and the others. I’ve never seen anything like it. The dark came from inside him, and it ate them.” Father brushed her hair and held her, but she went on. “The dark came from him and ate them, and when it lifted there was nothing left but blood and bone.”

  —Two—

  The boy knew there was no point in calling for help, because it never came. He’d shouted and cried for days, until his voice ran hoarse. He was unsure how long ago that was, or how long he’d been confined inside the dark cell. He could no longer remember; not because he had been there for so long a time, but because someone was inside the cell with him, stealing his memories.

  He could feel them slipping away, one by one. When he slept he awoke unable to recall a friend’s name or a forest path. If he concentrated on a face, it would vanish. If he thought of an event, the details would blur and fade entirely. The boy was conscious of the loss, but of nothing else. He was afraid, afraid of the darkness and silence, but most afraid of losing the few memories he still had. He was afraid of whoever was taking them from him.

  He was not sure how he knew there was someone in his cell with him. He heard no one. Seeing his companion was out of the question—there was no light. He felt around in the dark, but his fingertips met only rough stone walls, a thin blanket, and the privy hole in the corner. He couldn’t even feel a door. Despite all that, he could feel the presence, as if he were being watched. The sensation gnawed at him. He found himself shouting into the darkness when it grew too strong.

  Every day, he discovered a bit of bread or a hard biscuit on a small trencher and a cup of water when he awoke. He wondered if his cellmate brought them. He tried to stay awake to see who brought the food, and how, but the food and water never came until his exhaustion overcame him and he slept. Soon, he stopped trying.

  At times he would wake, screaming for his mother and father, but no one ever answered. He wept until his chest ached and his throat rasped, curled in the filthy blanket, sick to his stomach. In time, the crushing darkness and utter silence wore on him and he could no longer tell if he was awake or dreaming—his dreams became of the dark and of his cell. Thoughts of his parents, his home and friends, all faded. He lost names first, then faces. One by one, they were stolen away. He forgot about the presence with him in the cell, as if it stole the memory of itself. Last of all, he forgot his own name. He was alone, and could remember only flashes of the time before his imprisonment.

  —

  The boy awoke in shock at the sound of the first voices he could remember hearing in all his time in the dark. He listened, overjoyed at the mere sound, forgetting in his rapture to call out. One voice stood out, angry. He could understand it, though it bore an accent that sounded strange to him.

  “He is my vassal. This may be his home, but Cunabrel still owes allegiance to me. Now leave, while I speak to the boy.” This was followed by an answer in the strange tongue he had heard… where? Fragments of memory, broken and meaningless, fluttered through his mind. He’d heard the same tongue before the cell. There had been fire. He’d been lifted and carried, and he had cried for his mother. He thought he’d seen a man die. He struggled to recall, but could think of nothing to connect the images and feelings.

  Light streaked down from above and piercing his eyes like hot needles. He cowered, covering his face with his hands. There was a sharp intake of breath and the voice he had heard spoke again, this time soft and kind. “By the Ancestor. My dear child… how could he do this to one so young?” The boy dared to look
up, seeing only a blurry silhouette against a circle of light overhead. There was an opening in the cell, several feet higher than he could reach. “Here, Revik. Take my cloak. You must be freezing.” The silhouette let a dark robe fall down to him. The boy—Revik, he thought, recognition stirring in him—wrapped himself in the cloak. It was warm and thick, soft as silk and more comforting than he could have imagined. It smelled of wood smoke and incense, glorious smells which might have overwhelmed him had he not been so intent on the voice of the kindly man above him. “I have little time—your jailer, a man called Cunabrel, does not approve of my presence here. Though I command his allegiance, he is both willful and powerful. I will return—do not fear. I will see you free of this foul prison soon.”

  Revik, the child thought again, turning the name over in his mind. Yes, it was familiar. He remembered a voice calling that name—or was he imagining it?

  Overhead, the silhouette vanished and he panicked, trying to shout and producing only a hoarse gasp. As his strangled voice reached his own ears, he wondered how long it had been since he had even tried to speak.

  The silhouette reappeared. “I am sorry Revik, but I cannot help you. Not yet. Take care, child, and be strong.” It vanished again, the opening was covered, and the light disappeared. Revik was once again alone.

  He wept in the dark. His felt at his hair with filthy hands. It was long, longer than it had ever been. Why could he remember that, but not his family? His home and friends? The gentle voice echoed in his mind—be strong. Revik breathed deep, willing his tears to cease. He sat for a long time, focusing on those words. He almost began to cry again when he realized he could no longer remember hearing any others, but stopped himself, holding back the tears. He tried to think of his father and mother but could not. He thought of the man who had spoken to him instead. I have to be like him. He wondered when the man would return. He wondered if that man were like his father.

  He sat in the dark, waiting. Several meals passed, and through those empty hours, the voice echoed in his mind; be strong. He felt strange as the time stretched on. The terror of his mind-numbing imprisonment was starting to fade, as if some of it had escaped through the opening above his cell.

  An idea, like a candle light, flickered to life in his mind. Why was he imprisoned? He wondered if he had ever known. Revik remembered only fire, blood, and fear. More than anything, he remembered being afraid. Be strong, the voice said. Weakness, Revik told himself. He did not know why he had been locked away, but weakness had kept him afraid and imprisoned. No more, he thought. I will never be weak again. He had not tried to stay awake to see who brought his food for weeks, or perhaps months. He resolved to try again, to push past his exhaustion, to overcome his weakness.

  He sought about the cell until he found the small, ceramic cup his captors filled with water each day. He clutched it, drew the cloak over himself, and lay on the floor as if to sleep. He closed his eyes, lay still, and breathed slow and steady.

  Time passed—he had long since stopped wondering how much, or even noticing. He kept himself awake by repeating the kindly man’s words: be strong.

  There was silence for a long time. A near-imperceptible grate of metal on stone reached him from the dark. A near-imperceptible glow of red shone through his eyelids. He opened them ever so slightly. There was a doorway into his cell, disguised behind the stone wall. He saw a hulking figure, outlined by the meager light from beyond the door. To Revik’s eyes, so used to blackness, it was like looking into the sun. The figure was dressed in dark leather and poor cloth, with a griffon in fading black dye on his armored jerkin. The guardsman reached into the cell and leaned down, and as he felt around at the floor, Revik’s hand tensed around the cup. All his terror, his pain, his rage at his imprisonment came rushing to the fore of his mind. I will show them strength.

  He lashed out with all the force he could muster. The guard was almost blind in the dark, but Revik could see everything. He could make out the man’s jaw, his pale eyes, the stubble on his scalp. He saw a scar under the guard’s eye and put all his strength, thin and starved though he was, behind the hard piece of ceramic in his hand, driving it toward the scar. Desperation and rage lent him speed and hate bolstered his frail muscles.

  The hard ceramic struck the guard’s face just below his eye socket, shattering. Revik felt hot blood on his hand and saw crimson drops fly from the man’s face. He screamed and Revik felt power surge in him. Emboldened, he leapt at the guard, using the dark to his advantage. Overwhelmed by pain and surprise, the guard reeled under Revik’s assault, holding his arms up against his smaller attacker.

  Regaining his senses, the guard rallied and seized Revik by the hair, holding the youth aloft at arm’s length. Squinting from one eye, the other streaming blood, he spat words Revik could not understand. The sound of them brought images of fear and flame to Revik’s mind, but he struggled and fought rather than give in to them. The guard pulled back a meaty fist and, still holding Revik by the hair, struck him full in the face. Revik felt the blow, felt a knot of hair torn from his skull, and then felt only blinding pain.

  When he awoke, he was on his back in the dark once again. His scalp burned and he felt as if his face had been beaten with a hammer. His nose ached, and it cracked and clicked when he touched it. He tasted blood and could feel that one of his teeth had been knocked loose. Revik groaned, clenching his eyes shut and trying to shut out the pain. He prepared for tears, but was surprised to find he did not want to cry. Despite his injuries, despite still being in the cell, in the dark, alone—Revik smiled.

  —

  More time passed: numbing, featureless hours that slipped from memory before they even took root. Revik’s thoughts came slowly, filling the vast expanses of darkness, slow and great as glaciers. They sheared away all concerns except freedom and pushed aside his need to remember. His old life seemed to be nothing but one of the many hallucinations he had suffered in the dark, fleeting and ephemeral, lacking form and meaning. A full day went by again before they brought him more food or water, and Revik did not try to stay awake or lash out again. Patience, he felt, would be strength, and he would do himself no favors to invite punishment by further starvation.

  Days later, his food came unexpectedly while he was awake. Light cascaded from above once again, and the blurry silhouette stood against the blinding rays. “Revik,” said the voice from above, “do you remember me?”

  His throat ached at the mere thought of speaking, but Revik forced his disused vocal cords to action. “I remember. Have you come to free me this time?”

  “Not yet child—I am so sorry. What days in which we live, when a man like Cunabrel will do this wickedness to a child.” The man’s voice was sorrowful, but brightened. “I have brought you food, however.” A small bundle dropped into the cell. Revik caught it, surprising himself, and felt a wash of joy at the package’s weight. “There is good bread there, and some dried venison and an apple—some rations from my long journey from the South. Do not worry, young Revik. I will not leave until you are free.”

  Revik listened as he tore open the bundle and began wolfing down the food. It was the best he had ever tasted and he almost wept when he bit into the apple. It was sweet and a little dry, but not mealy.

  “You have been here quite some time, my boy,” the man above said as Revik ate. “Do you remember the last time you had proper food?”

  “I don’t know.” Revik shook his head, chewing a mouthful of salted venison. “It feels like I’ve always been in here.”

  “Indeed?” The man asked. “You remember nothing from before you came here?”

  Tears came to Revik’s eyes, but he squeezed them shut and clenched his jaw. “No.” The feeling passed. “I remember nothing.”

  The man seemed to consider this. “Your captor, Lord Cunabrel, is wicked and untrustworthy. Disobedient. However, he commands great wealth and many soldiers—for anyone, even me, to challenge him, would cause much unrest. Thus, it will take time for me
to win your freedom. I know something of your past, child. Your father was a great man, but Cunabrel was his enemy and he will not let you go easily.”

  “My father?” Revik looked up from what remained of his food. His eyes had adjusted to the light, and he could now see his benefactor better than he had before. He was tall and muscular, and his pale eyes shone from beneath thick dark hair and brows. He was dressed in a fine dark robe, sash, and furs, and he sported a trimmed beard the same color as his hair. Lines were beginning to show the man’s age, or perhaps his great cares. A crest adorned his thick robes—a great eagle in golden thread. He wore a gold amulet around his neck and many rings shone from his thick fingers.

  The man’s eyes flickered strangely at Revik, as if all color had vanished from them for a moment. “Yes, your father. I met him, once. He was called Konik Naghan, at least in the land known as The Gharv.”

  “No…” Revik’s voice trembled. “Wait—yes. It was… I don’t remember.”

  “But that was not his true name. He was Koren Lasivar, and though you are young and untrained, I see you will one day be a man of great power, as he was.” The man’s eyes unfocused as if he was looking into the distance. They turned dark and featureless in what Revik thought must be a trick of the light. “I see that there is nothing that you will not be able to accomplish.”

  The food had tired Revik, and the man’s words and manner confused him. He did not trust his own eyes or ears. “I don’t understand. Please… get me out of here. I don’t want to be alone anymore. Get me out and tell me what you’re talking about. I want to see my mother and father.” His voice cracked.

  The man’s eyes were pale and ordinary again. He smiled. “Do not despair Revik. Soon you will never be alone again.” His expression hardened. “But you must be strong if I am to help you. I heard of your attack on your guard. That was good. That was very good. But,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “you must do more. Cunabrel will not kill you, but he will keep you here as long as you are not a nuisance. Become a nuisance to him, and I will convince him to let me take you—to remove the source of his irritation.” He reached into his sleeve. “I have another gift for you.” He looked over his shoulder at persons unseen to Revik and spoke in another tongue, keeping his hand inside his sleeve. Revik heard several sets of footsteps, growing softer as they receded.