Ours Is the Storm

by D. Thourson Palmer

  Ahi’rea’s eyes turned southwest—to the dull orange glow on the horizon. She had little doubt death came for them on the smoke and flames, as it had not for many years. It seemed Halkoriv would obliterate the plains this time rather than even fight. She heard Ruun’daruun speak, but did not turn. The discussion went on—a slow excitement built among the Huumphar as a shade of hope returned to them. The return of Lasivar—scion of the family that had forestalled and fought Halkoriv and his line for generations—seemed a possibility once again. They spoke cautiously of him. Where had he been hiding? Why had he not yet revealed himself? Would he finally defeat Halkoriv, or would he only beat him back again as those before him had? Haaph’ahin spoke of visions of glory. Ruun’daruun, anxious for the chance to bring the fight to Halkoriv, was confident the real Lasivar could be found, and by his mere presence rally the northerners and the Huumphar.

  Ahi’rea’s gaze remained steady on the fiery glow. The voices receded and she heard the sound of the fire crackling. Cool wind blew at her back, refreshing and biting at the same time. In her mind, a great white beast, serpentine, scales glistening with droplets of icy water, rose from the sea. It was borne by many hands out of the water, and as it rose the hands sank beneath the waves. It clashed with a creature the color of fire. They ripped and tore at one another, sometimes one about to triumph, sometimes the other. With each wound, the red creature grew fouler—sprouting limbs and horns, scales growing slick and vile. The white creature grew brighter, glowing, and though it fought with unwaning strength, the beasts dragged each other down, drowning in their blood. They lay dead. The body of the red beast erupted and another, as foul as the first, dragged itself from the stinking, wet corpse.

  She closed her eyes, the sounds of her surroundings returning. She heard the group’s hushed discussion; they had noticed her eyes.

  “Ahi’rea,” Haaph’ahin whispered, “what did you see?”

  She did not answer right away. Sometimes she hated the Sight—others thought it gave answers, but she knew what it really brought.

  The words came, unbidden, in the Old Tongue, and she could not stop her voice. “He will come from the North. Like beasts of war, the clash of swords, the son dies like father. While flesh will burn, the Spirit endures.”

  —Eleven—

  She hated it. She could not clarify, struggled to interpret. Words caught in her throat and her thoughts became jumbled and confused if she tried to explain the vision in simple terms. Some of those with the Sight claimed it was the gods’ work, ensuring that no one knew too clearly his or her own destiny. Others thought seers mad because of it. Ahi’rea thought it was the worst of the curse—to see the pain and misery and mistakes of oneself and others and offer only poetry and doubt.

  “What does it mean?” someone asked.

  She knew what the vision meant—even if Halkoriv was beaten, another, just like him, would rise in his place. Unless something else happened, the course the Huumphar had chosen would lead to ruin. But to say all that, in the shadow of the vision, was impossible. The Sight itself stole her words away.

  Ahi’rea concentrated, forcing the words. “We will fail,” she managed.

  The others debated the meaning of the dream. Haaph’ahin believed her, but others offered their own interpretations. Her father knew that asking her further questions about the vision would be useless. “Nothing is set,” he said. “We must carry on, and be cautious. The future is not set until we reach it.”

  Ahi’rea felt sick. It means nothing, she told herself. Nothing is set. Nothing is sure. The beast lurked, rotting and vile, in the back of her mind.

  The Huumphar decided to move north the following morning, to keep on the move and avoid the southerners. Lasivar would return yet. Even Ahi’rea’s dark vision prophesied that. Together they spoke the traditional words of parting to end the moot and began to follow the winding, rocky path down from the plateau to the camp.

  Ahi’rea watched Haaph’ahin linger, falling behind the others. She knew he would not sleep until he met with the prisoner, who still called himself Revik Lasivar. She went on ahead while he intercepted Revik and his guards as they approached the pathway. Haaph’ahin sent the guards back a short distance. She knew he wanted to speak with the prisoner unheard, be she could not help but worry for him. She walked in front of them, but concentrated and felt her hearing strengthen. She heard the wind on the plains, the crackle of campfires. If she concentrated hard enough, she could hear her father’s heart pounding.

  —

  The old man moved close to Revik, but he ignored him, not hesitating along his way. Revik wound between the ruined marble structures and started down the path, making Haaph’ahin work to keep up.

  Haaph’ahin kept pace beside him in silence. He said, slowly, “I am told you are fluent in Gharven. That you are from the North, as the true son of Lasivar would have been.”

  Revik snorted.

  “I still do not believe you are who you say you are, regardless of where you are from. Halkoriv could have chosen any young fool from the North and corrupted him to his purposes.”

  Revik stopped and turned, his eyes daggers. “And why should I care what you think? I know who I am. You are a fool.” He turned back to the path.

  “Oh yes, you are far too clever for me,” Haaph’ahin said, following him. “You could not even conceal for one day that your abilities are returning. Given a little more time, you might have had a chance to escape. Now you are not only useless to us, but a danger as well.”

  Revik felt a chill blossom in his mind and spread to his fingertips. He could kill this old man in an instant, bound or not. Maybe. But not before those two behind you raise the alarm and spear you. The urge to lash out built in him, to release the power, to quell the cold in his mind. He resisted. He was not strong enough yet. “If I am so dangerous, kill me. You will only destroy your most valuable bartering tool and bring the entire kingdom and Halkoriv himself down on your miserable dying tribe.”

  Revik could tell that the words stung. The old man spat, but pressed on. “Brave talk, if I believed it. You will not be the first over-stuffed hapless Cheduna lord we have set upon a spear, and you will not be the last. If you truly are as important, as wise, as powerful as you say, we would have seen as much by now. You are one of Halkoriv’s pawns, nothing more. We will heed your advice and execute you in the morning. Halkoriv will not miss your loss.”

  Revik was drawn in despite himself. “My powers are returning,” he protested. “What more do you want? What other proof could you need? You will be signing your own death warrants all the sooner if you kill me.” Revik was beginning to worry that his time had run out. He stopped, but Haaph’ahin kept walking. Revik called after him, “Accept that you are wrong, that you and your people are at fault for this bloodshed. You may yet join Feriven in peace!”

  At this Haaph’ahin stopped and turned to face Revik again.

  After a long pause, as if thinking, he approached and allowed his shoulders to slump. “We are so weary of fighting,” Haaph’ahin said. “Prove to me that there is no other son of Lasivar. Use your powers, if they are indeed returning, and search for him. I will be able to See what you see. As you may have noticed, you and your king are not the only ones with the gift after all.” Revik narrowed his eyes. “If you are right,” Haaph’ahin sighed, “we will surrender. If you are right, there is no cause to go on fighting.”

  Revik saw Haaph’ahin’s head droop and his eyes fall, defeat settling over him. So, he knows it is over already. Revik smiled. “Very well.” He had not doubted the old man’s threat to kill him, but now it seemed he might even accomplish his mission after all, as a captive no less. When he failed to find another ‘son of Lasivar’ or saw only himself, the plainsfolk would end their resistance. With no hero, no one powerful enough to lead them, what choice would they have?

  He closed his eyes and felt the familiar chill run through him. Doubt clutched at him—Halkoriv’s lies about sorcery, and perha
ps other things, nagged at him—but he concentrated, pushed those thoughts out, and relaxed his restraint.

  The cold at the base of his skull spread. The warmth drained from him. He held the idea in his mind: ‘son of Lasivar.’ He waited for an image of himself or some other sense that he was the focus of his own search. Instead, he felt familiarity, as of discovering a possession he had not known was lost. Not for the first time that day, he saw in his mind a pale-haired boy, serene and brave even in youth.

  Revik flinched. His mind became a mass of cold and dark, a hole to nothingness in the world. But he was not alone—he felt Haaph’ahin’s mind in the darkness. Call him, Haaph’ahin pushed. Call him to us. He must come! Then he felt something else, something older and crueler lurking there with them.

  Images bombarded Revik as the cold touch of his power grew stronger. The boy aged, passing through many strange and exotic locales. He became a man, and Revik saw him train and fight and learn, saw him hold men and women captive with his words, saw love and hope in their gazes.

  Come to us, Revik thought. The words, the feelings, were not his. They came from outside, and were echoed from deep within. Yes, come, whispered the echo. Help us, came the first voice. Come to die, whispered the second. Revik shuddered at it.

  The man he knew to be Lasivar’s son looked straight at him. Revik saw the people around the man follow him, take up arms and leave all they knew behind.

  Revik saw the ocean—felt the cold spray, smelled salt and felt the wind out of the north. He had never seen it, but he knew it, could not remember it but felt it was home. The wind drove ships to a familiar coast, high cliffs fringed with tall autumn trees.

  —

  Revik dropped to his knees, eyes clenched shut, arms clutching his chest. Haaph’ahin stood by, watching. Cold sweat beading on his forehead as Revik shuddered and quaked. His guards looked on with fear in their eyes. Haaph’ahin started when Ahi’rea raised her voice behind him.

  “What is happening to him?” She approached the fallen prisoner.

  Haaph’ahin put out his arm to stop her and put a finger to his lips. “It is working,” he whispered. “He has found Lasivar, I am sure of it!”

  A shadow had gathered about them, noticeable even in the dark of night. The world felt closed, confining. It was too small a space. Standing beside her father, watching Revik writhe and convulse, Ahi’rea felt her breathing become labored. The dark was choking and thick. Her vision faded and sound receded. She could not see the stars overhead. When she looked back at Revik, something invisible and cold caressed her neck.

  She cried out in revulsion, recoiling from the touch. “Wake him up!” she shouted. “Something is wrong!”

  “No!” Haaph’ahin said. “It is our only chance! We have to be certain he calls him.”

  Ignoring her father, Ahi’rea took a step toward Revik. Haaph’ahin reached out, grabbing her by the arm, but she pulled away roughly and grasped Revik by the shoulders. She shook him and called out in Gharven. He did not respond. His breath caught in his throat and he choked, his chest wracked with spasms.

  Maintaining her grip, Ahi’rea calmed herself and concentrated. Her eyes flared green, driving back the shadows around them as if burning them. Stop, she said, her voice strange and echoing in her own ears. She felt resistance press back against her mind. She forgot what she was doing, struggled to recall. She felt gnashing teeth and deep-throated snarling, pain and madness and rage. She could see the Monument, stark and bright and burning around them, more real than the world fading around it. The Monument stood in relief, a void against the world. It was like nothing she had ever seen in the Dreaming, or with the Sight, or in life. It roared. Terror gripped her, but still she concentrated. Stop. Now. NOW. She pushed.

  The pressure ended and her mind lurched. She was disoriented and spent and she was surprised to find she was sweating and gasping. Her vision was blurred and spotty, and she repressed the urge to vomit. The haze cleared and she found herself looking into a pair of fearful, reddened eyes.

  Revik looked as shocked as Ahi’rea that it was over. She felt the freezing skin of his bare arms. He had been imprisoned, hurt, stabbed, but never had he looked so close to death before. He stared at Ahi’rea, unable to move, his chest heaving. She was shocked to realize that he was terrified.

  Ahi’rea shivered. Inside, she burned, but a chill clung to her skin and Revik’s body was icy. He quaked, one hand moving up to grip her arm. Through the terror etched on his face, she saw something else that caught her off guard—gratitude.

  “He nearly died.” She had felt the void grasping at him, terrible beyond imagining—no peace, no Journey, not even the quiet of nothingness. An ever consuming pit, eternal ravenous hunger incarnate, had nearly taken him. Not that, she thought. Even he does not deserve that. And if it had taken him, she wondered what would have been left in his place. She looked at Haaph’ahin. “Do you know what almost happened?” she shouted. All she could think of was the icy touch on her neck.

  Haaph’ahin was unperturbed. “It was necessary. His life is nothing if it will end this war. Halkoriv must be stopped, at any cost,” he said. “This man is our enemy! He killed your mother without a thought, and you would jeopardize our chances to keep him alive!”

  “You would condemn him to worse than death, looking for something that will make no difference!” she said, surprised that she could manage the words despite her vision.

  Glowering, Haaph’ahin ignored her and knelt, catching Revik by the jaw and searching his face. “You saw. You believe me now, do you not, boy? You have been misled by your lord and now you have seen the real Lasivar.”

  Ahi’rea started to speak, but Revik nodded. His eyes closed. He could not refute what he had seen. The son of Lasivar was another, the man in his vision. His life was a lie.

  “Ha!” Haaph’ahin crowed gleefully. “Where is he? Did you call him?”

  “North,” Revik rasped. It seemed it was an act of will for him to speak at all. “He saw me. He is coming…” Realization played across his features. “You… said you would see,” he said, looking at Haaph’ahin.

  “So I did,” the old man cackled. “You have confirmed my hopes, and perhaps worn out your usefulness. That is, unless you can tell me where he will arrive.”

  Revik looked lost. He had seemed so sure of his place, and now he wept. “The cliffs,” he stuttered. “On the north coast—a village between the forest and the sea. Please, don’t kill me.” All courage seemed to have left him. Ahi’rea reached out to his mind, and felt only fear and confusion. “I am not your savior and I… I am not your enemy.”

  Haaph’ahin smiled triumphantly. “Some good came from you in the end. It seems we may not have to bring you along with us after all. You slaughtered too many to go free. Think on that till the morning.”

  With that, Haaph’ahin signaled the two guards forward and told them to take the prisoner back to camp. They complied, lifting Revik by his arms and dragging his unresisting form down the path. “Tomorrow we will move the tribe away from the Monument, then rest till nightfall to begin our journey north,” Haaph’ahin called after them.

  Ahi’rea stood. She stared at Haaph’ahin, her mind reeling.

  “He is coming back! That boy’s cursed power found him, and now he will return!” Haaph’ahin said happily.

  Ahi’rea shook her head. “Did you not hear me?” she asked. “It will not matter.” She looked after the prisoner. “That spirit almost took him—he did not deserve that.”

  “It would have been worth it. You will see. This war is going to end.” He looked at his daughter. “He deserves to die. I thought you wanted him dead.”

  She had, but not like that. She turned and walked weakly back to camp, Haaph’ahin’s calls for messengers and runners echoing behind her. He bid them go out to the other tribes and the villages of The Gharv with word of Lasivar’s return.

  All through that night, her arm remained cold where Revik had touched it, and her drea
ms were only of the fear and loss she had seen in his eyes. She tried to keep her gaze turned away from the Monument. She could not banish the feeling that it was watching her.

  —

  The next morning, Haaph’ahin awoke to find Ahi’rea was waiting, ready to leave, with Revik still bound but waiting nearby.

  “He is coming with us,” she said.

  —Twelve—

  Rahi’sta and Tak’la, among others gathering their things to leave, were a short distance outside the camp when the argument erupted.

  “She has gone mad,” Rahi’sta said as she watched Ahi’rea. “Why would she protect him?”

  At first, Tak’la did not realize she was talking to him. He watched the argument, sometimes scanning the boulder-strewn plains around them. The stones were the same black marble as made up the structures atop the Monument. They crouched, like penitents bowing beneath the aging structure towering above them. He noticed Rahi’sta looking at him expectantly. “I’m sorry.” He looked back and forth between her and Ahi’rea and Haaph’ahin’s shouting. “No one talks to me.”

  Rahi’sta smiled. “I know. And for that, I’m the one who should be sorry. But now…” she looked down at her child, cradled in her arms, “I think I understand you better.” She looked back at Tak’la. “We’re alone too.”

  Tak’la nodded his thanks. He looked back at Ahi’rea. “She’s not mad. Something is different today.” He clambered up a small boulder beside them and sat with his legs crossed.

  Rahi’sta looked skeptically at Ahi’rea, then regarded Tak’la for a moment. He was reviled by the tribe as death-touched, but he fought as hard as any other warrior. He was tall and powerful, but sometimes so childlike, and though no one noticed him, he seemed to notice things no one else could see. “What’s different?” Rahi’sta asked.