Stormlord rising s-2

by Glenda Larke

  "I don't know. Nothing good, I imagine."

  "You look weary. And battered. You all right?"

  Ryka nodded, but she felt less than certain. She hurt, inside and out.

  "You should get back to your tent and rest up. Not a good time to be mixing with the tribesmen anyways. Everyone is in a foul temper at the moment." She smiled unpleasantly. "In fact, just to see their sour faces is almost worth missing the escape."

  Wearily, Ryka made her way back to Ravard's tent. Behind her, Davim's Reduners were taking their pick of whatever pedes were left; ahead she could see a large crowd gathered around the rock. She paused under the veranda of Ravard's tent as the sun rose above the crest of the dune and sent its light to stretch long shadows out from the foot of the canvas. In the quiet of dawn, the only sound was the crack of the whip.

  She stood motionless, her imagination freezing her in place, as each crack etched a visual horror into her mind. No one deserves that. No one. And he has endured this before.

  She waited, dreading hearing him scream, believing no one could endure fifty lashes without screaming, surely-yet she heard nothing. The crowd was silent and still, evidently taking no pleasure in Ravard's punishment. Perhaps he moaned, but if so she didn't hear. The whip cracks seemed unending.

  A Reduner woman approached her with a clay jar and placed it at her feet. She hardly noticed until the woman spoke. "Honey ointment," she said in her own tongue. Ryka stared at her, her mind refusing to work.

  The woman pried off the lid and showed her the paste inside, then made a gesture of rubbing with her palm. "Rub it into his back. It will be painful because it has salt in it, but it stops infection. You understand, city dweller?"

  Ryka blanched and nodded. Blighted eyes, she could hardly imagine the pain of salt in such wounds. Fifty lashes. Watergiver save him.

  The woman turned and left, and Ryka listened.

  Somewhere in the low shrubs a bird sang, but that she did not hear. There was only the whip cracking, slicing the air, slicing his back.

  Crack. Crack. Crack.

  PART THREE

  F reedom's B attle

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Scarpen Quarter The Sweepings and Scarcleft City Scarcleft Hall, Level 2 Several tents, erected out of sight of The Escarpment track to the Gibber Quarter, sat in a drywash that probably hadn't seen water since the Time of Random Rain. The largest was pleasantly opulent inside, complete with carpets, cushions, wooden chests and a brazier for warmth once the sun set. Sentries ringed the area, but their Scarcleft uniforms bore an insignia Terelle did not know until one of the Scarpermen accompanying her said it was Jasper's personal emblem, a representation of a piece of bloodstone jasper. Shale himself had not yet arrived.

  The man in charge of the camp introduced himself as Dibble, Jasper's personal aide. He bowed and called her Arta, which only served to make her feel like a fraud. He indicated she should make herself comfortable inside the tent, and brought her tea and sweets made of bab sugar. She felt off balance. Everything seemed wrong. She was just Terelle, a snuggery girl trying to make her own way in the world; Jasper was just Shale, a Gibberman with a talent. Yet now he was a stormlord named Jasper Bloodstone, some even said he was Cloudmaster, and people called her Arta and bowed.

  Halfway through the afternoon, through the open side of the tent, she saw him arrive with more of his guards. He was mounted on his own myriapede, dressed in the fine linens of a Scarcleft upleveler. He was different. Taller. So much older. Which was strange; it hadn't even been a full cycle since she'd seen him last.

  When he entered the tent, she stood, awkwardly tongue-tied.

  "Terelle," he said. His face told her nothing.

  "Shale. It's-it's good to see you again."

  "It's good to see you, too. I was worried."

  Were they really going to be so stupidly banal? She couldn't stand it. And yet when she opened her mouth, angry words ripped from her. "You said you were a prisoner in Scarcleft," she accused. "In the sky message you sent. That's why I came-have you any idea how hard it was for me to come back? Every step I took was a step in the wrong direction, with something tearing at me to turn around and go back. And now, when I get here, I find you don't need me at all! You are free and you have a whole sandblasted army at your disposal."

  Immediately the words were spoken, she regretted them. They were an exaggeration, born of her frustration and longing, designed to make him feel guilty. She ached to take them back, to unsay them, but didn't know how.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Finally he said, "I do need you. The Quartern needs you."

  "And what about what I need?"

  "If it will solve anything, I will send someone to kill Russet. I can give the order right now."

  Her mouth went dry. He had changed. Blighted eyes, but he had changed. "He's the only family I have," she muttered, to give herself time to think.

  "He's a terrible old man who doesn't care one drop of water for anyone but himself, least of all you."

  "Killing him before I have fulfilled the prediction of his last painting may result in my death, too."

  "Did he tell you that?"

  She shook her head. "No, just the opposite. Several times. But I don't trust him. Do you?"

  He considered that. "No, I reckon not. But it's more likely he'd lie to give you a reason to keep him alive than the other way around."

  "He knows me well enough to know I would never kill anyone if I could help it."

  For a long moment they stood staring at each other in silence. This is not the way I wanted it to be, she thought, and bit back the desire to weep tears.

  A guard interrupted from the tent flap. "Is there anything else you require, lord?"

  "Tea would be fine," Shale replied, and then added in a whisper as the guard bowed his way out, "I can't do anything without a guard at my elbow, hovering like a hawk about to pounce. It's so hard to find time for myself."

  "They are from Scarcleft! They are Taquar's men?" she asked. Her head was beginning to ache, as if her mind couldn't cope with the magnitude of the changes.

  He laughed, but there was little amusement in the laughter. "They were. Mine now, I think. Fine men, but they can be tiresome sometimes… Terelle, what happened after you ran from Russet's rooms that day?"

  Sitting down on one of the cushions, she rested her back up against a wooden chest. He sat opposite her, his gaze on her face. "Time to swap stories, eh? All right then, I'll go first, but believe me, Shale-you had better have a good explanation for bringing me here."

  She'd thought she had little to say, but once she started, all the things she had never been able to tell anyone came pouring out: how she felt about Amethyst's death; the darkness of her fear of Taquar; her revulsion at the devastation of the earthquake and the boy who had died. The way she was haunted by those memories; the despair of her journey to the White Quarter; the horror of nearly dying of thirst. She told him about Mine Silverwall and Feroze. She told him about what she had learned of the Watergivers and the origins of the religion of the Sunlord. The guard came back with the tea, but neither of them noticed. Somewhere along the way, Shale moved closer to take hold of her hand.

  "I'm so sorry," he whispered when she finished. "About everything. About leaving you in Scarcleft. I made a promise with the very last words I ever spoke to you, and I didn't keep it."

  She shook her head. "It wasn't your fault. And I'm sorry I shouted at you just now. How did you get away to Breccia City in the first place? And after that? You didn't take any notice of that awful letter I wrote, did you?"

  "I was so glad to get it! It meant you were still alive… I don't think I ever felt worse than when I heard the seneschal give the order to kill you that day in Scarcleft. As if you didn't count, as if you weren't a human being. I never knew for sure you had escaped until I got your letter."

  As he detailed all that had happened to him, she found it hard to think of him as the nation's Cloudmaster; this
was just Shale, who had caught her cheating at Lords and Shells. He was a little older, a little wiser, a great deal sadder, but he was still Shale-Gibber bred, maybe not yet twenty, caught up in a world too big for him. Coldly calm, thoughtful, serious. And somewhere inside was something only she knew was there: pain.

  She heard it when he spoke of Rainlord Nealrith's death. She heard it when he spoke of Cloudmaster Granthon's betrayal in naming Taquar his heir. She heard it when he mentioned his brother, Mica. She heard it when he told her of Laisa's betrayal. She heard it most when he spoke of the people who'd died because he had not surrendered himself to Davim. Taquar, the sadistic bastard, had told him the details he'd learned of that on his visit to Breccia.

  Her heart stirred and she blinked away her tears.

  At the end of his recital he said, "Terelle, I can't even begin to say how glad I am you are alive. That you are here. I need you. I-I think I always did. You're the only person I've ever been able to talk to, really talk to, since Mica was taken. I was so alone, for so long… and then there was you. And then I lost you again." He shook his head, as if he could not find the right words. "I'm scared, Terelle. You're the only person I can admit that to. I was only ever a dirty little Gibber kid with a father who was always slurped and a mother who never seemed to care much for any of us, at least, not until the moment of her death. I was just Shale nobody. And now everyone looks up to me-people three times my age-as if I have all the answers! Well, I don't. And I'm so scared I'll make a mess of things…"

  She held his hand a little tighter. "So am I. Scared, I mean. I promised the Alabasters I would use my waterpainting to help, but the last time I used my skill, I killed innocent people." She licked dry lips. "Shale, Lord Iani says if you leave Taquar the Quartern has no water. What are we going to do?"

  "Our best, I suppose. At least-at least you are here." He gave a half laugh. "And the tea has been here for ages; it must be cold by now." He poured a cup, added honey and seeds and handed it to her. "You have to use your water-powers, Terelle. I know you don't want to, and I understand why. But if you don't, there will be more deaths than if you do. If I've learned anything lately, it's that sometimes there are only bad choices. What you have to do is choose the least damaging."

  She dropped her gaze. "I guess I knew you were going to say that. I'll-I'll help as best I can." I just don't want to kill any more children…

  He squeezed her hand and changed the subject. "You know, I think I hate Taquar more because of what he did to Lyneth than because of what he did to me. She was six years old when he took her. I know how awful it was to be imprisoned at the mother cistern for almost four years, but she was so much younger, and she came from a loving family, and she was there just as long. It must have been so much harder for her. For that alone, Taquar deserves to die. But even if I find another way to make clouds, I can't kill him. Who knows when I might need his skills again?

  "Nor do I want to attack the city and have people die just because they are from Scarcleft. I have ideas about how to free myself from Taquar and bring him down, but first I have to find a way to make the clouds without him." The look he gave her then was telling.

  "You think I can help you? But I can't shift water!"

  "Yes, you can. You do it when you shuffle up. Last time we talked about it, you mentioned doing a painting of it raining. But I think we were looking at things the wrong way round then. What you can do-you can paint me having the power to make clouds from sea water all by myself. With the power of your painting to aid me, I won't need Taquar to make it possible."

  She looked at him doubtfully. "You think that will work?" Something inside her shriveled. Power, her power. It mattered.

  "I don't know. I just think it's worth trying. You aren't drinking your tea."

  "I'm not thirsty."

  He set his own cup aside. "Can we try now, then? I've got to know."

  Soberly, she held his gaze. "What do you want done?"

  "A painting of me, looking as I do now, but sitting outside, with dark black storm clouds coming in from the south."

  "Paintings don't always work the way I expect or want."

  "What can go wrong this time? Terelle, there are no other clouds anywhere in the Quartern. If this produces one, then your magic made it possible. It won't be stolen from somewhere else. No one will suffer, but a lot of people will benefit because I can move it and break it and bring water to the places that need it."

  ***

  It was the first time she'd painted him. She tried not to put too much of herself into the portrait, tried not to paint that odd feeling she had every time she looked at him, of something awakening, stirring, a personal storm promising much if ever she unleashed it. She tried not to gentle his expression to the way she would like him to regard her. She tried, in fact, not to feel much at all.

  They'd moved away, out of sight of the camp. He sat a few paces from her while she captured his posture, his clothing, his surroundings, the warm light of The Sweeping. He was concentrating at the same time, she knew. Trying to lift water vapor from the distant sea.

  She thought back to the time when, from the flat roof of the snuggery, she had seen a stormlord's cloud traveling toward the Warthago Range. Long before she had ever met Shale… Her waterpainter's memory brought back every detail. Carefully she reproduced that cloud, every nuance of its color and shape and turbulence. At last she was done. She sat very still, regarding the painting. Then she took a deep breath and focused. She shuffled up the colors as Russet had taught her to do, pulling them from stasis to living reality, changing the passivity of a painting to the promise of a future event. The shift shuddered across and through the water, through the paint, through herself.

  She felt the transformation and knew she'd altered the destiny of that day in some small way. And part of her hated what she'd just done.

  By all that's water holy, she thought, please don't let this hurt anyone.

  "Sands 'n' dust!" Shale cried, his face suddenly shining with an intense joy. "You did it!"

  Startled, she looked back at him. "How do you know?"

  "I can feel it. I took the water up into the sky! It is pouring upward… clouds of it…" He jumped up and grabbed her in a hug, his exuberance so out of character she gaped at him. He didn't appear to notice. "Thank you, Terelle!"

  "You'd better sit down again as you were, otherwise the scene won't be right," she told him.

  He grinned and obeyed. "It will be a while before I get it here," he said. "Terelle, do you realize what this means? I don't have to go back to Taquar! We can make rain-you and I, together. Without him. Together we are a true stormlord!"

  He gazed at her wordlessly for a moment longer, then said softly, "Thank you."

  Terelle should have been happy, but she knew she wanted more than just his gratitude. When the clouds were well on the way to their destination, Shale returned to the tents and called for Dibble. "We will be joining Lord Iani's army instead of returning to Scarcleft," he told the armsman. "I want you to send two of your best riders with a message for Lord Iani at Pahntuk Caravansary, telling him to start south as soon as he can, with all his men."

  As the man moved away to follow the instruction, Shale turned back to Terelle, who was packing up her painting things. "I'll use part of this cloud we've made to send a sky message saying the same thing, just to make sure he gets it. We'll ride north to meet him. When we return to Scarcleft, it will be with an army behind us."

  His joy was so intense he didn't seem able to contain it, but Terelle shivered. She had painted a picture, but the immensity of the implications was out of all proportion to the artwork. And she suspected she had not even begun to understand them all. She said, "Waterpainting you as a stormshifter is not all you want of me, is it?"

  His grin faded and he hesitated before replying. "No," he admitted. "I have to tackle Taquar. He's a traitor, a murderer and totally untrustworthy. I have to bring him down. And I need his trained armsmen and his pedes, becaus
e then I can confront Davim."

  "You want to go to war?"

  "I hope it doesn't come to that with Taquar. But against Davim? Yes. It's inevitable. You saw what he did to Mine Silverwall."

  "You can't rely on me, Shale. I have to go back to Russet in less than a year."

  "Then we'll have to do this within a year. It'll be tough. I have too few rainlords at my disposal, and no stormlords at all. Without them, winning a war with Reduners is… unlikely. Unless we can think of some way to kill ziggers, using your water skills."

  "I've been thinking of little else ever since we left the White Quarter and I haven't come up with anything. I had a long talk with Russet about different ways to use waterpainting, but no matter what, you can't change the limitations: you have to paint accurately for it to work. I know all ziggers look alike, and I could paint pictures of ziggers dead in their cages, for example-but it wouldn't work if I didn't know what each cage looked like, and how many ziggers there were inside each one."

  They looked at each other soberly. "We'll think of something," he said, "because we must. Otherwise Davim will come after us. I'm a stormlord, and for him that's reason enough."

  She stared at him then turned away, her thoughts turbulent. In the end, I am going to be a prisoner again. Not Taquar's, or Russet's, but a prisoner of my own conscience. If Shale needs me to make storms, how can I leave him to go to Khromatis? I will have to be always at his side, every day for the rest of my life, painting the storms keeping the land alive.

  Somewhere deep inside her, she felt the tug of Russet's waterpainting like a dagger under her breastbone. Just thinking about not returning to Russet was enough to start the pain. I may have to live with that.