The Storm

by Elizabeth Hunter

  Volos, the scribe who had carried in their luggage. A tall Russian called Kaz, who looked like he could be related to Max and Leo. Two men who hadn’t said a word, not even to introduce themselves, and a thin man who stared openly at Kyra. All of them were European except for one of the silent men. He had massive shoulders and long, dark hair tied back in a braid. Kyra guessed he was Northern or Central Asian. She wondered how he had arrived in this cold and silent city on the edge of the Baltic Sea.

  “Fricis,” Leo said to the thin man, who was staring at Kyra. “How have you been? How is the library?”

  “Fine.” He didn’t stop staring.

  Leo radiated tension. “Did you have a question?”

  The man asked something in a language Kyra didn’t understand.

  “English,” Max said sharply from the other end of the table. “Not everyone here speaks Russian.”

  “Does she sing?” the man asked in a precise accent.

  “Who?” Renata asked. “Me? Of course I sing. Haven’t you met an Irina before? Max said all of you were older than him and Leo. I would have thought you’d met Irina before.”

  Fricis cut his eyes to Renata, clearly annoyed. “I’m not—”

  “I am learning,” Kyra said quietly. She appreciated her new sister trying to divert attention away from the foreign object in the room, but the questions wouldn’t go away until they were answered. “I know some magic, but I’m still learning. Most of what I’ve learned so far has been for self-defense.”

  The large man across from Leo grunted. “Good sense.” He glanced up from his bowl of stew and met Kyra’s eyes. “I am Gustav. I am the weapons master here. If you or your mate need daggers, I can provide them.”

  Kyra’s eyes went wide. “Thank you.”

  “We appreciate that, Gustav.” Leo squeezed her hand. “Kyra is quite good with daggers. Her brother has given her lessons, and she’s also trained with Renata.”

  “But you’re teaching her magic?” Fricis directed the question at Renata. “Irina magic?”

  “Of course I am,” Renata said, her voice icy. “She’s my sister. Why wouldn’t I?”

  The man opened his mouth again, but Levi interrupted. “Fricis is our archivist and naturally curious,” he said. “I hope you’re not offended by his questions. It has been many years since any Irina have visited us.”

  Renata said, “Perhaps after we are finished eating our meal, I can sing for you. I know a beautiful version of ‘Adelina and the Giant.’ That is a popular local song in this area, is it not?”

  The scribes around the table murmured agreement, and Kyra noticed the atmosphere in the room warmed.

  Levi said, “You honor us, sister.” He turned to Kyra. “We would love to hear from Kyra too. If she would like to join you.”

  Kyra could feel the heat in her face. “I am still learning. But thank you.”

  “Your next visit.” Gustav nodded as if the matter was settled. “You can sing for us then.”

  Kyra didn’t know if Leo and Max would have any desire to visit Riga in the future, but she nodded anyway. Better to be polite and discuss the matter with Leo in private. The weapons master and the watcher were welcoming. The other men were harder to read. They were cold and hard, like frozen earth that hadn’t seen the sun in years.

  After their simple meal, they moved to the great room while Volos and Kaz cleared the dishes. The house in Riga was a beautiful old mansion with carved wood paneling and spacious rooms, but the furnishings were spare. If Kyra didn’t know better, she’d have thought the men of the house had just moved in. Furniture was heavy and simple. There was no art or decoration. The only things that passed for adornment were the rows of immaculate weapons and old armor mounted on the walls of the great room where a large fireplace burned.

  Kyra and Leo sat on a large sofa in the back of the room as Renata took a place by the central fireplace. Her tall figure dominated the space as the scribes gathered around her to listen. Kyra could feel the expectation in the air.

  “How long has it been?” Kyra asked Leo quietly.

  “What?”

  “How long since these men have heard an Irina sing?”

  Leo’s face went blank. “I don’t know. I never heard any Irina song in these halls.”

  “Hundreds of years?” Kyra asked. “Since before the Rending?”

  Leo only shrugged.

  She had listened to Renata sing many times in Istanbul. Her sister was a trained Irina librarian and could recite oral histories for days if asked. It was part of her training to share her knowledge, and she’d taken on the job of teaching Kyra and Ava with pleasure. Max sat beside her on the stone hearth, his hand resting on the back of Renata’s thigh as she stood before the scribes.

  Kyra remembered the first time she’d seen Max. It had been years before Kostas had revealed her as his sister, and she’d seen the dangerous Irin scribe from the corner of a café in Sofia where Max met with her brother. His gaze had been dark and suspicious then, his energy restless and savage. Kyra had escaped through the back door of the café with one of her brother’s men, worried Max might look in her direction.

  Now his eyes rested on his mate, peace and pride in his gaze. The darkness was still visible when Max was roused, but Kyra could see past it to the protective bent of his nature. He and Renata were perfectly matched—warriors who’d found respite in each other.

  Kyra leaned over to Leo. “They’re so beautiful together.”

  Leo’s face softened. “As beautiful as we are?”

  She smiled. “Maybe more.”

  “Not possible.” He kissed her temple, and Kyra laid her head on his shoulder as Renata began to sing. She sang in the Old Language, which Kyra was still learning, so Leo whispered the translation in her ear.

  “Listen this night to the song of Adelina’s journey,

  our sister who sailed to the northern sea.

  She met many along the water and battled many demons,

  but none matched her wit, save for the giant of Saaremaa.”

  It was a story like many Kyra had heard in other traditions and languages. An adventurer traveling far from home, outsmarting enemies and fighting foes. Adelina traveled from an unnamed land in the east and followed the rivers to the Baltic Sea where she met a giant who promised to give her secret knowledge from the Forgiven angels if she could outwit him. After many days, Adelina discovered the answer to his riddle hidden in a linden tree and told the giant, who told her the secret of his long and happy marriage. Of course, the secret knowledge the giant shared involved building saunas and growing cabbage, which made everyone in the room laugh even though they’d all heard the tale before.

  It was a joyful and humorous story, one meant to be shared among friends after a full meal. The low chuckles and smiles around the room accomplished what Renata had likely wanted. The heavy atmosphere lifted, and the hard men began to smile.

  Renata moved from Adelina’s journey to a joyful song about the first mothers, the venerated women who had raised the first generation of Irin children. It was a song Kyra had heard before, a common and popular one glowing with praise and beautiful imagery. She glanced around the room to see the softer faces of the scribes around her. Some of them wore wistful expressions. Gustav had glassy eyes.

  “They needed this,” Kyra whispered. “They needed her.”

  Leo nodded but didn’t speak.

  When Renata moved into the next song, Kyra felt the energy in the room change. The air grew heavy, and she could feel magic rising. “Leo?” She tugged on his arm. “What is she singing?”

  Leo’s own eyes were glassy, and his voice was rough. “It’s a mourning song. ‘Hilal’s Lament.’”

  Renata kept singing even as tears began to fill her eyes. Max leaned into her, his arm wrapped around his mate’s legs as she poured two hundred years of mourning into her voice. Mating marks lit around her neck, gold that matched the fire behind her. Max’s talesm glowed in response.

  �
�Please,” Kyra whispered. “Tell me what she’s saying.”

  Leo gripped her hand. He whispered,

  “Surely I will sing of my lover’s hands,

  strong in battle and gentle in the night.

  He has left me, but I will not fade.

  For our children cry from the meadow

  where their father fell.

  They eat the bloody earth in mourning

  and rage at the night.”

  Kyra watched the hard-faced warriors around them. No eye was dry. They wiped their tears without shame, listening to the singer’s lament. Some bent over themselves as if in physical pain. Their talesm glowed with a low silver light, and Kyra saw nearly all of them wore mourning collars around their neck, visible when their magic was roused. The silent Asian scribe on the far side of the room wore a thick mourning collar for his mate with three finer circles beneath it symbolizing the loss of three children, likely dead in the Rending.

  Kyra’s heart ached for them, these hard men who were so very alone. No children laughed in their halls. No joyful songs filled their house. They trudged on, half-alive, ensuring the balance of light and dark in the world with no hope of a brighter future or the comfort of their ancestors.

  They simply endured.

  “So I must guide my children back to light

  that their hearts do not turn to stone.

  They will be my birds in the nest

  like larks in the morning,

  singing to bring the sun’s return.”

  Chapter Two

  They packed a borrowed Land Cruiser for Dunte the next morning. Leo and Volos were loading the bags. Gustav had given them several weapons he needed Peter to repair at his forge. Max and Renata were having a heated discussion under the trees. Kyra was sleeping in the back seat.

  The sun had warmed the leather bench of the Land Cruiser, and she’d drifted to sleep before Leo came downstairs with the first pieces of luggage. She hadn’t rested much the night before. Leo had taken her to bed, holding her silently while she lay sleepless. When emotions were high, as they had been during Renata’s singing, it was nearly impossible for her to shut out the voices around her.

  It wasn’t that her defenses were thin. She had extraordinary perception, even for an Irina. It was why he’d been willing to translate for her the night before. She would have perceived the sorrow in the room. Better for her to understand what had provoked it.

  Volos glanced at Kyra. “She’s delicate.”

  Leo tried not to bristle. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

  Volos shrugged. “I didn’t say she wasn’t strong. My Naina was delicate. A spider’s silk is delicate; that doesn’t mean it’s not strong.”

  Leo carefully packed the swords behind the suitcases. “I’ve never heard you talk about your mate.”

  Volos grunted. “You were a boy.”

  “Not when I came back from the academy, I wasn’t.”

  Volos frowned. “You didn’t understand then. You couldn’t have.”

  You didn’t have a mate.

  Leo couldn’t argue with the older scribe. Loving Kyra had taught him both bravery and weakness. Even the thought of losing her paralyzed him. He couldn’t even bring himself to imagine it; the places it took him in his mind were too dark.

  “How did you survive?” Leo asked without thinking.

  Volos’s face was hard. “You don’t have a choice.”

  “Others chose—”

  “I cannot face my Naina in the heavens,” Volos said, “if I haven’t fulfilled my duty on the earth.”

  The rate of suicide in the weeks and months after the Rending had been high. They didn’t call it suicide, of course. But countless scribes died in reckless battles. Others performed magic that could only poison them in the end. Many who had lost their mates and children simply slept and did not wake.

  For the first time, Leo realized that the cold men who’d raised him had been faced with a choice, and despite their many faults, they’d chosen to stay alive. Looking at Kyra sleeping in the back of the car, Leo finally understood how difficult that choice must have been. The scribes who raised him might not have been warm or affectionate men, but they had remained.

  Leo held out his hand. “Thank you for teaching me how to ride a horse when I was ten. My father should have done it, but he never did. When you found out, you made me work with you in the stables every morning. You taught me without telling anyone because you knew I was embarrassed.”

  Volos took Leo’s hand. “Your father had a duty too. That was all he had after Lauma died.”

  No, he still had a son.

  “He’s not patrolling anymore?” Leo asked. “Levi said Peter was only forging weapons. He takes commissions from all over the world now, huh?”

  Volos shrugged. “He’s taking care of Artis, and Artis won’t leave Dunte. Taking care of Artis is his only duty now. The forge just keeps him out of trouble.”

  Taking care of Artis was his father’s duty.

  But Artis was dying.

  So what did a scribe do without duty when duty was his only reason to live?

  “It wasn’t necessary.” Max’s arms were crossed over his chest.

  “I don’t agree. It was completely necessary.” Renata spoke in a measured voice. “It may have made you uncomfortable, and I’m sure it made them uncomfortable. But helping our people to grieve is why those songs exist. Singing them brings healing along with the pain.”

  “Did you know Ganbaatar had three children?”

  “I don’t know who Gan—”

  “The Mongolian scribe. Did you know they were all slaughtered? His mate drowned herself because she failed to protect their children.” Max didn’t know why he was so angry. “You think singing about a lark in the morning is going to heal a wound like that?”

  Renata’s mouth was set in a stubborn line. “Have you forgotten I am well-acquainted with grief? It’s my duty to help them, whether it pleases me or not.”

  A wave of guilt shut his mouth. It was only a few months before that a small child had given Renata an outlet to vent her own grief. And that small child had suffered as a result. It had cost that child to comfort Renata. “It hurt you,” he said. “To sing that lament hurt you.”

  “Of course it did.” Her expression softened. “But it’s part of the reason I exist. If Midwinter taught me anything, it’s that I’m more than a soldier. I’m still a keeper of memories, Max. It’s what I’m meant to do.”

  He hooked an arm around her neck and pulled her close. “This place, Reni…”

  “I know.” She slid her arms around his waist. “I know.”

  They stood in the shadow of the oaks and lindens, morning dew wetting their feet from the uncut grass that grew like a wild meadow. Max wanted to take his shoes off and run under the trees like the feral child he’d once been. He wanted to run away.

  “Singing a lament isn’t going to heal all their wounds. And maybe nothing will ever heal them completely. But it’s a step in the journey, Max. Just like this journey you and Leo have to take. You don’t have to know the whole path. You can’t. Right now you just have to take the next step.”

  Max’s anger lifted with Renata’s gentle words, and the true reason he’d snapped at his mate became clear. “I don’t want to go to Dunte.”

  “I know. But you will. And you’re going to face your uncle and your grandfather. You’re going to be with your cousin when he speaks to his father.”

  “Peter is a bastard,” Max said. “He doesn’t deserve a son like Leo. At least my father had the decency to die an honorable death. Peter just lingered in the back of Leo’s life, resenting his own son for keeping him alive.”

  Renata put both her hands on Max’s cheeks. “Leo is going to try to take care of everyone because that’s who he is. We have to take care of him.”

  Max nodded. He could take care of Leo. He’d been doing it since they were children. Someone had to live in the dark corners so Leo could remain the
lark singing in the morning. Because Renata was right—their world desperately needed that bright song, and if there was a pure Irin soul in existence, it was his cousin.

  Max and Leo sat in the front as they drove the fifty-five kilometers north to the village on the edge of the Gulf of Riga. Kyra slept in the back while Renata worked on her tablet and occasionally took pictures out the window. The journey was silent as Leo watched the streets of the city give way to the patched pavement of the countryside north of the capital. The road ran in a quiet curve, north through wooded villages and farmland that edged toward the sea.

  “Do you remember going on horseback?” Leo asked.

  “Yes.” Max was behind the wheel. “It took longer.”

  “It was a nice trip though. I think riding horses along the coast was one of the few times Artis was ever happy.”

  “Music,” Max said. “He was happy when he was playing the guitar.”

  “I don’t know about happy. He was content.”

  “Yes.” Max eased the car into a curve in the road. “Content is a better word.”

  Leo cracked open the window to smell the country air. It was night-and-day different from the dusty and spice-laden air of Istanbul. Latvia smelled of green woods and hay and the sea. “Did you call Malachi this morning?”

  “I did. Nothing out of the ordinary at home. He says we can take as much time as we need.”

  Leo was unsettled by the idea of an indefinite stay in Dunte. The farm they were going to had been his mother and aunt’s childhood home. There had once been a small community of Irin in the nearby village, which was known for excellent ceramics and ironwork. Their grandfather had been a respected sword maker and blacksmith.

  There had been a farm with a large cowshed and many outbuildings, one of them an ancient forge. They grew vegetables. They tended apples. There was a great outdoor oven that his grandfather maintained with care, though it was barely used. Perhaps his grandmother had been a baker. Leo and Max had no idea.