The Storm Lords

by Ravon Silvius

  Chapter 4

  ROWEN DIDN’T know how to feel about the turn his life had taken. He couldn’t be sure of anything as he recovered over the next few days.

  Kristoff seemed kind, caring, and thoroughly interested in helping him every step of the way. On the afternoon of the third day since he had woken up, Kristoff helped Rowen to stand, smiling without a trace of disgust as Rowen staggered to his feet. Pins and needles shot through his legs as he regained his footing.

  “Let’s head outside,” Kristoff said softly. “We’ve come a long way from your village, and you need your strength back before we go any farther.”

  The healing mud Rowen was liberally covered with squelched under his feet as he stepped toward the cave mouth. He felt like some kind of foul monster as he emerged, blinking, into the cool light.

  There were trees above him, a canopy of green, very different from the shrubs and cacti that succored his village. The bark was rough and spongy, nearly damp, and he touched it with wonder, feeling guilty at the mud that streaked it afterward.

  Kristoff observed him quietly for a time before speaking. “We’re about one hundred miles north, overseas, from the continent on which your village is located, Rowen. This island is small and totally uninhabited, so there’s a lot of nature here.”

  Rowen liked it. The sky overhead was a deep blue, different from the lighter blue-gray he was used to, and there always seemed to be a chill breeze, cold winding through the trees and rustling the leaves that covered them. It wasn’t scrub, like near the village, but full trees, like near an oasis in winter, but everywhere. Birds chirped overhead, their trilling voices and whistles providing what was almost music. It was different from the harsh caws of the birds back home.

  “The stream is this way. We should wash that mud off you.” Rowen’s ears perked at the word stream. He had heard of underground rivers and streams, feeding into the wells. Were they going back into the cave?

  No. They followed the trail, really nothing more than a slight depression in the green stuff that covered the ground, and emerged into a small clearing, through which the burbling stream ran. A stream, not underground. The water moved, clear and cold, but not deep.

  “Go ahead and wash up. I’ll get you more water from upstream.” Kristoff walked off, against the rush of the flowing water.

  Rowen paused. The water was moving. He put one toe in, surprised at how warm it was.

  His heart pounded. It was like a bath, he told himself, a big bath. Rowen was grateful for the illusion of privacy as he stepped into the water. He didn’t like the way it moved, but it wasn’t strong enough to push him. He could do this. He had to do this. Even on his foot, the water soothed.

  He felt no chill as he submerged as much of himself as he could, the caked mud breaking and flowing downstream.

  His toes clung to the streambed as he stood in the slow-moving water, listening to the birds. He absorbed as much of the peace of the place as he could, but thoughts of his situation began to intrude.

  He would be a Storm Lord. He would summon the storms that broke the heat spells, which apparently occurred in places across the entire world, not just his village. But something bothered him.

  Kristoff, despite acting caring and kind, had lied. At least one person in his village had died every heat spell that Rowen could remember, most of the time more, and the temperatures routinely went up to 130 degrees. Either Kristoff didn’t know how bad it got, which didn’t make sense if he was supposed to be a Storm Lord, or he was lying.

  Rowen wished he knew why. Kristoff didn’t seem the type to lie.

  His skin tingled as the mud washed away and the water contacted it directly, a pleasant almost-burn that brought his thoughts back to the present. He would have to find out, but he had no way to do so. And did it matter? He would be a Storm Lord himself one day; he had nothing else. Despite the beauty of this island, he was anxious to be gone, to move on to the next stage of his training, or whatever it would be. He didn’t want to dwell on how he had gotten here, how his village had thrown him out. He wanted to fix his situation, to do something other than stay here in this limbo.

  “How are you faring?” Kristoff was walking back, carrying a full flask. “You seem comfortable in there,” he said lightly.

  Rowen started to walk out of the water, the mud sloughing off as he did, revealing skin that was still fiery red and covered with peeling skin in some places, oozing blisters in others. Rowen immediately ducked back under the water, horrified.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right.” Kristoff must have read his expression, because he ran over to the stream. “It looks bad now, but you’ve seen sunburns before this, I’m sure. It will heal soon. Just let it alone and stay out of the sun until I can find something to cover you with.”

  Hot tears stung at his eyes, whether at the realization of the damage that had been done or Kristoff’s caring, kind tone he couldn’t tell. He had forgotten what it was like to be spoken to with concern.

  He didn’t let them fall, though, and the overwhelming sensation passed. He thought of Steveren instead, an older man who had loved to run in the heat of the day, the sun beating down on him and burning him several times. Steveren had died from heat scars, several dark blotches appearing and growing on his shoulders where the burns had been worst. The thought of that happening to him frightened Rowen, and he looked up at Kristoff.

  “Does it still hurt?” Rowen shook his head, unable to explain his fear. He still felt slight burning pain where the water lapped against him, but he didn’t want to be a burden. It was nothing he couldn’t handle.

  “Come on out of the water.” Kristoff held out a hand, and Rowen grabbed it gingerly as he climbed out of the stream. Grass tickled his tender feet. “Sit over here in the shade. Just take it easy. There’s no need to rush. You still feel warm.” He said the last mostly to himself as he took his hand away from Rowen and moved it slowly up his arm. Rowen flinched.

  “Sorry.” Kristoff watched him as Rowen sat down underneath a tree, pulling his knees up so that as little of him as possible touched the ground. He felt sure he looked miserable.

  “Have some more water. I want you to keep very well hydrated.” Kristoff came and sat down next to him, the necklace with the dark stone banging against his chest.

  Rowen drank obediently, still surprised at how refreshing the water was despite not feeling particularly thirsty. Before he knew it, he had finished nearly half the flask, and Kristoff did not protest.

  “Good. I’m sure you’re starving too. I’m going to find us some food and wash my clothing, but I’d like you to stay either here or in the cave. No wandering off, all right? It’s not that I don’t trust you.” Something in his expression looked shadowed as he said it. “But you were in danger for a time, with heat exhaustion. I want to make sure you stay safe. Let me know if you feel ill, at all, all right?”

  Rowen took another sip and nodded. Kristoff sat with him in silence for a time before refilling the flask and handing it to him.

  “I’m going to get us some food. Probably a pheasant and some herbs, and I’ll come back and cook them before evening.” Rowen cocked his head. He wanted to be useful, to do something, but it was not to be.

  Kristoff left without another word, disappearing into the forest. Rowen sat still in the shade of the tree, left to his thoughts once again.

  THE SUN moved high overhead, and the warmth increased, then leveled off as the shadow of the tree he sat under lengthened. He fell into a half doze for most of the day, barely aware of the birds in the trees calling to each other and the movements of small animals around him. Even if he intended to disobey Kristoff and explore the area, he would not have had enough energy.

  Instead he dozed and dreamed, images from the beautiful scenery around him melding with remembered scenes from his village, the desert heat of summer wavering in the distance. A cool breeze became the sensation of cool dirt from the water tunnel falling onto his arms, sweaty from the exertio
n of lifting the shovel. His father dug ahead of him, laughing as Rowen brushed it off. “Careful.”

  “It’s only dirt.” He heard his own voice, rough and deep. It had just changed.

  “Rowen?” He jolted awake to see Kristoff standing over him, full of concern. “Have you been keeping hydrated?”

  He shook off fuzzy sleep and nodded, taking another sip from the flask next to him. Kristoff was carrying a bird of some sort over his shoulder, along with a bundle of wood. He set both down, kneeling and studying Rowen intently. Rowen leaned back, unsure of what to make of his behavior.

  “Sorry,” he finally said. “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t passed out or anything.”

  Rowen raised an eyebrow, and Kristoff laughed and stood up again. “Fine, fine. I’m going to make dinner. I’m going to start a fire here. Is that okay?”

  Why wouldn’t it be? Rowen nodded his assent, wishing he knew what kind of assumptions Kristoff was making.

  “Let’s see if I can remember how,” Kristoff said with some humor, setting up what Rowen presumed to be a fire pit. Instead of dried scrub, he used twigs and leaves as fuel.

  Obviously a Storm Lord couldn’t use magic for fire, so Rowen waited patiently as Kristoff started it, twirling a stick between his hands. Rowen wished he could help and resented his uselessness once again. It was like being back at the village.

  “Hey, why don’t you pluck the bird? Have you ever done that before?” Kristoff looked up, his blue eyes boring into Rowen’s.

  When Rowen shook his head, Kristoff showed him how it was done. Rowen had eaten birds before, but not ones like this. The feathers were so soft, and the bird itself was fat, not a lean scavenger.

  For a time they were both occupied with preparing their meal. Preparing the meat was simple enough, although Rowen’s fingers began to shake with fatigue when he had finished, and the movement brought pain onto his blistered shoulders. The food would be worth it, though. It had been too long since he had eaten anything aside from herbal broth, and his mouth watered as Kristoff cleaned and spit the bird, laying it over the fire.

  “This will take some time.” He shucked his shirt and pants shamelessly, and Rowen appreciated the view, recognizing someone attractive despite his body not being well enough to really respond. Kristoff was lean and well-muscled. “I’ll clean these while we wait.”

  He didn’t specify that he stay, so Rowen followed, dipping his feet in the water while Kristoff cleaned his clothes and lay them out on the bank to dry. The day was moving toward evening, the sky purpling and the air becoming so cool that the water he had stood in before felt warm in comparison. Rowen began to shiver, and Kristoff tapped him lightly on the arm.

  “Come back over to the fire.” He stood and beckoned, and Rowen sat by the flickering flames and watched the meat sizzle. His mouth watered, the heat of the fire chasing away his cold and reminding him of his need to eat.

  Soon enough, the meat was done, and the two ate, Rowen so hungry he nearly choked on the pheasant and herbs that Kristoff had collected, his eyes watering. As soon as he was done, he felt a surge of exhaustion wash over him, and he swayed where he sat.

  “Whoa.” The dark-haired man caught him, steadying him with minimal contact. “Let’s get you back in the cave. You need more rest.”

  Rowen shook his head, fighting his sleepiness. He didn’t want to go back. He wanted to prove to Kristoff he was strong enough to leave!

  “You’re well enough to stay awake?” Kristoff asked with obvious disbelief. Rowen nodded as emphatically as he could, sipping from the flask in the hope that it would give him more energy.

  “Do you think….” Kristoff was peering at him, the firelight flickering in his eyes. “Do you think you will be able to leave soon? I would like you to be looked at by a real physician. And… well, never mind.” He trailed off, looking up at the dark sky.

  Rowen tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention and nodded. He wanted to leave. He wanted to get out of here and go somewhere, do something, so he would not have to think about what he had left behind. There was nothing left for him.

  “Sorry.” Kristoff kept his gaze on Rowen. “I suppose… tomorrow, then, in the morning, we can leave.” Rowen couldn’t respond, so Kristoff kept speaking, explaining. “When we arrive, there will be much to do. I will need to take you to a woman named Lorana. She governs the island, and she’ll find a place for you. You will be looked over by a doctor first thing, of course, and then assigned to a house, which you may have to share. Does that sound all right?” He waited for Rowen’s nod.

  “Tomorrow morning, then, I will begin to summon a small thunderstorm. You’ll get to see a Storm Lord at work for the first time.” He smiled, and Rowen felt an urge to smile back. “With that I can fly back, carrying you.”

  Kristoff stirred the fire with a stick and it flared brighter. “I’ll be your mentor, once you’re there, but it won’t be just me. You will attend classes and learn about the planet and composition of the atmosphere—you’ll learn to read and write too.” Rowen grinned at that. Sometimes he didn’t understand everything Kristoff referred to, the man using terms he wasn’t familiar with, like planet and atmosphere. The chance to learn them intrigued him.

  And then, of course, the chance to write. To be able to communicate again…. Excitement prickled his skin just thinking about it, and some of his fatigue lifted.

  “While you’re learning that, I’ll be teaching you about your powers. Usually it takes a few weeks after you’ve started schooling before you begin learning them. We don’t want to put too much responsibility on a student at once if their powers haven’t manifested to the point where they can’t control it safely. Which reminds me… um, have they?”

  Rowen cocked his head, indicating his confusion.

  “Um, I mean… have you ever, say, wished it to rain and it did? Or maybe got angry or emotional and brought on a lightning strike, or hail, or a breeze… anything like that? Weather phenomena?”

  Rowen didn’t even have to think about it before shaking his head. If he had any powers at all, the heat spells would not have killed so many. The thought brought back the same distrust that he had felt toward Kristoff since hearing him talk about what the Storm Lords did.

  “Hm.” Kristoff seemed troubled by that but didn’t offer insight into why. Rowen cursed his handicap, for the thousandth time since it had happened, and then pain constricted his throat as emotions washed over him, so long ignored. Why had he taken the seeds? Why had his parents died? Why didn’t the Storm Lords prevent it?

  He turned away and locked them up again. That was over with. It would be fixed. He would deal with it.

  “Rowen?” Rowen did his best to put on a neutral, curious expression, and Kristoff studied him in silence for a time.

  “Let’s get some sleep. If we’re leaving tomorrow, we’ll both need it.”

  Chapter 5

  SLEEP DID not come easily for Kristoff. The look of pain on Rowen’s face, unmistakable despite its brevity, after he had asked him about his powers manifesting…. Where had it come from?

  The redhead had fallen asleep mere minutes after lying down in the cave, breathing softly and leaving Kristoff alone with his thoughts.

  Tomorrow was sure to be a taxing day. His first student, and he was bringing him in late, and he was so much older than everyone else who was a beginning student, and Kristoff knew nothing about him….

  And yet, he never once wished that he hadn’t found him. Despite it all, he wanted to protect the young man. He may have been left out to die, but he didn’t act like a criminal. Perhaps his powers had manifested, and his community had put him to death because of it. That would explain the reaction. And once he learned to write, he could explain himself. Kristoff had not missed the excitement on Rowen’s face when he had mentioned that.

  Content with those conclusions for now, Kristoff relaxed into sleep.

  “PAY ATTENTION here,” Kristoff said the next morning, so early t
hat the sky was still pink with dawn. “See if you can sense anything I’m doing. Don’t feel bad if you don’t, of course, but if you can, that will be an important first step.”

  Rowen stood and watched him, shivering slightly in the crisp morning air, green eyes huge. He still looked a wreck, blistered and peeling and wearing a loincloth Kristoff had made from strips of his clothes, and Kristoff hoped the trip would not be too taxing.

  Placing a hand over the stone around his neck, the stone that marked him as a full Storm Lord, Kristoff cast out and sensed the weather.

  He was the only Storm Lord powerful enough to bring on a hurricane, controlling both the air and the water, sensing moisture and areas of low pressure, setting them to spin and gather over oceans and call it all to himself. He was tempted to, and it would be easy on an island but unnecessary.

  Every Storm Lord learned to use what they called the phantom tendrils—the awareness, like a mental limb, of the air or the water or the cold or the ozone, depending on their specialty. Moving them toward yourself took concentration, expertise, but Kristoff had mastered it long ago.

  A thunderstorm, just enough to get them in the air and moving, would be perfect. He scattered the air, and the temperature dropped. Water condensed, and the remaining air began to move. Three tendrils. Four, to get flight… and he hovered on invisible cirrus.

  His eyes snapped open. Time mattered. The longer it went on, the harder it became to maintain. “Come, Rowen.”

  Rowen hesitated only a moment, the wind whipping his hair, and then the rain began to fall. He ran and stumbled into Kristoff’s arms.

  Ordinarily, he would be heavy, but with another tendril, some of his weight was taken up by the air around them. And then they flew, Rowen tightening his arms around Kristoff’s neck as they arced up, impossibly fast.

  It was possible he would pass out—younger students often did when they flew with someone else. Rowen kept clinging, though, his breathing ragged, and Kristoff adjusted the air around them, a sixth tendril, and their movement became silent and calm, the thin air at the higher altitude no longer a handicap.