Kristoff swirled his tea in his hands, then put it down. His spoon slid into the tea, sending a droplet of it onto the table. “No,” he said. “I take precautions to prevent it, as I was taught, but storms are not meant to be controlled completely, only brought to where they are needed.” He imagined the swirling of air currents and sensed a storm spinning in the distance. “No Storm Lord has the power to direct every aspect of a storm.”
“So you do not feel responsible for what may happen during the storm that you do bring. So tell me—why do you suddenly feel responsible for the deaths that may occur in heat spells?”
Kristoff opened and shut his mouth, hating that Talia always, always made him feel like a child. Compared to her, he was, but he wanted to be a respected Storm Lord. He was a respected Storm Lord. Kristoff Hurricane. But all he had discovered today was how ignorant he was. “Because we’re supposed to save people,” he finally said, putting his hands up for emphasis. “Not let some die while we save others. Rowen’s parents died because we didn’t save them, and we could have!”
“Ah.” Talia leaned forward. “This is about Rowen.”
Kristoff ground his teeth. “It’s not just about Rowen.”
Talia raised an eyebrow. “Truly? So you don’t feel for Rowen?”
Kristoff’s face heated. “It’s more than that! It’s his entire village. It’s dying. The southwest region is dying, and we’re letting it, because it’s easier for us!”
“What would you do, then, Kristoff, if you were governor? Attend to me.” That damn phrase again. “Pretend you have a heat spell in two regions, both of which require a hurricane to break. You are the only one who can summon such a storm. Where do you go first? To a city of five thousand people or to a village of three hundred?”
Kristoff picked up his teacup, but the liquid didn’t soothe his frustration. “I get the point,” he said. “I know. But I don’t like it.”
“And you think we do?” Talia said. “You knew parts of the world are dying. Why is this such a surprise?”
“Because….” He put his teacup down again, the sugary sweetness ash in his mouth. “I thought we could do more.”
“We do the best we can,” Talia said. “And you do better than most.” She always did that too—try to make him feel better with praise. “So tell me, Kristoff. I can only guess at what brought this on. How is Rowen?”
“Not good,” Kristoff said, shaking his head. “Last time I saw him, he was running away from me.” Talia raised both eyebrows, and Kristoff hurried to explain. “I had gone to his village and found out about his parents. They died in a heat spell. Twenty-seven others in his village died in the heat spell before I arrived to dispel it. Twenty-seven, Talia! The villagers sacrificed him to bring rain. That’s how I found him. He wasn’t a criminal. He was just a poor, crippled young man who couldn’t defend himself. Everything that happened to him was because we waited too long to help him, each time.” Kristoff hung his head, staring at his tea. “I tried to explain it to him, to tell him about the importance of what we do and how many people we have to save but….” He threw up his hands. “I can’t blame him for hating me.” His stomach twisted at the statement.
“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you,” Talia said. “Remember your concerns from the last time we talked? Then you were worried because he didn’t seem at all upset. Now he is, and you’re still worried. You may be his mentor, but you can’t control every emotion your student has. His reactions are normal. He is not the first student to react with shock, and then sadness and anger, when they realize just how serious the threat to the world is.”
“I just wish I had thought it through more,” Kristoff said. “I wish I had been more knowledgeable. More honest.”
“You didn’t know how bad it was for him,” Talia said. “In many places, in most, we do dispel the heat before it kills.”
“Don’t you care?” Kristoff said suddenly. “How can you be so calm?”
“Of course I care,” Talia said, her eyes flashing. “But I also trust my fellow Storm Lords to do their best, no matter what.”
Kristoff dropped his gaze. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“You came to me for advice, and this is what I suggest. Give Rowen time tonight to grieve. Let him be. Tomorrow, resume his lessons. Begin with sensing. Strong emotion can sometimes lend students aid when using magic, and you do still have that concern. Don’t let him be sent back by Lorana and Marin if he truly does have magic. As for his emotions, tell him you are available to talk about whatever he wishes, but don’t force him to if he doesn’t want to.”
Kristoff picked up his tea. “He couldn’t even if he wanted. That’s the problem.”
Talia sighed. “That is a difficulty I’ve never had to deal with, it’s true.”
Maybe he should have brought back a pit seed. But there was no guarantee anyone could cure Rowen even if he had.
“Thanks,” Kristoff said, standing up from the couch. “I’ll take your advice. I’ll leave Rowen alone tonight. Tomorrow… I’ll let him know I’ll listen. Or read.” Kristoff mentally hardened his resolve. “I’ll help teach him to write and let him know I think it’s important that he feel comfortable talking to me.”
“That is a good plan,” Talia said. “Though you may want to speak with someone who is qualified to teach.” She quirked a smile.
Kristoff hoped he hadn’t messed up too badly and driven Rowen away entirely. He wanted to be the one to teach him. It was selfish, he knew, but he liked Rowen, maybe more than a mentor liked a student. He could at least be honest with himself about that. There was no dark mystery about Rowen any longer, other than that he was a scared young man who needed help with more than just his magic. Kristoff wanted to be the one to give it to him. He owed him that.
The sky had darkened to a deep red when he left Talia’s, and he watched the trees sway in a cool night breeze as he walked down the path. He loved the Storm Lords’ island—he had seen hundreds of places, everything from a snow-covered village with huts of mud and sticks to the capital city of Pearlen with buildings that gleamed white with painted limestone. But nothing compared to the natural beauty of the island that had been his home since childhood. Growing up with his knowledge of the air currents, even the scent and feel of the wind here relaxed him.
He paused, his skin tingling. The wind felt different all of a sudden, like the onset of nausea that he hadn’t known was there but was intense as soon as he paid attention. The air changed rapidly, the wind stilling and the force of it pressing on the air and warping it, chasing away the normal pressure and expanding the atmosphere like an unwinding ribbon. His first inclination was that it was lightning, someone moving the air to strike down at ozone, but it kept expanding, the air pressure rising higher and higher.
He had read enough about weather phenomena to make guesses. It could be a downburst, or maybe even a heat burst, but those were remarkably rare and had never been documented on the island. He moved off the path, taking shelter beneath a tree, but no wind rustled its branches. The air was too still.
Kristoff stared up at the cloud-covered sky, but there were no answers. He waited, half expecting a rumble of thunder or a lightning strike. It could even be someone summoning a tornado, although he had never seen one before. Only one Storm Lord had ever been able to control one, and she was long dead, only a name in history books.
Nothing happened, and Kristoff frowned, heading back down the winding path before giving in to curiosity. He called up tendrils of air, which answered easily to his call. One, two, three and he was aloft, flying over the island, calling upon every sense he could. He had a mastery over low-pressure air and moisture, but there were no clues.
The island stretched out below him, and Kristoff remembered the first time he had flown. It was always an event the first time a Storm Lord trainee flew, and he had been embarrassed to learn later that Talia had warned several people about Kristoff’s power and that he might summon a strong storm by accident.
Could that be what he had sensed? But he didn’t remember anyone’s student learning to fly today.
The sun was descending behind the curve of the planet, and Kristoff landed in the courtyard by the Storm Building before it grew too dark, a rush of wind marking his descent. He stared up at the gray stone building, at ancient marks of tools where it had been carved. There were no stones like that on the island, he realized and wondered where they had come from.
He had been excited to become a Storm Lord, but ever since he had reveled in his power and done little else. He was the youngest Storm Lord, and if his experience with Rowen, and the strange weather he had just sensed, had taught him anything, it was that he still had a lot to learn.
He and Rowen could learn together—at least if Rowen would still accept him. Kristoff dreaded the morning.
Chapter 18
ROWEN DREAMED of home.
The heat coiled around him like a furry animal, its breath hot and sticky whenever Rowen breathed in. He could feel the pain from his burns on his skin again, the sun reflecting off the baked clay and burning him twice over.
“C’mon, Rowen,” his father called, a tall, shadowy shape ahead. “If we’re going to dig, we have to start now.”
“It’s hot, Father.” His voice was weak, barely a whisper. “I’m thirsty.”
“If you want water, you’d better start digging,” his father said with a laugh. Rowen had laughed like him once. His mother had always said they sounded similar.
Someone else laughed, and then he saw familiar faces. Alain, the village elder, pointed, and men and women all around grabbed him, forcing him down into the dirt. The sun hovered high overhead, heat sending rivulets of sweat down his shoulders.
And then it wasn’t sweat, but rain.
“Rowen,” Kristoff called. The heat changed, wavering into a man who hovered in front of him. Kristoff stood before him, naked except for his necklace, the stone glowing like an ember. “Rowen, come with me.”
Rowen reached out, his skin crackling with heat. His hand touched Kristoff’s, and the other man drew him into his arms, his body chasing away the boiling in Rowen’s blood. Rowen’s body brushed against his, and pleasure coiled with each touch.
Kristoff held him, nothing around the two men but the white and gray of clouds and a rainy sky. The rain chilled Rowen’s skin, but where he touched Kristoff, he was still warm. Images faded in a rush of pleasure as he moved against the Storm Lord, flying high above an emerald-green landmass that was the island. Kristoff spoke, but his voice was silent, like Rowen’s, his eyes the deep blue of the sky. His hands were all over Rowen, stroking and drawing lines of pleasure that were far more intense than the memories of what Volkes had done.
Rowen leaned forward, his body tight, and the sensation of Kristoff’s soft lips on his merged with the firm touch of Kristoff’s hands. Rowen throbbed, the dream shaking, and he shuddered.
Rowen blinked his eyes open to darkness, the only sound his voiceless panting breaths. He reached down, but it was too late; the dream had done the job for him.
He lay there for a while in the quiet dimness of his room, the only light a stripe of pale dawn sun that snuck in through an uneven slat in his window blinds.
He blamed Volkes. Volkes and the fact that since coming here he hadn’t had the time to think about such things, his body at first too battered and then his mind too full of things to learn.
Kristoff. He thought of the first time he had seen him, a specter with wind-whipped hair that had become all too real, and his mind fixated on when Kristoff had stripped down on that first island while Rowen had recovered. He didn’t know how to think about his dream, about the fact that he had just succumbed to pleasure his body wanted him to have while dreaming about Kristoff. Why not Volkes? He had already been with Volkes.
But Volkes wasn’t as friendly or as kind as Kristoff. He had reminded Rowen of Lucas, and shame crept over Rowen to think that he had been attracted to Volkes just because of that, especially when he was supposed to be starting over. Besides, Volkes had left him alone twice now and hadn’t offered help when Rowen needed it.
Kristoff had, before Rowen had run away. Perhaps Kristoff had lied or withheld information when they first met, but maybe he also hadn’t known how bad things had been. He was a Storm Lord, after all, and the more Rowen learned about them, the more he realized they didn’t know. And he had come out with the truth once he had seen how bad it had gotten.
And besides, Kristoff had saved his life. Rowen couldn’t ignore that, even if Kristoff did believe in sacrifice.
Rowen pushed the blankets off his body, wincing at the stickiness. He needed to clean, and then he wanted to study. He needed to write to Kristoff. He couldn’t put it off any longer. All of this had been caused by his inability to speak, and he was tired of it.
THE SKY outside the windows of the den was a pale gray like the sky in his dream, but instead of clouds it was just the light of dawn that had failed to cast the sky blue yet. Warm air blew in from outside, and Rowen stared down at the empty parchment, pen in hand.
Elise still slept, as did Sharon, and though he hadn’t seen him since the beach the night before, Rowen assumed Volkes did too. Elise and Sharon had wanted to talk to him when he came home the night before, but all he had wanted was to think and not have to deal with trying to figure out how to communicate.
Of course, Elise could probably help him with this, but he would rather do it alone. He tried to review writing lessons in his mind, the charcoal stick tight between his fingers. He could do this. He had to. It was like drawing, which he could do, but with words.
He began to write, and he was sure it was full of spelling mistakes, sloppy style, and poor grammar. But it grew easier as he did it. All the words he wanted to speak began to flow out of him, filling the blank parchment as the light outside the windows grew brighter.
It was painstaking work, and his hand began to cramp as he slowly formed the letters. He stared at it when it was done. The words looked nothing like the orderly writing he saw in books, or even the ones his teacher wrote, which flowed like water and were almost beautiful. But he smiled anyway. It felt good to get out even a small fraction of what he wanted to say. Maybe he really could carry around parchment and write out responses when people talked to him.
Excitement bubbled in his chest. He could communicate! He could really do this. No more lies, no more misunderstandings.
“Damn, it’s hot,” a familiar voice said. Rowen jumped. Volkes had come down the stairs and stared at him as he leaned against the wall to the living room. “What are you doing here?”
Rowen almost held up his letter, then decided against it. It was for Kristoff. Instead he shrugged.
“Practicing writing?” Volkes came closer, sneering at the paper on the table without really reading it. “You need to keep trying. Half those letters look backwards.”
Rowen flipped the paper upside down, his excitement fading. He shrugged again, then held up the charcoal stick, giving Volkes a sideways glance.
“What?”
I am trying, Rowen wrote on the back.
Volkes rolled his eyes. “Do you really expect people to wait for you to write that slow when they talk to you?”
Rowen frowned. Volkes had a way of making his accomplishments feel less satisfying, and he didn’t like it. He put the charcoal down.
“So are you feeling better this morning?” Volkes flopped next to him on the couch. Rowen shrugged, then nodded. The worst of the anger was gone, at least. He wanted to fix things now. And that meant talking to Kristoff. He moved the paper on the desk, hoping he had gotten his message across. He also hoped Volkes didn’t try to read it—it was private, between him and Kristoff. Thankfully the other man didn’t seem interested. He was staring at Rowen, a gleam in his eyes.
“Good. Men shouldn’t cry,” he said. “You’re going to be a Storm Lord one day. Probably one like me. Maybe I can show you some of my powers one day and teach you more abo
ut them. I’d be better than Kristoff, yeah?”
Rowen gave a careful nod. He wasn’t sure about the last part, but seeing Volkes’s powers would be interesting, and a good way to start learning more about what he could do, if Volkes was right.
“Good,” Volkes said again, and he put an arm around Rowen’s shoulders, one hand brushing his face. Goose bumps rose along Rowen’s neck. “I can teach you a lot of things that Kristoff wouldn’t.”
Rowen blinked, letting Volkes run his hand over his face and neck. It was obvious what Volkes wanted. “You don’t feel so hot anymore,” Volkes said, his voice husky.
Volkes might say so, but Rowen’s body grew warm under Volkes’s touch. He didn’t move, not certain what he wanted. He had dreamed of Kristoff, not Volkes. Volkes wasn’t Lucas. Volkes wasn’t even particularly friendly. Being with him that first time had certainly felt good, but….
Volkes leaned forward, tightening his hand against Rowen’s face and turning Rowen’s head. The force of it sent a spark of annoyance through Rowen. “Whatever stupid thing Kristoff did, I can help you forget it.” His breath was hot against Rowen’s neck. “Sharon and Elise are asleep, and I’m sure you’ll be quiet.” He smirked and put his hand on Rowen’s thigh, trailing his fingers higher.
Rowen took in a shuddering breath. His pants were growing confining, and he was annoyed at his own body for responding so quickly. Volkes grinned when he felt him, moving his hand with purpose and drawing a voiceless gasp from Rowen. Before Rowen could think, Volkes had straddled Rowen’s lap, putting both hands on either side of Rowen’s face and holding it in place. His weight pushed Rowen into the couch, sending a mixture of arousal and discomfort through his body that Rowen didn’t know how to interpret. Did he want this or not? Did he like Volkes or just want him?
The Storm Lords Page 12