“Just keep going,” the Storm Lord urged. “Keep imagining it, but keep your eyes open. Try to sense the air and imagine things at the same time.”
Rowen took a breath, wishing he could ask how. Keeping his mind in two places, both here and in his memories of home, seemed impossible. Home was a dream, or a nightmare if he thought of his parents’ death, and the island, full of cold rain and swaying palm trees, was his future.
“Another way to do it is to imagine how the refreshing air in your mind would affect things here,” Franken said. “When a Storm Lord wants to break a heat spell that is what they do, after all. They bring in cooler air, and it all begins, at heart, when they want to bring it toward themselves. So try that, Rowen. Imagine that discomfort, but a cool, refreshing breeze blows it away.”
Rowen blinked. “Keep your eyes open,” Franken said. “Focus on yourself and the island too. The island is a part of you—you’re breathing its air, aren’t you? Focus on that. That’s the connection.”
Rowen let out another breath, imagining dust swirling in a sunbeam. Rain drummed against his skin, and it was hard to focus when the pinpricks of cold kept pelting him.
He paused for a moment, then breathed in, obeying Franken’s command to bring in comfort toward himself. He thought first of Volkes, of the pushy northerner’s touch and how the northern man’s voice had sounded when he had commanded the village to tie Rowen up. Then he thought of his salvation, of warm air rushing in and bringing in Kristoff’s storm, the wind whipping through and shoving away anyone and anything that would hurt him. As he breathed in further, he imagined the rush of the rain and the cold wind stilling, nothing but motionless warmth remaining behind, a normal sunny day at home after a rainstorm, when the water jugs were full, the mud had dried, and life always seemed easiest.
His chest expanded, his stomach tight with the held breath. He kept his eyes open, and he could have sworn he felt a damp heat gather on his skin. In the distance, his breath stirred something, a mass of heat and high pressure, and it lurched toward him like a heavy heartbeat. Certainty filled him. He could do this!
His gaze flicked to Franken, and then the warmth vanished, his body cold with dread.
“Rowen,” Franken said, his eyes wide and the skin around his mouth white. “What did you do?”
Rowen’s brows drew down, and he fought the urge to run from Franken’s stare. The rain had stopped.
Chapter 27
KRISTOFF PAID the room fee that morning, eating a cold breakfast alone by a dusty hearth. The storm had blown itself out, though every so often the wind howled through the chimney, making his ears pop. Few others were awake, and when the sky outside the windows turned from rose to white, he got up to leave.
“Will you be back?” a man by the door asked, tilting his head. “Early to leave. Work?”
“Something like,” Kristoff said. “I won’t be back. Still traveling on.”
“Strange accent,” the man said. “Pearlen?”
Kristoff quirked a smile. Once, as a child. He wondered if any traces of the lilting Pearlen accent still made their way into his speech. “Originally, yes.”
“Good luck. Be careful—the weather’s been unpredictable.”
“Thanks. Good day.” Kristoff waved, heading outside into a humid, chilly morning. Dew clung to the sides of the buildings, and the mountains in the distance were ringed with fog. It was odd to think the city had, just yesterday, been smack in the middle of a dry, hot mass of air.
Kristoff loved his power. He hoped Rowen would learn to love his too, whatever form it took.
He walked a mile outside the city gates, the cobblestone road stretching into the distance, before turning off into the trees. Within minutes he was flying again on the wings of a thunderstorm, something anyone in the city would simply assume was the last dregs of the storm from the day before. His work was done. It was time to get back to Rowen.
The flight was relaxing, but he kept his senses alert as he approached the island. The sight of the emerald trees and golden coasts sent a warm familiarity through him. Whenever he stayed in another country, whether it was the civilized technology of Pearlen, the hospitality of Linland, or even the cozy tents of the northerners, he always felt like an outsider. Lessons on etiquette were given to Storm Lords late in their schooling, the basics of how to present oneself in different cultures and how to dodge any questions that would reveal what they could do. Some Storm Lords loved the chance to explore and see how different people lived. That had never been Kristoff’s goal. But on the island, he didn’t need to worry. It was home.
He landed by the governor’s building, a breeze and spattering of rainwater marking his arrival. Lissa greeted him at the door but didn’t return his smile as he walked inside.
“What’s wrong?” The sense of accomplishment and relaxation began to fade, his shoulders tensing at the look on Lissa’s face.
“You’d better talk to the governor,” she said, gesturing for him to keep walking. “It’s Rowen.”
“What happened?”
She urged him on again. “I don’t know.”
Damn. A thousand questions went through his mind, along with a thousand scenarios. Rowen had lost control of his power and hurt someone. Rowen was hurt. Volkes had done something to Rowen. Rowen had violated some form of etiquette.
His steps quickened, sending a staccato across the stone floor of the building. Whatever it was, as long as Rowen was safe, he could deal with it. He was Rowen’s mentor, after all.
The door was ajar, and Kristoff entered without knocking. Lorana looked up from a sheaf of papers. The record keeper was by her side, along with Marin, who sat in a chair across from the desk, a records book open on her lap.
“Kristoff.” Lorana wasted no time. “Tell me everything you know about Rowen’s abilities, as far as you’ve sensed them.”
“Where is he?”
That was the wrong thing to say. “Answer the question,” Lorana snapped.
Kristoff grit his teeth, mind racing. “I haven’t yet figured out what his specialty is,” Kristoff said. “But I was almost certain it was lightning. The way he described what he sensed indicated that he was drawn to unsettled air, probably indicating he was aware of ozone or perhaps the electric—”
“It’s heat he’s drawn to,” Marin broke in, her eyes not leaving the book in her lap. “Not unsettled air.”
Kristoff blinked. “What do you mean?”
“She means,” Lorana broke in, “that the potential Storm Lord you brought us is a danger to himself and to everyone on the island. He doesn’t pull in cold air, or lightning, or anything that can be used to make a storm. He pulls in heat spells, Kristoff!” She slammed her hand on the desk, the jar of ink rattling and threatening to spill.
A clock ticked somewhere in the room, and the records keeper wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Th-that’s impossible,” Kristoff managed. “Where is he? Let me—”
“Found it,” Marin said, and Lorana jerked her head to read over Marin’s shoulder. “It was two hundred years ago. A Darsean woman was thrown off her ship.” Marin pursed her lips. “She was cursed to cause heat whenever she grew angry. She couldn’t control it. That’s all it says.”
Kristoff’s blood ran cold. “Storm Lords can’t control heat spells. It’s impossible.”
“No, they can’t control them.” The records keeper met his eyes. “But someone having the ability to call them isn’t impossible.”
“And it’s the lack of control that’s the problem,” Lorana said. She rubbed her temples. “Such individuals are dangerous.”
“Demons are like Storm Gods, but they bring air like flame,” Marin said, her gaze flicking over the words as she read. “These are northern legends. Only a few occasions I can find. All were sacrificed young.”
Kristoff’s mind whirled. It was like he had walked into a nightmare, people discussing things he had never thought possible, had never suspected. Talk of ancient histories, legends…. “Row
en isn’t a demon,” he said. “And he doesn’t call heat spells!”
Even as he said it, uncertainty wormed its way into his gut. The arrows on the sand, pointing the wrong way. Rowen’s written description of the warmth. The first thing he had sensed when he had Rowen try to use his power, that brief flash of heat that he had chalked up to lightning. Volkes’s anger and his claim that Rowen had burned him.
Dread rooted Kristoff’s feet to the floor.
“You should never have been his mentor, Kristoff,” Lorana said. “You were too young. It’s not your fault. You didn’t even know such a thing was possible.”
“It… it can’t be,” Kristoff said. The burning of the sconces on the walls hurt his eyes, the light too bright, and he realized it was just his heart pounding, narrowing his focus. “I don’t understand.”
“We cannot be certain. But considering what Franken said, Rowen is a danger, Kristoff,” Marin said, her voice softer than Lorana’s. “He cannot be trained and risk strengthening his abilities. He can only be monitored, at best. At worst….”
The unspoken words said volumes. Kristoff’s tongue went thick in his mouth, his throat tight. This was a nightmare. It had to be.
“I will test him and monitor him if it turns out to be true,” Marin said. “He cannot be allowed to roam the island or ever leave it. If he grows upset, we can manage the heat spells here.”
“The alternative is easier,” Lorana said. Kristoff turned big eyes on her. “Just put him down. We were already going to send him back if he wasn’t a Storm Lord, and we can’t endanger anyone else. The last thing we need is to spend dwindling resources managing him.”
“No!” Kristoff shouted. “You can’t….” He looked back and forth between them, and to the records keeper, who didn’t meet his eyes. “You can’t. You can’t just… kill him.” The words hurt to say. “What proof do you have?” The shock began to wear off. “How do you know he can call heat spells? How do you know he has to be watched? How do you know he can’t learn to control it?”
“What purpose would controlling heat spells serve, Kristoff?” Lorana said, eyes flashing. “You want him to practice that power, to risk strengthening the intensity of the heat spells he calls? The heat spells are bad enough as it is. How do you know his burgeoning powers aren’t what nearly destroyed his village? Do you want that to happen here?”
The words bit, fear and horror for Rowen strangling him. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be true. “This must have happened before,” Kristoff said. “He can simply live as a citizen.”
“Northerners sacrifice those they suspect of bringing heat spells,” Marin said. “The Darseans allowed one to live until twenty-nine years of age before doing the same. There’s never been a person in two hundred years, since that time. The power is rare, Kristoff, unspeakably rare, and there is no way to predict what will happen or what Rowen will be able to do, intentionally or not.”
“The risk is enormous,” Lorana said. “And not one I will allow.”
The room balanced on a knife’s edge. “Where is he?” Kristoff said. “What have you done to him?”
“Nothing yet,” Lorana said, letting out a breath, as though she had wanted to take care of things already. “You think I’d risk upsetting him? He is at the house. Franken, who realized what he can do, is watching him. He hasn’t been told of our suspicions, not until Marin tests him.”
Some of the dread left him. Rowen was all right. Nothing had been decided, not yet. “Franken could be wrong,” he said, silently cursing his decision to let anyone else train Rowen. “You’re going by the observations of one middling Storm Lord who can barely call a typhoon?” It was petty, but he didn’t care.
Lorana’s eyes narrowed. “Marin sensed Rowen’s power too,” she snapped. “When Franken came to report it, she had already come to me.”
“So we teach him to call something else,” Kristoff said. “We teach him to ignore what he’s drawn to and focus on cold fronts and storms.”
“And teach a fish to fly?” Marin said. “You’ve never mentored anyone before, Kristoff. Could you work with air you can’t sense? If I asked you to call a heat spell, could you do it?”
“We barely know what he can do!” Kristoff shouted. “We can’t decide anything based on one instance of what you think was Rowen calling heat!”
“Marin is the oldest and most adept weather senser on the island,” Lorana said. “And Franken, while ‘middling,’ has a decade of experience on you. I trust them both more than I trust a barely fledged Storm Lord who has never mentored before.”
Kristoff grit his teeth. Getting angry and lashing out wasn’t helping his case. “Please,” he said. “We can’t make any rash decisions. Rowen is a good man. He’s gone through hardship. Let me… let me keep working with him. I can teach him to ignore heat spells or to… to send them away. Maybe this is an opportunity.”
Marin gave the slightest shake of her head. “If Storm Lords could send storms wherever they wanted, they wouldn’t need to go to the location of heat spells to dispel them, Kristoff,” she said. It was stated like talking to a child.
“Well, Rowen is apparently not a Storm Lord,” Kristoff said. Admitting the possibility hurt, and he kept talking, lessening the sting. “But we have to be sure, right? Give him time. Give me time. Have him sense again or call something. I just can’t… I refuse to believe that this is possible. I need to see it for myself, and we can figure out… if it’s bad, we can figure out how bad it is.” He just needed time. He wanted, needed, to talk to Rowen. “Let me test him with you, Marin.”
Lorana stared at him, then finally nodded, hope shooting through Kristoff’s chest. “Very well. You will be present when Rowen is allowed to call again, and we can firmly establish what he is doing. You, Kristoff, will be there in case anything goes wrong. And if he is one who calls heat spells….”
Kristoff couldn’t imagine it. “We decide then,” he demanded. “With Rowen there.”
Rowen couldn’t talk. Rowen needed someone to defend him, and Kristoff would be that person. Even if it was just for now, Kristoff was still his mentor, and he would fight to keep it that way.
Chapter 28
ROWEN SAT alone, heart pounding. Franken sat across the living room, the older man’s gaze a constant prickle on Rowen’s shoulders. Outside the windows, the leaves rustled in steady gusts of wind as the deep rose of dawn lightened.
Rowen hadn’t been able to sleep well, Franken’s words and expression fresh in his mind.
“What did you do?”
The villagers had said the same thing when they found him alive after finding his parents. What did you do? As if Rowen had done anything, could have done anything.
But Franken’s words afterward had made it worse, had made everything worse. “Stop, Rowen,” he had demanded. “Never do that again.” He had put his hand up, his hand shaking and his eyes wide, staring at Rowen with fear Rowen didn’t understand. “That’s not what Storm Lords do.”
Rowen couldn’t ask for an explanation, had put his hands up, imploring. He wished he had something to write with, but even if he did, it would be too slow.
“Go back to the house, Rowen,” Franken had said. “I need to talk to Lorana. I’ll come get you in the morning. Don’t use your magic. Don’t talk to anyone.”
As if he could.
Rowen reviewed what he had done in his mind, trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong. He had used magic successfully; he knew that. Franken had said he gathered it. Then he had sensed something far in the distance, a heat like the spell that had existed here, and had called the air toward him.
Had he done it wrong? Calling air toward yourself… that was what Storm Lords did, wasn’t it? How could he have messed up so badly? What had he done?
Blocky letters on the papers in front of him spelled out the question. What did I do? But Franken hadn’t answered. He said only to wait for Kristoff.
Rowen hated this. He wanted to pace, but
every time he moved Franken jumped, as though Rowen were going to attack him. He wished Elise were here, or Sharon, or even Volkes. Volkes wouldn’t let anyone push him around like this.
But Franken had sent them away too. Rowen hadn’t heard what he said, but the fact that they weren’t here after he had talked to them said more than anything he could have overheard.
Rowen blinked back a threatening heat behind his eyes. The letters he had written, in a scrawl he knew was worse than some of the young children in his class, hammered at him. What did I do?
What did you do? The voices of the villagers echoed in his mind. His stomach turned over, fear chasing away his appetite even though he hadn’t eaten anything that day yet. He had messed up—he knew that—but how?
A knock at the door made him and Franken both jump. The older man locked eyes with Rowen for a moment, his gaze hooded like the gaze of the man who had offered the villagers the rope, and then he opened the door.
“Rowen.” Kristoff’s presence was like the first sighting of water when digging a well. “Don’t worry, Rowen, it’s going to be all right.”
Rowen grabbed the paper, holding it up for Kristoff to see as the Storm Lord entered the room. Kristoff frowned immediately, and at least Rowen knew Kristoff could read his bad writing.
“Rowen, don’t worry. You didn’t do anything,” Kristoff repeated, taking a deep breath. “The governor and Marin, the primary storm senser on the island… they think your powers are… unusual.” Kristoff dropped his gaze, and the creeping dread began to return. “They want me to give you a test. That’s all.”
Rowen paused, uncertainty paralyzing him. He had to write, to ask. He turned, reaching for the pen and leaning over the table on the floor, beginning to shape the letters.
Two more people entered the room as he did, one of them the steely-eyed governor Rowen remembered. The other was the same woman with dark, wrinkled skin, her hair white with age.
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