We Are Blood and Thunder

by Kesia Lupo

  ‘Sir, I—’

  ‘Be quiet, or be removed!’ His face was full of warning.

  ‘Order!’ The slender young woman beside him, dressed in a luxurious blue silk gown, stood from her seat and called out, ‘Order in the Holy Council!’ The hubbub died slowly. Emris stood his ground, but Lena touched his arm, warning him off. She had to pass this test in order to be protected from Chatham. And to do that, she had to gain the Grand Master’s approval.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Lena asked of Auris.

  ‘You have proven that you have some control over your power … but it is still somewhat unusual.’ She eyed the globe filled with cloud, which was starting to thin as the power weakened and dissipated. ‘To be certain, I need to look inside you and discover the true nature of it,’ said Auris, lowering her voice. ‘If all is as it should be, you have nothing to fear. Come here, Lena. If you are untouched by Chaos, I shall know it quickly.’

  Lena looked at Emris. He met her gaze, nodded, but his eyes were tight with worry. She supposed she didn’t have much of a choice. She approached nervously as Auris raised her hand.

  ‘Relax,’ she said, gently touching Lena’s brow with her palm. A white glow sputtered to life in Lena’s vision, initially almost invisible in the sunlight spilling through the glass dome, but slowly, slowly growing in intensity. It was the brightness of a candle, of a lamp, of a fire burning merrily in the grate – now it was the strength of the bright North Star on a clear night, the crescent moon, the full moon, the first break of day. Then it was too bright, explosions of random colour forming in Lena’s brain. She tried to shut her eyes but found her eyelids pinned open as Auris stooped down to peer inside her soul, an owl face, searching and predatory, against the burning glow.

  ‘Here it is again,’ she heard Auris whisper. ‘There’s something there … deeper … some shadow lurking.’

  ‘Stop …’ Lena managed, tears running down her cheeks. But the probing sensation continued, light pouring into her brain like acid. Her discomfort turned rapidly to pain – the stinging in her eyes to a throb. A smell – like sulphur, or burning – filled her nose. She tried to call out, to pull away from the woman’s impassive face, the small puzzled frown on her brow. Searing agony tore through her mind, but her body refused to shift. She couldn’t even see either side of her; the rest of the Council had been swallowed into the light …

  … And she was back where she started. The passages beneath the castle were dark and twisted. Lena walked quickly, her breath loud in her ears. She was afraid. Someone was following her, their footsteps slow and deliberate but somehow gaining. She was holding the butterfly tightly in her hand. Her other hand trailed along the wall, keeping her steady.

  The storm cloud slunk at her feet like a cat, light flickering in and out like a tongue.

  Impossible. The storm cloud never sinks beneath the earth.

  And yet, here it was.

  In the flashes of lightning she spied the niches containing Ancestors along the narrow passage, the names carved beneath their bodies long obscured by dust and cobwebs. A rumble of thunder sounded in the silence.

  ‘What’s the point in running?’ A harsh, cruel voice. ‘It’s no use. I will have what belongs to me.’

  A flash of lightning came from behind, casting crazy shadows across the winding passage, and Lena started to run. ‘Vigo!’ she cried out, her voice breaking. ‘Vigo!’ But she’d forgotten – Vigo was dead: he couldn’t help her now. No one could.

  She didn’t recognise this part of the crypts. She was lost.

  Lena hurtled around a corner into a cavernous tomb where Ancestors were laid out on their sarcophagi, gem-eyes glittering. The storm cloud was thicker here, and she sank into it gratefully, enveloped by the thick, cloying vapour. A second rumble of thunder sounded in the darkness, the timbre of a groan. Impossibly, the steady footsteps grew yet closer – even though Lena had been running – and she ducked down behind a tomb, cupping the butterfly close to her chest.

  ‘You can’t hide from me,’ said the voice nearby.

  The footsteps were so close, she could hear the distinct footfall of heel-toe, heel-toe, the swish of robes against the dusty ground. She trembled, hugging her knees. She felt very small suddenly, like a child. She shut her eyes, but it made no difference: the storm cloud swirled behind her eyelids too.

  And that’s when she heard the other voice, a grumble of thunder separating into words.

  She who spins the cloud weaves the storm.

  Lena woke with her head cradled in Emris’s arm, lying on the floor of the Holy Council with bright light filtering through the glass and crystal dome far above. She was slick with sweat and her head felt like it was stuffed with wool. Her mouth was dry.

  ‘Lena, are you all right?’ Emris said.

  She nodded, raised a hand to her clammy forehead as the world spun. ‘I had the strangest dream.’ She sat up slowly, vaguely aware that the room had emptied out, the long white benches standing vacant. Emris offered her a tall glass of water and she drank deeply. The silence felt peaceful now, the light soft. ‘How long have I been out?’

  ‘About thirty minutes.’ Emris glanced over his shoulder. ‘She really shouldn’t have done that. It might’ve been much worse.’ The anger in his voice was unmistakeable, though whispered.

  The remnants of Lena’s dream were already melting from her body, tension leaking from her shoulders and neck, her fists slowly unclenching – the imprints of nails red and sore in her palm. What had happened? All she remembered was the butterfly in her hand and those curious words spoken in a voice of thunder: She who spins the cloud weaves the storm.

  What did it mean? And who or what had spoken?

  Emris offered her a hand and she rose unsteadily to her feet. She now saw that Grand Master Auris was standing, unapologetic, in front of the table. The seven other masters had left. The Grand Master spoke without preamble.

  ‘Your power is … unusual. There is no doubt it contains a kind of darkness, certain properties that indicate an association with forbidden magics,’ her voice was hard and cold. ‘And yet … after your successful accomplishment of the three tasks, and further discussion with the seven masters present, I can find no reason to deny you access to the temples,’ she said. The obvious reluctance in her voice gave the impression she had looked for every possible reason. ‘You are to begin in Faul, as a novice under the Third Huntsman’s supervision. In a year, you shall undergo this test and examination a second time.’

  The words were swimming around in Lena’s head. ‘You mean … I’m not a Rogue? I’ve … passed?’ She turned to Emris. ‘I did pass, didn’t I?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said gently. ‘But they’ve decided to let you stay and prove yourself.’

  Lena felt a surge of confusion and stared at the floor. She’d succeeded at the spells. She’d won in combat. How could she have done any better?

  She looked up at Grand Master Auris, who had already turned to leave. ‘Tell me, what exactly did you see inside me?’

  Auris’s eyes flashed. ‘That is not for you to ask.’

  ‘Please,’ Lena insisted. ‘I just need to know what’s wrong with me!’

  Auris trained her eyes on Emris. ‘Huntsman, get your novice under your control and leave. I will not be spoken to in this way.’

  ‘Come on, Lena,’ said Emris, leading her to the doors.

  Outside, she squinted against the sunlight, queasy and shaky and unable to believe what had happened.

  ‘It’s not so bad, Lena. Even as a novice, the temple will still afford you the legal protection you need,’ Emris said. ‘I know it’s not what we hoped for …’

  ‘It’s not that,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s the dream I had when I blacked out in there. When I woke up, I remembered a voice telling me something.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘“She who spins the cloud weaves the storm.”’

  ‘The storm?’ His voice was thoughtful.


  Together, they had started down the steps, but both of them hesitated now, close to the bottom. Something was wrong. The broad street in front of the Council was unusually empty and quiet, even though the market stalls were still set up, and the smell of roasted nuts and candied fruit sweetened the air. There was something else: a group of men emerging from the shadows of the stall directly opposite the Council entrance. The man at the front of the group was dressed from head to toe in white brocade, and was surrounded by eight or nine of the black-and-white uniformed guards of the palace.

  Lena’s stomach roiled and she started to stumble backwards towards the Holy Council. She tripped on the steps, landing hard on her tailbone. The man in white brocade was Lord Chatham, and he was approaching her with thunder in his face. He’s finally woken up, then, Lena thought, her heart pattering. Time to face the consequences.

  There was no sign of the injuries his mechanicals had inflicted upon him – but it looked as if he was determined to have his revenge.

  Suddenly Emris was at her side, hauling her to her feet. She watched his expression harden as he realised what was happening.

  Lena drew herself up tall.

  ‘Hand her over, huntsman,’ Lord Chatham demanded.

  Emris shook his head. ‘She is not mine to hand over.’

  ‘I’m not coming with you,’ Lena said, her hand circling the butterfly in her pocket, the weight of it lending her courage. Its wings fluttered at her touch.

  ‘This girl destroyed my property,’ Lord Chatham growled, continuing to address Emris. ‘Do you have any idea how much she has cost me? The King has authorised a warrant for her arrest.’ He held out a piece of paper stamped with a large red seal. ‘Hand her over.’

  The monochrome guards moved forward, surrounding the pair.

  ‘Lena is a novice of the temple of Faul. You will need to petition the Council,’ Emris said firmly, but the men didn’t seem to be listening, tightening the circle around them.

  ‘We should go,’ Lena said. She glanced up towards the Holy Council, but it was unlikely the few left inside were aware of what was happening on their doorstep.

  ‘Petition the Council? Me?’ Chatham’s voice was mocking. For the first time, Lena thought she saw a glimpse of black-rainbow glimmer flashing behind his grey eyes, and felt an instant chill. ‘First, my godsdamned apprentice runs off with the most precious item in my possession. Then this little thief refuses to sell me something that isn’t even hers to sell and sets a fortune’s worth of stock against me with her filthy Rogue magic, nearly killing me. I’ll have to destroy it all. Do you have any idea how expensive it’s going to be for me to replace that stock?’ His guards parted for him as he climbed the first few steps, then closed in tightly behind. ‘And you talk to me of petitions.’ Chatham opened his hands wide at his sides. The air crackled and with a sudden whoosh his palms were glowing and fizzing with a fierce, flickering electrical light, yellow sparks flying between his fingers. ‘I will have retribution.’

  ‘Get out of my way, Chatham, or I’ll really kill you this time,’ Lena said with false bravado. She dropped into a fighting stance, drawing on her power in the way she’d been taught, feeling it rush through her body but holding it steady beneath her skin. Her heart was hammering. By her side, Emris raised his own palms: the air around them warped, grey streams of light emanating from his body, ghostly as starlight.

  ‘Do you really presume to fight me?’ Chatham laughed. The bright, humming electricity surrounding his hands spread up his arms, around his shoulders and down his body, growing brighter.

  Lena gasped and staggered against Emris, the breath snatched from her by the force of Chatham’s power. She had to squint to look at him – but when she did, she caught an unmistakeable flash of rainbow-blackness. ‘Emris, his eyes!’

  ‘Chaos-infected,’ Emris said under his breath. ‘As I suspected.’

  ‘Chaos is the most powerful, purest form of magic,’ Chatham said, his voice weirdly distorted. ‘And I have mastered the art of bending it to my will. Shall I show you?’

  But it was Emris who attacked first, sending a punch of sleek grey light directly into Chatham’s stomach. The magician doubled over, scowled, retaliated with a zap of bright yellow electricity, but Emris cleverly twisted and deflected the attack with a corkscrew of air, hitting the guard behind Lena, who had been cautiously edging closer to the fight. He fell instantly, his face ashen – and the other guards hesitated. Chatham attacked a second time and Emris ducked. In a curve of his hand, he twisted the air near Chatham’s feet, his magic glowing a moonlight-silver. Chatham stumbled, but he didn’t fall: it wasn’t enough. His next attack hit Emris square in the chest, and he staggered back, obviously dazed, barely keeping his balance. He fell on one knee.

  ‘Emris!’ Lena shouted. The fight had passed in a matter of seconds and had drawn them further down the street. She hurried towards him, summoning a punch of cloud that knocked Chatham on the side of his head, then looped Emris’s arm around her shoulder. Supporting his weight, she started to climb back up the steps to the Holy Council, shouting ‘Help! Help!’ at the top of her lungs.

  But she was only halfway up when she felt Chatham’s burning magic close about her ankle, yanking her backwards. Her leg hit hard stone, her shin screaming. Emris fell at her side. Chatham twisted his hand and turned her over, grabbing her and pressing her down. His fingers were tight and cold around her arms, and a step dug into the nape of her spine. The serpent flashed into her mind, the dark, icy chips of its eyes watching her die. Chatham’s handsome face had grown ugly, twisted in rage.

  She gasped for breath but found only heat and light. She tried to move, but Chatham’s magic surrounded her, trapped her. Her skin was burning in the bright, hissing yellow that encased her like a tomb.

  ‘Now I will show you what power really means,’ he whispered.

  A film had covered his eyes, a black iridescence, and he was smiling, a curious calmness passing over his features.

  She reached inside herself in desperation, searching for an answer within her magic.

  She found … something. Something she had sensed before, even used before, but never truly grasped. A curl of darkness in the cold fire that crackled deep within, pulsing with power … A kind of heart, she thought. She tugged on it, wildly praying for a miracle.

  Lena gasped. She was in two places now. She was outside the Holy Council on a bright winter day, staring into Lord Chatham’s Chaos-infected eyes, and she was in Duke’s Forest in her mind, and the three dead were sleeping in the glade outside the city walls.

  The real world was fading – the sunlight and the cold, hard hands at her throat. She felt an urgent tug in the place beneath her chest, a struggle, like something trying to escape. In the forest, the huntsman’s arrow bound her palms in prayer, leashing her power. The huntsman lingered in the shadows. In a moment of clarity, she knew what she had to do. She ripped her hands apart, screaming as pain coursed through her like thunder, and her blood and her storm were unleashed. She pressed her hands into the sky. And with her scream, the power rose from deep inside, enveloping her completely. The world returned.

  She clenched her fists. Storm clouds spun from her fingers, from her mouth, rumbled over the glassy dome of the Council. Chatham staggered back, his face suddenly changed by confusion. She wove the clouds into the sky, sensing a familiar, cold electric fire fill her body – and now spill out of it. Lena felt the first spots of rain on her gasping lips. And then came the lightning.

  Strike him, she thought, and the storm was at her command. A huge bolt of lightning streaked through the air, reflected wildly in the darkened glass of the Holy Council.

  Chatham fell, and Lena heard his screams and smelt burning flesh. The butterfly had escaped from her pocket and was fluttering round her head, round and round, as if excited by the power.

  Her ears were ringing and her eyes were staring. Under the clouds, it had grown dark. Her hands were wet and hot, her throat s
ore, the smell of acrid smoke filled her nose. It was pouring with rain now. Someone was tugging her and she stumbled up, the steps appearing to fall from beneath her. ‘Lena, come with me. We have to run.’

  The world righted itself and she allowed Emris to pull her away. His face was drained of blood but full of determination. She glanced behind her. Chatham lay on the ground, pale. His clothes were burned, his hair singed. Blood – shockingly red against his silver-pale skin – was running from his nose.

  Struck by lightning.

  The guards were hurrying for help. Shocked onlookers had gathered behind the glass walls of the Council. A couple of girls were screaming in the street. Others gazed up at the sky, roiling with clouds.

  ‘Lena, listen to me.’ Emris grabbed her face, forced her to meet his eyes. ‘Once they understand what’s happened, they’re going to say you’re a Radical and a murderer and they’re going to kill you. You need to run.’

  Murderer? Lena gazed up at the sky, let the rain trickle down her cheeks. The butterfly settled in her hair, calmer now. ‘I’ve killed two people,’ she whispered.

  But Emris just pulled her hand. ‘Come on!’

  And finally, with a jolt, she understood. They barrelled down the steps together. The few white-faced guards who stood in their way toppled like tin soldiers as Emris made a sweeping gesture with his hand, the air churning under their feet.

  Together, they rounded the back of the Holy Council, passing the small alleyway into Faul’s temple. She remembered running through Duke’s Forest, the dogs howling for her blood, and felt wordlessly grateful for the touch of Emris’s hand in her own. Now she could hear people following, shouts in the distance, hoof beats.

  ‘This way!’ Emris said, pulling her around a corner. They pelted down the narrow street, quickly turned left and then right. Left again, right again. The streets were quieter, poorer, residential. Fat drops of rain were falling, heavy and hot as tears of rage, roaring on the cobblestones. They carried on down a straight road for a minute or so, the sounds of pursuit growing louder, and Emris pulled her into a side alley so tiny it was nearly invisible. The streets were slick and shiny in the semi-light. At the end of the alley, a tall wooden gate – Emris vaulted over, Lena climbed. He helped her down the other side, into a back garden, her hands stinging with splinters. A pair of hoof beats passed by on the street beyond the alley.