Rise of the Storm

by Carrie Summers

  Havialo threw his awareness wide in a last cast. Finally, he sensed the light breeze flowing through the valley. Overhead, weak sunlight cut through the mountain chill. A few trickles of water sprung from clefts at the bases of cliffs. None of these sources had enough potential for Havialo to use against three masters. No matter which he gathered, the other mages would sense more wellsprings, enough to overpower him. Unless… Havialo sucked in a breath as the idea came to him. Unless he used something they’d never consider.

  The building with its high ceiling was a cathedral built to honor the mountains. Built in accordance with, as the masters took such pride in saying, the natural shape of power. By designing the structure to mimic the natural world, they’d trapped nature’s power within it. But where a mountain ridgeline was propped up by leagues of solid stone, the ceiling here hung over open space. Tons of stone, suspended in the air, balanced only by tricks of human ingenuity. Not natural, but natural enough.

  “I understand it’s abhorrent,” Havialo said as he edged around the man who’d threatened him. He fixed his awareness on the keystone supporting the high ceiling, then hesitated. He’d give the masters one last chance. “I feel it, too. But Cosmali have lived alongside the Maelstrom for centuries with no ill effects, and the taint is pervasive there. I only thought—how could the corruption be worse than the way the Empire treads mercilessly over the Provinces. Perhaps in darkness, we might create light.”

  The woman’s lip twitched in disgust as she carried the dagger to Falewill. “This is no passive corruption. No lurking rot. You are a fool to think so.”

  Havialo sighed. Apparently, they wouldn’t be convinced. As the tall male mage turned to advance again, Havialo trickled power from his well, formed it into a noose he could use to collar the keystone’s potential. The effort required a measure of inventiveness to conform his gnosty to the nature of the structure, but soon enough, he had the stone in his mental grip.

  With a wheezy sigh, Falewill spoke. “Please restrain him, Cozensial.”

  The male mage sprang. Havialo might not have survived an alley brawl with a thug, but the other mage had even less experience. Havialo ducked the clumsy attempt to capture him, and as he did, he yanked on the keystone. For a heartbeat, nothing happened, and then the single stone tumbled free. It whistled as it dropped the height of ten men, cracking and shattering when it impacted the stone floor.

  A single sunbeam fell through the opening, momentarily illuminating the dust that began to filter from cracks and crevices in the ceiling. A heartbeat, and then the high buttresses and complicated spires gave way together, collapsing with a roar that sent raw energy flooding into Havialo’s body. He’d been ready for the collapse, whipping out tendrils of gnosty to capture its force. Though an earth mage couldn’t sense another’s conjuring, he imagined the masters scrambling for power, clutching desperately at the crumbling ceiling only to find it already harnessed. He envisioned their secondary grab for the sun’s light, the gentle breeze flowing from the icy crests, the quiet simmer of potential in a gathering raincloud.

  Too late. As the stones plummeted, Havialo funneled them straight for the masters while landing a score or so in a neatly-stacked wall to defend against the fist-fighting mage’s awkward attempt at a tackle. The first stones struck bodies with thumps and thuds. But soon enough, the masters fell beneath their growing burial cairns. Thumps became a clatter, and then finally, silence.

  Dusting his clothing off, Havialo squinted up at the midday sun. A late start for a day’s journey, but not too late. He could likely make the foot of the valley before nightfall. In the wider river valley below, a sparsely traveled track ran past scattered outposts and Prov villages. If he left soon, he should have little trouble finding shelter for the night.

  Casting a smirk at the closest pile of burial stones—at the base, it was three times as wide as a man was tall, and the peak towered over Havialo’s head—he stepped gingerly around it to reach the nexus of regeneration. Standing over it, he stretched his unbroken arm and yawned as his font once again filled to brimming. He hadn’t had breakfast, which was a shame, but his body could handle another half-day of deprivation, which is what he estimated it would take to reach the nearest trading post.

  Through a gap where part of the wall had fallen along with the ceiling, Havialo glimpsed a figure running from a nearby building. The girl cupped hands around her mouth and yelled an alarm.

  Right. He couldn’t exactly walk out of here. The other geognosts would demand an explanation. A few minutes ago, Havialo might have believed the others were redeemable. But after seeing the reaction of the masters to his talk of using the Breaking, he had no more desire to try to convince these people. It had been their choice to follow such misguided leaders. And it was now their choice to die.

  Standing upon the nexus, he first yanked down the remainder of the walls surrounding him then cast his gnosty toward the other buildings. Like the masters’ cathedral, they’d been constructed to mimic nature. The keystones were just as vulnerable to his power. To amuse himself, he pointed at the structures one at a time while he pulled them down on their inhabitants. As the monastery crumbled around them, apprentices and mages screamed and ran like earwigs fleeing the light. Havialo flung falling stones at those who escaped the collapses. If the first strike failed to fell them, he simply threw more. There was no shortage.

  Finally, there was nothing left of the geognosts’ monastery but a few scattered walls and a cloud of dust hanging in the air. With a sigh, Havialo pulled a swatch of linen from his pocket and mopped his brow. When his font was once again brimming, he slipped out the remnants of the doorway and started down the trail.

  A shame things didn’t go well, but hadn’t he just been worrying about how soft he’d gotten?

  Chapter Eleven

  Kostan

  Argent Tower, Hall of Mages, Steelhold

  ARGENTMASTER YEVINISH, HEAD of the Order of Argents, stood before me in the full regalia of his office. Prior to this meeting, he’d made me wait in the lowest level in the Argent Tower for at least half an hour. Perhaps he’d donned the layers of robes and bangles of Maelstrom-silver then. If I questioned him, he might even try to excuse the delay as a show of respect; no mere servant dared appear in front of his sovereign wearing everyday garb. It didn’t matter. I was ready to let the insult go. As Lyrille had suggested, I needed to choose a side—for now. And since the Provs were threatening to murder my best friend, the choice wasn’t a difficult one. I would use the support of the Atal to gain control of the Empire. Then, I’d hold the Provs in an iron grip while I shoved my reforms in their faces.

  But for the Atal to bow beneath my authority—and before I marched on the city this evening to snatch Vaness from Prov clutches—I needed to exert absolute control over my own palace grounds. Starting with the argents and ferros, the mage orders who had sided against my Ascension.

  The argentmaster’s receiving chamber was as gaudily appointed as his body, dripping with crystal, brocade draperies, and boasting enough Maelstrom-silver to plaster a commoner’s bedchamber. The metal gleamed from all corners, in silver candle holders placed on polished tabletops, silver clasps holding curtains open to admit beams of the late-afternoon sun. The outer wall had a curving silver-wrought table set against the smooth blocks of marble, and upon it, a map stood on a silver stand, the parchment pinned open and showing the Cosmal Peninsula where it thrust into the Stornisk Maelstrom. The jut of land was the source of argent power—of all metalogy. No wonder the argentmaster seemed to revere it.

  “About what did you wish to speak, your eminence?” the argentmaster asked, gesturing to a deep-cushioned armchair.

  I chose to stand. “I came to discern the specifics of your former arrangement with the Ministry. What did they offer you that convinced you to betray your Emperor?”

  Argentmaster Yevinish’s eyes widened in shock then took on a calculating shine. He was considering using his argent powers
against me, I had no doubt. I waited for the inevitable thrust of his power against my mind. With the black-iron trinket Azar had forced on me, he wouldn’t be able to penetrate my thoughts. But I would feel his attempt.

  It came moments later, a sharp stab against the ferro-made shield. Azar had recently given me a primer on ferro secrets. Ferro mages held power over the spirits of the dead, and among their other abilities, they used black iron to harness a spirit’s energy and twist it into useful enchantments. Or so she claimed. I didn’t understand how that allowed ferro mages to create trinkets which prevented other metalogists from affecting the wearer. Azar had been decidedly closed-lipped on the details. All I knew was that Ilishian himself had crafted the pin I now wore stuck through my collar.

  I twitched my lips in a smile that told the argentmaster I’d felt his attempt.

  “Allow me to restate myself,” I said. “It would serve your interests to give me the details of your arrangement with the Ministry.”

  “Why?” Argentmaster Yevinish asked.

  “Does your Emperor need a reason to request information from his subjects?”

  “I—No, your eminence.”

  “Then you don’t wish to waste my time by forcing me to ask again.”

  The argentmaster’s lips pursed in offended disgust. Turning his back on me, he stalked to a chair and dropped to a seat. He held my stare for a few long breaths.

  “The desire of any metalogist, whether apprentice or master, is to further knowledge, skill, and power,” he said. “The first two depend on time, teaching, and a measure of innate ability. The final pillar requires a resource we can’t obtain on our own.”

  “The ministers offered you more Maelstrom-silver,” I said.

  “Emperor Tovmeil felt that metalogy was inherently flawed because of our dependence on the metals. He worried about what would happen if we lost control of Cosmal Province, and was even considering approaching the geognosts to strengthen the throne. Naturally, we felt threatened by this.”

  “How much did they offer you?” I asked.

  “The ministers promised they would increase the Cosmali quotas by fifty percent.”

  “Black iron, too? Or did the ferros have a different arrangement?”

  The argentmaster shrugged. “I didn’t ask or care. My concerns lie with my order.”

  “And did the Ministry explain how they would extract more from the Cosmali Provs? By my understanding, the quotas are already set to strain the population’s abilities without breaking their spirits entirely.”

  “Again,” the argentmaster said, “it wasn’t my concern. I assumed the Ministry understood they’d never hold a throne taken by violence without the support of the metalogists. They had plenty of incentive to satisfy our bargain.”

  “I can’t offer you a fifty percent increase,” I said.

  The man traced a circle on the tabletop while he knit his brow in mock confusion. “I’m a bit confused why you believe we need to bargain at all. If you recall, I vowed my allegiance on the night of your Ascension.”

  “Under threat of repercussions. And speaking a vow is quite different than honoring it. I need your true loyalty in the days ahead.”

  The man smirked. “Yet you just admitted you can’t offer what others did. If you truly believe a bargain will secure my allegiance, why admit your weakness?”

  “Because the Provs are on the brink of open revolt. If we don’t work together to smash their nascent rebellion, the shipments of Maelstrom-silver will stop entirely. I’m not saying we won’t increase the quotas in the future. All I’m asking now is that you join with me to secure what we already have.”

  After a moment, the man’s expression softened. He nodded. “Your argument makes sense. I underestimated you in the early weeks of your reign. The argents will help you keep a grasp on your throne and the Provs. But I reserve the right to renegotiate our arrangement in the future.”

  By which point I hoped to learn more from Azar about how I might neutralize the metalogists entirely. I didn’t like the powers they wielded, and I especially didn’t like the avidness that came into their eyes when their Maelstrom-metal was mentioned in conversation. Falla’s words about the corruption that infected their magic still echoed in my memory.

  But for now, I needed the mages.

  “Then with our shared goal in mind, I have an initial request. It regards the remaining ministers,” I said. “I’d like you to devise an enchantment similar to that which binds the protectors’ loyalty. Within the next few days, I need all seven of Tovmeil’s ministers bound by an irresistible urge to strengthen my power.”

  “It may be difficult,” he said. “The protectors enter into the oath willingly, even if they don’t understand how it is enforced.”

  “I’m sure a man of your talents can devise a solution,” I said.

  The argentmaster laid one hand over the other. “As you say, your eminence.”

  ***

  “You won’t reconsider?” the Prime Protector asked as she gave the order to open the Sun Gate. “You’d be safer here—or perhaps we could at least secure a path first.”

  I shook my head. My meeting with Argentmaster Yevinish had been a necessary delay; I needed to be certain that the most powerful men and women in Steelhold were loyal before I left the walls. The ferros would follow the argents’ lead. It was good enough for now.

  I would not sit on my high throne and trust others to rescue Vaness. The sun hung just a few fingers above the western horizon, reddening the grasslands and the half-ruined city sprawled beneath us. About an hour after the message had arrived with word of Vaness’s capture, a second hawk had been sent from a public courier post. The handwriting on the parchment strip had been shaky and the words misspelled, no surprise given the Empire’s disinterest in educating the Prov population. But the message had been clear. At nightfall, Vaness would die unless I took her place.

  The Prov rebels did not expect me to comply—they only wished to make me feel responsible for her death. But I doubted they expected me to descend from Steelhold and march through the city to the Splits, either. I would bring the full force of the throne down on anyone who dared resist me as I cut the shackles binding Vaness to that post. And I would give no mercy to any dissident standing in my way.

  Three dozen protectors led the procession down the ascent trail and another dozen massed at the gate in preparation to take up the rear. Flitting around the clustered soldiers, seven high-ranking aurum mages walked with impossibly light steps, their motions precise as dagger strikes. The aurums gazed over the city as they waited, no doubt examining details that were invisible to ordinary humans. Rings of Maelstrom-gold crusted their fingers and dangled from their earlobes while gold bracers glinted beneath sleeves. Alone, just one of the aurum mages could defeat a score of trained fighters. Every Atal child heard stories of their ability to weaken an adversary’s body before striking with the speed of a viper and the strength of a landslide. Not since the Aniselan Uprising a century past had the aurums marched from Steelhold. Instead, they’d devoted themselves to healing and deeper investigations into the mysteries of the body. But now they descended on defenseless Provs.

  At the thought, a wave of lightheadedness struck me. How had it come to this? In the space of weeks, I had become everything I’d loathed in my predecessors.

  Or maybe not. I couldn’t let myself think that way. The protectors and aurums were under strict orders to strike only if a Prov initiated the violence. The escort was for safety, nothing more. As long as we recovered Vaness without incident, no one would be hurt.

  “Your eminence?” the Prime Protector asked.

  “Yes?” I returned, shaking free from my thoughts.

  She gestured at the trail ahead. The procession had moved off without me, leaving at least a hundred paces of empty trail. I nodded, stepping out without explanation. A day ago, I might have apologized or made excuses for getting distracted. But that wasn’t
how an emperor behaved.

  As we descended, the smells of crowded places slowly melted into the air around us. Cookfires and garbage, old ashes from the Lowtown blaze and the smell of dust raised by animals in the stables on the edges of the city.

  After what seemed too short a descent, we stepped off the trail that switch-backed up the spire and entered the walled Corridor of Ascent. Through peepholes in the high stone barriers defending the privileged homes of the elite from the street which approached the spire, I could feel the gazes of Atal eyes. The protectors formed thick walls around me, ranks upon ranks of men and women bristling with armor and weapons. Nearest me, the aurums glided with unnatural grace, arms loose at their sides and postures so relaxed they might have been on a sunlit stroll.

  At my side, the Prime Protector marched with eyes wary and face hard. She’d already given a dozen arguments against this plan and wouldn’t offer any more objections. But I felt her displeasure all the same.

  A Prov mob met us at the Corridor’s exit. With torches high against the falling dusk, they shouted obscenities and hefted makeshift weapons. I tensed.

  “Stand back!” a protector in the lead shouted. For a moment, no one moved, then with booted feet marching in unison, the protectors formed a wedge and advanced.

  The tightness in my chest began to uncoil as the line of Provs broke before the protectors’ march. At the rear of the mob, a few individuals dropped torches, detached from the crowd and ran into the shadows. I craned my neck to glimpse the fallen torches, hoping the flames would be snuffed against the cobblestones or trampled by stomping feet. The last thing the city needed was another fire.

  Despite their retreat, the sight of so many angry Provs dismayed me. Since Ascension, I’d taken no action against the rioters. Against the Prime’s advice, I’d ordered the protectors to fight only if directly attacked or if they witnessed an Atal abusing one of the Prov citizens. It should have made more of a difference by now. But the violence continued, the rioters refusing to see that they harmed their own brethren with their destruction. Maybe, ironically, the Provs hated me for not doing more to stop their angry brethren.