Rise of the Storm

by Carrie Summers

  I stopped where the first tufts of grass poked from the road. Stepping on one, I felt it crinkle under the sole of my boot. “I would give anything for a peaceable resolution. But this…” I turned in a slow circle to look over the frozen battle. “How do we turn back from this?”

  Parveld gestured toward a woman fighting on the fringe of the battle. Her dagger glinted in the sunlight, the point already a finger’s depth into the joint where a protector’s helm met his chain mail collar.

  Another woman stood behind the pair. I blinked in sudden recognition. Falla had survived my betrayal in the mountains. Though her hand wrapped a short sword, she stood back from the battle, a look of concentration on her face. I recalled that she had some sort of spiritist power. Perhaps she’d been using it when Parveld performed his weaving.

  “I don’t believe you’ve met Sirez,” Parveld said as he gestured at the first woman. “She’s the leader of the Jaliss Shard. Her word holds tremendous sway in the organization.”

  Strolling forward, he touched Sirez on the shoulder. With a gasp, she returned to life, slamming into the protector and rebounding awkwardly. Her dagger pulled free from the man’s neck as she looked around in wide-eyed panic.

  “Hello, Sirez,” Parveld said. “We met once before. Do you recall?”

  Blood dripped from Sirez’s blade as her gaze flicked back and forth between us. When she recognized me, she growled, raised her dagger, and dropped into a combat crouch.

  I raised my free hand and slowly bent to place my sword on the ground. “I mean you no harm,” I said.

  Her glare could have frozen a lake in Highsummer. I felt a small measure of relief when she turned it on Parveld. “There have been many mistakes, Sirez,” Parveld said. “This situation is no more Kostan’s making than it is yours. Will you listen to our explanation?”

  The woman’s eyes took in the scene, the dead and dying, her fighters locked in battle against the commoners they professed to protect. “I suppose whatever trick you’ve worked here is enough to earn my attention.”

  “Is Savra’s father here? I believe Evrain would like to hear this, too.”

  My blood turned to slush. “Evrain is Savra’s father?” Storms. If I had the chance to see her again, I had a lot of explaining to do.

  The others ignored my question. “He’s not,” Sirez said, offering no further information. “So, explain. What’s going on here?”

  “You know a man named Joran, I assume. I recently spoke with Savra—”

  Sirez stiffened. “Is she okay? I suspected he took her, but my trackers couldn’t find their trail.”

  “She’s safe now,” Parveld confirmed. “On her way into Steelhold to stop another of Joran’s plots.”

  Wait. Savra was heading into Steelhold? My eyes shot to the spire as the terrible moment from my vision leaped forth. I saw the great sheets of stone cleaving from the granite tower as it began to fall.

  “I shouldn’t have let that man retain his seat on the conclave,” Sirez growled. “Tell me what’s happened here. Why is no one moving?”

  “I don’t have time to explain. Perhaps after you’ve settled your differences and put a stop to this, Kostan can give you the details. As for the hostilities, perhaps the two of you could talk.”

  The man’s mention of my name dragged me from the horrors of my vision. I swallowed hard and turned to the woman. “Parveld tells me that Stormshard is not responsible for sowing dissent among the Jaliss Provs. The ongoing riots are not your doing. I’ve heard a different story, of course.”

  Her brow lowered. “We know nothing of what’s been happening in Jaliss. How could we? We’ve spent the last weeks deep in the mountains gathering a force to free the Provs from your oppression.”

  “What oppression? Since my Ascension, the Provs have rejected my every offer of help. I’ve withdrawn the protectors from the streets, sent masons and food and scrip into the city. When I Ascended, I hoped I could abolish the Decree of Functions before Deepwinter. But for weeks, the riots have continued. My messages are ignored. The workers I send into Lowtown and the Splits are hassled or beaten. And when I sent investigators to uncover the source of the uprising, the name they all returned with was Stormshard.”

  Sirez’s eyes narrowed. “Are these investigators the same men and women who’ve taken reports from the snitches?” She spat on the ground at my feet. “Don’t talk to me about helping the Provs when you’d torture or kidnap innocent villagers for some so-called search.”

  “But I didn’t…” At once, the Snitchlord’s words returned to me. I’d prefer to keep my methods to myself. I yanked the helm from my head and threw it on the ground. I’d been an idiot to use the man.

  “I realize what must have happened,” I said. “It was not my intent, but I take full responsibility.”

  “That won’t bring back the innocents who were killed.”

  Storms… killed, even? No, taking responsibility would do nothing to help those poor people. “I can’t make up for what I allowed to happen. I can’t even ask your forgiveness. But I’d like to beg that you consider an offer of peace. We shouldn’t kill each other. Far worse enemies wait in the Empire’s future.”

  An involuntary shiver seemed to travel the woman’s body. She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I may have seen some of those enemies first-hand.”

  I cocked my head, unsure of what she spoke. Before I could ask, though, she continued speaking.

  “Stormshard is not ruled by a single person,” she said. “I can’t promise peace or even negotiate on behalf of the group. At a minimum, the entire conclave must hear your proposal.”

  “If we work quickly,” Parveld said, “I can help both of you release your commanders. But you should come to an agreement first. If you share a common goal, I believe they will follow you. Don’t accept their arguments. Remain strong.”

  Sirez fixed me with a steady gaze. “Did you speak truly about your desires for the Provs? We won’t stand for another century or even another month of being stepped on.”

  “I want nothing more than to treat you as equal to the Atal.”

  “And the Provinces? Would you release the Empire’s hold on them?”

  What could I say? My visions commanded me to hold the Empire together or face worse consequences. Yet there had to be a way to satisfy fate’s demands as well as Stormshard’s.

  “I truly believe we must stand together to face the coming battles. If the Empire splinters before the axe even falls, I fear we are doomed. But once we have faced down the coming struggles, I have no desire to hold power over those who wish to be free. Can you accept that?”

  Her lips thinned as she considered my words. After a moment, she granted me a curt nod.

  “Are we settled, then?” Parveld asked. “We’ll wake the others and form an accord?”

  I glanced again at Steelhold, soaring so high above the capital. Savra was there. Or soon would be. I’d seen these events many times. If I allowed Parveld to wake the others so that I could make peace with Stormshard, Steelhold would fall. But if I refused peace, would it still stand? I didn’t think so. This was my only chance to unite my people, and if I rejected it, all hope was lost.

  I’m sorry, Savra, I whispered in my thoughts. But I thought you were dead once already. If the skies will it, a miracle will keep you alive this time, too.

  Clenching my jaw, I faced Sirez. I dropped to a knee before her. “I vow beneath the wide sky: I will not raise a hand against any Prov who seeks a peaceful, free life in the Atal Empire. And may the storms strike me down if I fail.”

  Twirling her dagger in her hand, she looked down at me for a long moment. Finally, she nodded. “Good enough. Let’s see about putting this mess to rights.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Havialo

  Chasm Road, Icethorn Mountains

  HAVIALO CLOSED HIS eyes as his horse rounded the final bend before Steelhold came into view. For the last d
ay and a half, he and his small band of spiritists had followed the Chasm Road, the thoroughfare which sliced into the mountains from the former end of Steelhold’s Chasm Span. The bridge no longer existed, of course, which meant Steelhold was unreachable from this road. But that was no concern for Havialo, not with his bottomless gnosty ready to channel the tremendous forces straining against the Empire’s besieged crust.

  He knew the fortress had come into view when a few of the spiritists gasped in amazement. Raised in the Provinces, they’d never seen the seat of the Emperor. Most had never visited a town larger than the ramshackle collection of buildings in their home villages. He could understand how the massive spire with its crown of soaring ramparts might look impressive.

  Soon, though, they’d understand what true power looked like.

  Under his feet, a small network of faults stressed the bedrock. The fractures were nothing like those nearer to the Maelstrom, but with the practice he’d gained lately, snapping cracks and observing with fascination as the ripples from the quakes shook loose other faults, he could trace the lines of strain all the way across the Empire. From here, the faults connected to larger fractures webbing the grasslands. Beneath the waving grasses, those faults networked with cracks near the bench separating the plateau from Guralan Province. In that windblown territory, wider rifts already yawned, but they yearned to spread wider, to swallow the land down. Farther, Cosmal Province was already bent and sinking. Soon, there would be nothing left south of the Cosmal Crease.

  And it would all begin with the proper tweak to the small—almost innocent—faults that vibrated beneath Havialo’s feet.

  Finally, he opened his eyes. There stood the spire. Between his position and the chasm separating the mountains from Steelhold, a few miles of winding ruts threaded their way through boulders and around scraggly copses of trees. Even on horseback, the circuitous course of the road meant their destination was still a couple hours distant.

  Unless…

  Havialo cocked his head. “It’s been a long journey, don’t you think?” he asked Reashel, the spiritist he’d first trained to aid his earth magic. “I’m weary of the saddle.”

  She rode beside him, her face tilted in enjoyment of the sunny day and light breezes. “I’m content in your company, Master Havialo.”

  “Well, I’ve been patient for a rather long time,” he said. “I’d like to see this business concluded. Are your pupils ready to assist me?”

  She smiled. “Of course. As soon as you desire the help. You’ve been so kind, but we’re eager to return to our homes.”

  Her willingness warmed his heart. Turning in the saddle, he scanned his small group and sorted through those skilled in the Body domain. He wanted to save the strongest of the mages for his final assault—after all this waiting, he wanted the conclusion to be spectacular. Finally, his gaze landed on the youngest member, a girl with honey-colored hair and wide, innocent eyes. Nodding at her, he said, “Don’t hold back when you lend your strength. But be very careful. When you feel me shut down my gnosty, you must immediately stop feeding it, understand? We’ve had little time to practice together, and I will not see you harmed.”

  Her eyes were trusting as she nodded. Moments later, he felt the touch of her magic sending strength into his inner well.

  Reveling in the power, Havialo cast his awareness toward the slopes that loomed over the road ahead. He would use the faults, but not yet. That power was for later. Hanging above the valley floor, a great many cliffs held hidden fractures and weak points. Heavy boulders teetered on the edges of drops. One by one, he plucked the massive stones free, willing them to topple and crash and tumble down the mountainside. Gathering energy from their fall, he channeled it back into the cliffs’ weaknesses. When those crumbled, he delved deeper, releasing weaknesses that webbed the mountains themselves.

  With a roar, slopes on either side of the road collapsed, landslides a mile wide that set dust billowing higher than the icy crests of the mountains. The roar was so deafening, Havialo built a cushion of air around his small party to spare their eardrums from bursting. Meanwhile, he sought control of the massive slides and ever so slowly brought order to the chaos.

  On either side of the valley, the mountains began to tremble. Slowly, the high ridges began to sink, crumbling on themselves like apprentices genuflecting for a master. Rubble poured onto the road before him, covered it, then filled the widening valley. A few weeks ago, this would have been impossible. His power had been limited by his ability to control so much energy.

  But with the young spiritist funneling power into his gnosty, it was almost easy. He grabbed hold of the raw energy and forced his will upon the ruined valley, flattening rock and soil and other debris until the space before him was a flat plain. Collecting the dust from the air, he tamped it down, forcing it into gaps and cracks until the surface gleamed like polished marble.

  To either side, low hills of rubble had replaced the once majestic mountains. He glanced at them, considering whether he might sculpt the heaps into something more attractive, but decided not to waste his resources. Already the girl’s touch had faded. She had no more to give, and Havialo didn’t wish to squander more potential.

  Behind him, the young spiritist toppled from her horse.

  Feigning horror, he wheeled his mount to look. “Storms!” he cried. “No! I tried to force her away, but she was too eager. She wouldn’t stop!” He turned on Reashel, eyes spitting daggers. “You taught her the techniques, but you didn’t teach her to obey.”

  His first recruit stared at him with brimming eyes. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Master. I told her that she must be aware of your cues. We practiced, I swear.”

  Havialo forced his cheek to tremble as he stared at the lifeless girl. Already, her skin grew pallid. For the barest instant, he saw an echo of his daughter, Cartilla, cut free from the gallows and delivered to her mother’s doorstep in a handcart. He quickly banished the vision, turning his eyes from the spiritist’s corpse. This was what the Empire bought when they dared harm his precious child. This and much, much more.

  “We won’t let her sacrifice be in vain,” he said, voice cracking. With a touch of lingering power from the landslide, he opened a shallow trench in the ground. Next, he dismounted and lifted her body from the road. He laid it gently in the grave. Another shaping of the earth energy allowed him to deepen the trench and very slowly close it over her body.

  Solemn, he stood over the grave before searching the road for a small stone. He hefted the rock and placed it upon the fresh earth.

  “Come on, everyone. Add your offering. She should be remembered.”

  Once a small cairn marked the girl’s grave, the somber party remounted and continued across the newly shaped plain. It was rather well made, Havialo thought. The surface was utterly smooth, yet gave slightly under the horse’s hooves. Putting heels to his mount, he snapped the tails of the reins against its flank. The beast leaped into a gallop, followed shortly by the spiritists’ mounts.

  Ahead, Steelhold waited.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Savra

  Steelhold

  I STOOD WITH the thugs where the stairway ended at a small landing that, thankfully, was bounded by a low railing. In front of us, light leaked from cracks and sketched a simple door. At my command, the smaller of the two men squeezed the latch while the other raised his dagger.

  Light flared when the door swung open, brilliant and painful. Squinting, I peered around the hulking forms of my bodyguards. No one moved inside the unfamiliar chamber. Heavy drapes covered the walls and softened the echo of our footsteps as we entered the room. Sunlight streamed through massive windows set with real glass panes. A handful of wooden tables and chairs had been polished to a golden sheen. Upon one, a gem-crusted goblet stood beside a crystal ewer.

  Two exits left the room. Through one, I saw a massive bed, the covers rucked and half-falling off the side. By my guess, the other door was our e
xit.

  I shut the door we’d just come through, wincing at the click of the latch. Tense, I waited for the sound of running footfalls in the bedchamber, but no one appeared. When I glanced at the wall behind me, I could scarcely make out the seams where the door met the carved stone blocks. Both hinges and latch were hidden. Either there was no way to open it from this side, or the secret of it defeated me.

  I tiptoed across the floor until reaching a rug that dampened the sound of my footsteps, instructing my guards to do the same. At the outer door, I placed my ear against the wood then scanned the area beyond with my aura-sight. It, too, appeared deserted. Quietly, I squeezed the latch and commanded my thugs to lead the way.

  I recognized the outer hallway. I’d passed this short corridor many times during my time as a palace scribe. The Emperor’s bedchambers had been strictly off-limits to the servants.

  Following my bodyguards, I hurried down the short hallway and intersected the palace’s main corridor. The eerie silence held here, too. Warrell’s plan to bait Kostan emptying the Hold of protectors must have worked. I cringed at the thought, hoping Parveld had reached the Emperor in time.

  Outside, there was more activity even if it scarcely matched Steelhold’s usual bustle. A few servants moved about in a desultory manner. No doubt the absence of guardsmen lowered their enthusiasm for their chores. None paid me much heed as I rushed toward the kitchens. When I neared the door, a low rumble shook the ground.

  Shouts went up on the northern side of the Hold. Behind me, the kitchen door swung open. I recognized the head cook, a large man with rosy cheeks.

  “The soup,” I said, attention snapping to the task at hand. “You can’t serve it.”

  He looked at me as if I’d gone mad, then shook his head before trotting off in the direction of the shouts. In his wake, half a dozen scullions escaped the kitchens, clearly eager for the respite from the oven’s heat.