The Rising Tide

by Sarah Stirling

  “Trying to get a fire going. It’s freezing in here.”

  Rook sat up, covered by an old fleecy cloak. “There’s no firewood.”

  Viktor held up the tome. “I’m improvising.”

  “No, Viktor! You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Rook reached out with grabbing fingers. “Give it here, you monster.” She snatched it off him and cradled it to her chest. “What are you thinking? Do you know how rare books in my language are? Besides, they don’t make great firewood.” Her eyes swept over the cover, brow furrowing. Then she pried it open and began to flip the pages, pouring over the words with eager eyes.

  Viktor sighed and rocked back on his hands. “Great. That’s fine, yeah. We’ll just have a reading party. Perfect way to celebrate our grand reunion.”

  Rook held up a hand, following her finger as she read.

  Growing bored so cramped up in the tiny cabin, Viktor got up and paced the floor, wood groaning beneath his boots. The tattered remains of his kobi shone in the faint daylight, emerald fabric glistening. As much as the garment had felt like a noose tied around the neck of the boy he had once been, he was saddened to see such a beautiful piece in ruins. Not after the pride with which Fyera had produced it, eyes bright and shining. Not after seeing the golden phoenix unfurl across his back, knowing that he had finally found an answer to a question that had burned him up inside from the day he was born.

  And yet thinking of his sister had not led him to Tsellyr or the palace but to this frozen land of snowstorms, to a woman who had become family to him not because they had been born from the same mother, nor because their meeting had been destined, but because she had earned that bond. She had stood by him while he had been overcome by the phoenix and caught him before he fell at the rift. She had taken one look at him and all thoughts of Vallnor Siklo had vanished. To her he was still Viktor, wretched little thief and brother and all.

  “I think your clothes are dry,” he said, moving to the window. Rook did not shift from her position, still pouring over the tome. Flakes of snow swirled from a sky milky and opaque. It had piled so high overnight Viktor was dubious about getting the door open, the trunks of the trees outside undone by a perfect canvas of white. A bird landed on a branch above, snow tumbling to the ground below and startling it from its springing perch in a flap of wings. Reflexively, he shivered, tucking his arms around himself to chase his own body heat.

  Through the haze of falling snow and the mist that gathered low amongst the pines and firs Viktor thought he saw movement but when he blinked there was nothing. Maybe just an animal searching for food amongst the wilderness. Probably the phoenix was messing with his mind again, just to spite him for finding some kind of peace amongst the maelstrom of its memories.

  “Viktor, I think I’ve found something!”

  Just as he turned he saw another dark shape out of the corner of his eye but he couldn’t stop the instinct to turn at his name and missed more than a blur. When his gaze flickered back all was white once more.

  “Are you listening to me? This is really incredible! The person who wrote this lived during a previous rupture of the rifts. Not the one nearly three hundred years ago but one far, far back in the past, back when the Riftkeepers were still at their peak.”

  “Uh, huh. Rook, there’s someone –

  “The first hand accounts here are unparalleled. This man rubbed shoulders with Shinrak, Hrell, and even saw you, Viktor.”

  He froze. “Me?”

  “I mean Vallnor. A previous Prince Vallnor, back when the Siklos were the monarchs. But that’s not even the best part,” she babbled, heedless of the way his heart thumped at the thought of his previous self in a previous era, or the figures coming into shape, making a direct beeline for the hut. “He talks about theories he discussed with scholars back then. It seems he was a former councillor himself here. One of old Sorren’s ancestors.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And he spent time with rift wardens at the fortress under Hrell. There are some interesting theories in here. It makes several references to The Legacy of the Keepers. Oh, I wish I still had my hands on that book.”

  Glancing back at the window, Viktor jumped when he saw a group of figures much closer to the hut than he had expected. Even from a distance he could see the thick cloaks bundled around them, snow churning at their feet and steel glinting in the grasps. “Rook. Rook they’re coming.”

  “I wonder how long this has been here. If the library even has a copy of this at the fortress.”

  “Rook!”

  Her head shot up. “Viktor, what is it?”

  “We’re about to be attacked by a horde of very angry looking people with swords. And axes. And, well, I don’t even know what that is.”

  She leapt to her feet, at his shoulder in a second to peer out the window. Her grey eyes widened, mouth parting in a soft gasp. For a long moment she remained frozen, gaze flickering over the scene. Viktor barely restrained himself from screaming, tension creeping up his shoulders, tightening at his neck. Instinct had him falling into the bond, the phoenix fluttering up into his consciousness to protect its vessel. Charcoal and ash filled his nostrils, taking a step back and closing his eyes to recentre himself. He focused on the feelings around him; the bright spark of Rook’s signature next to his, and further away, the deep pulse of the rift. It was like Fyera’s candles. When he stripped back the initial panic he could direct his power with more ease. It kept his thoughts from straying towards the dark pathways of memories and thoughts he had no business to be chasing.

  There was a rustling behind him and he opened his eyes to Rook adjusting her own cloak, strapping her blades across her back. Grabbing her satchel, she slung the book into it, the handle groaning with the weight. Viktor eyed it dubiously but the words slipped from his tongue when she looked up, gaze peeled of warmth. There was a tense line to her jaw like she might have been clenching her teeth.

  “Why are they coming here?”

  She pointed to her face, to the deep bruises around her eyes, the scrapes and gashes across her face, streaks of blood still staining her skin. “How do you think I got like this?”

  “Why?”

  Rook turned away, pausing in her movements. “I still do not understand it myself. Come, we should take the back door. They will not be able to chase us through a rift.” Then she took off, grabbing the shovel blocking the back entrance and yanking the door open. The handle was still within her white knuckled grasp as the door swung inwards, a howling gust of wind crashing in and rupturing the temperate peace of the hut. Snow tumbled around her boots from where it had piled high outside, a wall of white blocking them in.

  Viktor kept stealing glances behind him as she flipped the shovel and began to dig them a path outwards, cutting through the snow towards the forest beyond. “Wait a minute,” he said as he registered her words. “That plan involves me being able to get through the rift again.”

  “Yep.” Her breath came in laboured pants, attacking her way through the snow.

  “It involves me being able to get both of us through.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “It relies on me being able to do a thing that I don’t know how I managed in the first place. I mean, does none of this seem concerning to you?”

  “Of course it does.” Rook disappeared into the trench as she kept digging. “But the alternative involves slaughtering my family and the rest of the warriors of my village. If you would prefer that option, be my guest.”

  Viktor faltered. “What?”

  “Keep your voice down!” she whispered. Her head poked out from the snow. “They will not hesitate to kill me if we don’t leave now so I need you to get us through the rift.” She paused, leaning against the shovel with a heaving chest. “Actually, why am I doing this when you’re the one with the firepower?”

  “I don’t think it works like that.”

  She raised a hand, eyebrows raised.

  With a sigh, Viktor sum
moned a ball of flame to his palm, feeling the spiritual energy race through him, the fuel to keep the fire burning. Holding it up to the snow, he watched the green flames lick up the side of a bank of glistening white only to have little effect. The snow appeared to deflate slightly, a few drops of water trailing down the side, but nothing like might be expected of fire.

  “Preserve your energy, then. We’re going to need it.”

  Banging noises thundered out behind him, followed by voices. There were shouts and then the sound of cracking wood. Viktor shuddered, imagining steel cutting through the door, and barrelled after Rook through their makeshift tunnel until they hit the more sheltered part of the forest, conical trees packed together densely enough to offer some protection from the swirling snow above. All he knew then was the whip of branches against his face and the bitter sting of the cold seeping in through his stolen clothes. The tattered silk kobi had been sacrificed to their escape, still draped over the floor of the hut.

  “Prepare yourself, Viktor!” Rook shouted, tearing away from him, through the rough terrain, patches of snow building in the gaps between trunks, rocks and mud coated with ice that had him slipping and sliding and crashing through the forest.

  “Can’t breathe.”

  “Gather your strength. Think about how you got through the last time.”

  Behind him voices sounded over the thump of his feet and his heartbeat. They were coming after them, warriors of Rook’s clan that were probably all bigger and stronger than Viktor himself. Viktor could throw a few punches. Keep himself alive. He did not know how to actually fight, not the way Rook could dance with her riftblades as if they were extensions of her arms.

  Soon the trees thinned out once more, the snow rising. Trudging through it was exhausting, leaching the strength he had managed to wrestle from a few hours cramped in that awful chair. His stolen clothes helped break the worst of the wind chill but after pushing his way through such thick snow he was quickly sodden, clothes heavy with moisture and dragging him even more. Viktor had always imagined the southern snows to be such wondrous sights but his mind had turned faster than the falling flakes pelting his face. It just never stopped. The way it seemed to muffle all sound was unsettling, like it was trying to devour the entire world in secret.

  Suddenly an icy hand latched around his wrist and tugged him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Rook’s face was flushed pink with the cold, hair plastered to the sides of her face with strings of it bouncing across her forehead. “Focus, Viktor! Stay with me.”

  He glanced behind him, fear solidifying in a solid lump as the first hulking warrior broke from the line of trees and charged towards them. A flash of a great curving blade strapped to his waist caught his eye before he was bolting through the snow with all of his strength, and a little of the phoenix’s too. Its desire to keep him alive propelled him on with bursts of energy, keeping the flame simmering low inside him. The doubt had already seeped into his mind. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get them through the rift. How could he possibly do something he didn’t understand in the first place?

  But, no. The desperation in Rook’s eyes as she ran, icy fingers clamped around his, was enough to jolt him from doubt. The desperation in Fyera’s eyes, flames smothered into nothing but empty blankness, burned behind his eyelids. Anger was buried deep in his heart. At his situation, at his grand destiny being nothing more than to die so another might live. Vallnor’s anger at past betrayals. The phoenix’s anger with his weakness. Viktor gathered all of it to him and nurtured that slow burning flame until it roared into a wall of rage. This indignation at the world was what they shared. It wasn’t Rook’s willpower or Kilai’s shrewdness but it was theirs. If anger had to be Viktor’s point of balance, then so be it.

  “There’s the rift!” shouted Rook.

  The colourful lights shining from the stone structure flared and receded like the gate itself breathed with life. The one bright spark amongst such all encompassing white, drawing his eye like a beacon. And behind them the yells of the warriors of Rook’s village, angry and defiant. Thirsty for blood. The pulse of spiritual energy washed over him, sinking beneath his skin in a comfortable buzz. A thought swirled in the back of his mind. He could end this now. Kill every last one of them by commanding the riftspawn lingering at the doors to the otherworld. It would be so easy. His pace faltered, considering it.

  “Viktor, come on! I need you to open this door for me!”

  Viktor. He was Viktor, not Vallnor. Vallnor killed to solve his problems but that didn’t mean he had to. Rook would not look at him the same, if he just killed the people from her home. Even if they were trying to kill her.

  Something whipped past his eyes in a blur of silver. There was a sting of pain and when he touched his ear his finger came away damp with blood. Someone had thrown a knife at him and nearly hit the mark. The fear caused him to stumble, losing his balance and crashing into the snow where he rolled down the slope towards the path to leading to the rift. His world spun, pain and icy cold the only things he knew. In his mind the phoenix screeched, fire exploding through him. Hands gripped his jacket only to hiss and drop him once more.

  “Viktor! Viktor, can you hear me?”

  They couldn’t do this to him. How could mere mortals hope to hunt a king? A god? It was so laughable, that he would run from some men with shiny knives. As if Viktor could even die. He would rip them apart, piece by piece, and let them see who they were messing with. He would laugh as they screamed. As they learned their true folly.

  That familiar, frantic rhythm pierced the smoky haze of his thoughts that had stripped to nothing but rage. The signature of The Rook. Not something to fear, but an ally. A voice, laced with an edge not quite human. “We’re nearly there, Viktor. Open the door! Remember how you did it the last time!”

  Viktor had to protect them. Not just himself, but the The Rook, too. It was his companion. His friend. There was no use being a king, if he could not protect his people. The riftspawn were gathering around him, pulled into the orbit of his aura. They knew who he was. They knew he was the one to rule them. Such power did not go unnoticed by beings who craved it.

  The rift loomed large as he ran towards it, still warring within himself. Kill and live. Show mercy and remember. Viktor and Vallnor and the phoenix all rolling around in his mind with one basic principal uniting them: survival. If only he could remember how he had done it. These rifts had once been doorways. Not just between this world and the otherworld, but between the various portals littered across this world. They recognised the signature of the phoenix and opened before his command, for he was a guardian of both realms. He just needed to remember.

  The lights danced, intricate patterns weaving before his eyes, lulling him forwards those last few steps. Beside him, Rook panted, gaze turned to the voices growing louder behind them. Viktor turned to watch the warriors thunder towards them, snow kicked up around their feet. At the head of their number was a huge man with long blond hair shaved at the sides and shockingly pale eyes rimmed in black. Clutched in his hands were vicious blades much like those Rook used. A scowl twisted a bruised and swollen face, lips peeling back from his teeth. A hint of a strong aura, wisps of a weak, sickly green curling around him. This could be no one but Rook’s father. Images of another man flashed behind his eyelids. Cold and sneering. Shaking his head in disgust.

  “Rook-ka, where are you going?”

  She took a step forward, steel shining in her hands. “Sorry, father. I have business elsewhere.”

  “Yes, you always did like to run like a coward.”

  Rage boiled Viktor’s blood. “And yet you come here in such numbers because you are so bold and brave, I assume?” The fire danced in his palm, held to chest height to demonstrate to them. “Strange, I thought it was because you were afraid.”

  The chief growled, snow crunching beneath his boots as he took another step forward. “Would you have another fight your battles, Rook-ka? Is that any way for a member of the
Vinook?”

  “I already bested you,” she said, eyes gleaming silver white. “I have no interest in doing it again.”

  “I cannot have a coward for a daughter. It is unacceptable.”

  “So, what, you will kill me?”

  Viktor pushed in front of her, stepping right up to the towering giant of a man. “Perhaps Rook will not, but if you do not back down, then I will.”

  “Viktor…”

  “It is me,” he said, glancing aside at her. “As much of me as remains. Would you care to find out, Shai? Shall I show you the true power of the otherworld?”

  A flash of steel, faster than his eye could follow. Viktor being wrenched backwards and then Rook’s grunt as she caught her father’s blade on her own. “Open the door, Viktor! Go!”

  The energy still burned in his blood. More than anything he wanted to crush the chief’s head in his hands and blast fire through his eardrums until it melted him from the inside out. Or maybe he’d put a spirit inside him. Watch it eat him alive until his body collapsed beneath the strain. Make his people watch their leader crumble and scream. It would be a fitting punishment, he thought.

  “Viktor!”

  More than just her father fought her. Other warriors closed in on her, slicing at her with their own swords and poleaxes. Rook was fast but she could not fight off an entire village’s worth of spirit bound warriors.

  Standing before the rift, he gazed up at the huge stone structure, snow piling atop boulders the size of cattle, etched with the same symbols that he recognised from other rift sites. He held out a hand to the shimmering texture of the rift, fingers brushing it. A fizzing feeling raced up his arm, numbing his senses with tingly vibrations. Teeth clacking together and mind spinning, he fell back a step, the sound of steel clashing with steel all around him.

  Rook had her back to the rift, using it to stop them from sneaking up on her, knocking them back as best as she could. Her eyes met his for a brief flash, shining like two torchlights, and he let out a frustrated hiss. The last time he had passed through the door he been desperate; had begged it with all his will to take him away. So he let the anger drain away, hearing the cries behind him. In his mind he pictured the city of Tsellyr, the white and black of the buildings, the red leaves floating along the shining canals that wound through the city, and the cobalt domes flecked with gold. He pictured water carriages pulled by lykki, the grandeur of the city hall and the Onyx Plaza where that monster had plagued the skies. The more he pictured it the realer it became in his mind, the image solidifying into something like a painting. Not a perfect likeness, but a portrait tempered by his own memories of the city. Fyera’s green eyes. Sister.