The Storm of Life

by Amy Rose Capetta

  A few moments later we were emerging from a haze of white as Beniamo’s army staggered and blinked. Beniamo himself had used the opportunity to disappear into his ranks. My brother was not brave, but he was not a coward, either. He was a di Sangro, plotting out every move.

  “Don’t give them time to recover, Mimì,” I said. “Hit them again.”

  She nodded, and with a hand outstretched toward a campfire the men behind her had just lit, she twisted flame into water. It rose into the air in great streams, then crashed down. Water hit the troops, splitting their forces as newborn rivers divided the battlefield. If Beniamo was going to use the Estatta against me, I would have to bring rivers of my own.

  Mimì wiped sweat from her brow as Lorenzo rubbed her hands, which were still a bit singed from the flames.

  Vanni took up the slack, throwing light bombs at the nearest soldiers. And then a great cloud rolled over the sky. Cielo would have turned into a wind and blown the cloud away, but I could not imagine stretching my magic in another direction when it was already working so hard to maintain the tiniest details of Cielo’s form.

  The soldiers were coming nearer, their pistols almost in range. I looked up at the cloud, lined by a single thread of gold, like the pages of a fine book.

  Vanni closed his eyes, and I thought he was preparing himself to die. I shook him by the shoulders.

  “Cielo, if you don’t mind, I’m working on something,” he muttered.

  I stepped back as his hands lifted, palms deeply cupped. Instead of light, he gathered darkness. It snaked down from the sky, one smoky thread at a time, and gathered in the hollow of his hands until they were filled with two small swirling clouds. Then he cast the darkness away, and it spread like a great sigh, blanketing the people it touched. It wrapped them tightly so they could not move, could not speak. A hundred men went down. The rest were surrounded by a weeping black fog that dripped slowly toward the ground.

  Again, the magic said.

  “Again,” I commanded.

  “I’m not sure if I can,” Vanni said, staring at his hands as if he’d find them coated in sticky darkness.

  We can win with that magic, my own said. Kill him if you have to and take the power for your own.

  I blinked against the terror of my own thought and pretended it was only the strangeness of the fog, which reached our ranks and turned everything grainy and dark. The one thing I could see in the blackness was Vanni’s pale, nervous face. “If your magic is spent, go back to camp. Check on Mirella and the baby.”

  Vanni gave me a hasty smile and started running. “Thank you, Cielo,” he called over his shoulder. “I always knew that you were the reasonable one.”

  I watched until he reached the edge of the battle, safe from Beniamo and pistols shot in the dark, as well as my own greedy magic.

  One of Dantae’s soldiers cried out. Behind me, Cinquepalmi took a ball to the shoulder.

  “Go see Signore di Sangro,” I shouted.

  When the gloom lifted, a fresh round of soldiers headed for us, stepping around the men on the ground, wrapped in darkness.

  “What now?” Mimì asked, on to her second round of water, carving the rivers deeper and longer so they would join the Estatta. Once that happened, they would continue to flow on their own.

  I pointed to Dantae, who had barely been able to restrain herself. She loosed her soldiers on the battle with a cry. “Magic is all,” she cried in the old language.

  “All is magic,” the soldiers of Erras called back as they locked into combat with Beniamo’s army. The streghe fought in two ways at once, their magic fending off attacks, their bone knives close at their sides. They moved like dancers, a lifetime of readiness exploding through their bodies as Beniamo’s soldiers grunted and swore.

  As soon as the soldiers of Erras had tilted the fights in their favor, they thrust the bone knives toward their opponents, and the great judgment began. The knives whispered about what these people had done in life, and what they had failed to do. Some of them sat down on the battlefield, shaking, refusing to fight. Others brought a fresh and hardened fury, but they were so busy battling inner voices that they struck out wildly.

  I had been clear with Dantae that every soldier in Beniamo’s army was to be spared. Those who sat down were treated as stones, soldiers parting around them like the flow of a great river. Those who fought were dealt blows that felled them without stealing their lives.

  “No killing,” I reminded the soldiers of Erras, who were growing a little frenzied in their attacks. The great show that was being put on at the front of the ranks seemed to confuse and frighten the rest of Beniamo’s troops, who would not charge, even though orders were being shouted.

  “Mimì,” I said. “It’s time.”

  She dipped her hand into buckets placed at her sides, and with her arms raised to their full height, she blew and blew, sending a nightmare of flame into the sky. “Let’s give them a taste of the hell they’re narrowly escaping,” she said, sweating but glorious as she threw and shaped fire.

  Lorenzo looked on, glowing with admiration.

  The church’s army stepped forward, filling the spaces between the streghe in our ranks. If we followed the plan I’d set this morning, it was time for them to charge and carry me and Father to Beniamo, wherever he was hiding.

  But that would mean soldiers cut down, lives lost.

  I held up my hand and the church’s army went still.

  “Are you sure you don’t want us to go in?” MacCartaigh asked. “This is the minute, if there ever was one.”

  “Wait,” I said.

  This was exactly the lack of honor I’d expected from my brother. He knew that we either had to give up or cut our way through his soldiers.

  There is only a side that loses less.

  “What’s wrong, Signore Malfara?” Cinquepalmi asked.

  I looked out at the battle with Cielo’s eyes. My strega would never let people die like this. We were here to defend Vinalia, not to murder Vinalians.

  “Xiaodan, come here,” I said.

  “Do you need me to increase the bravery of these troops?” she asked, casting a pointed glance at the church’s army.

  “No,” I said. “I need your voice.”

  Her eyes went wide, and this time it was with love, not terror. “Should I sing a high note to grab everyone’s attention? I’ve been stretching my range.”

  “It is not only their ears I need,” I said, looking out at the soldiers, some of their faces grim with the anticipation of killing, others flooded with the anticipation of death. “I want their hearts.”

  “If you’re looking for a battle hymn, we could use the anthem,” Cinquepalmi offered. “It’s fairly catchy.”

  “That belongs to the Capo,” I said. I had no desire to build on the bones of his would-be empire.

  “I know what to sing,” Xiaodan said. “Trust me.”

  MacCartaigh and Cinquepalmi offered Xiaodan a hand, so she was standing with a foot on each of their thighs. It resembled a sort of living throne. Even in the midst of battle, her smile curved, brightening the edge of her voice as she began to sing. Her tone lacked the hollow purity and high gloss of opera. She was letting out something new this time—or something very old. It was a Vinalian folk song, as trusty as the stories of streghe, its roots winding as deep through our childhoods.

  The soldiers on the battlefield, both fallen and charging, looked up. Xiaodan’s voice carried like wind and fell soft as rain.

  In that moment of surprise, when we had everyone’s attention, I stepped out in front of my troops, hoping that none of the drawn pistols would be too quick to remember their purpose.

  “This is not a war,” I said. “Which means there will be no losses.”

  Even my own streghe and soldiers and family were looking at me as if I had just announced that th
e sun would be lighting the night from now on, and the moon would shine by day.

  Cielo would have enjoyed that look.

  “Today, the sixth family has shown that we will stop every false battle waged for control of Vinalia. There is no fight here. There is only a usurper who must be stopped.” I looked for Beniamo’s slick movements and his glowing eyes, but I could not find him.

  “All we ask in return for sending you home with your lives is that you welcome the sixth family of Vinalia. We are tied to you by blood, by love, by this land. We will not fight Vinalians, for we are Vinalians.” After a pause I added, “And Salvians.”

  Mimì took my hand and squeezed it, her palm still hot as coals from conjuring fire.

  “We won the battle at Zarisi in your name. We sent the Eterrans back to the north without their spoils. Our magic is powerful, but we have no wish to turn it against our families and neighbors. The truth is that we are already part of your story. The great ages of magic have come and gone, but we were always here.”

  I waited for Xiaodan to finish her song, the last note shivering in the air, as delicate as the peace I had just created.

  “You are free to go,” I said. Father stepped forward, and I pushed past the wonder of this moment to what must come next. I raised my voice and added, “All but one.”

  * * *

  The last of the smoke from Mimì’s fires cleared as the battle formations broke, and Beniamo’s soldiers went wandering off in every direction. I waited for my brother to scream after them, to force them back together with the glue of threats and violence.

  Instead, a single figure ran toward us. I reached for Father’s stiletto, but the soldier I would have pointed it at ran straight into Xiaodan’s arms. When she kissed him, the sight of two people’s hands clinging, their lips sliding open, lit fires that I could not feed.

  I had to turn away.

  I found myself facing Mimì and Lorenzo. It looked as if they were saving their romantic celebrations for later. Mimì was kneeling and breathing hard, working to regain her strength after carrying so much of the battle in her charred hands.

  “That fire took everything she had,” Lorenzo said, too nervous to play the role of noble protector. The brown of his eyes looked melted with worry. “She’s hotter than Amalia in July.”

  “Get her to the stream,” I said.

  “It’s a good thing we didn’t end up needing that army,” Mimì told me as Lorenzo helped her to her feet. “They’re as useful as a bucket made of holes.”

  “Perhaps, but it will be good to have a force at our back when we’re facing Beniamo. Speaking of which, I should fetch Teo,” I said.

  “How are you going to find her?” Lorenzo asked. “Especially if she doesn’t want to be found?”

  “I’m certain she’s tired of being parted,” I said, voice straining over the truth. I wanted nothing more than to see Cielo again. Favianne had been right—there was nothing practical about our love. It was intense and wild and I needed it far more than I needed to face down Beniamo.

  I might as well have called what I felt for Cielo magic, because it was threaded through my soul, and it changed everything.

  Lorenzo was looking at me strangely.

  “Don’t worry about Teo,” I said. “I’ve always been able to feel when she’s near.”

  I left what remained of the armies, sliding back into my girlish body when I was out of view, every di Sangro feature in its proper place. All I wanted to do was run to the Violetta Coast, but I was not abandoning Vinalia now that I’d come this far. I would go after Cielo the second we were done here. I braided back my hair, waiting as long as I could before I returned to the field as Teo.

  Father’s face shone at me from the battlefield, a beacon of relief and impatience. “Teo,” he said. “Where is Cielo?”

  “Checking on the camp,” I lied. “Cielo said that this moment is di Sangro business.”

  Father nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

  “Are you sure that Beniamo will meet us?” I asked.

  “This is a direct challenge to his rule,” Father said. “If he does not face us, he admits that he is a usurper. His claim to the throne just weakened, and he cannot have it weaken any more if he wishes to take power.”

  I waved my hand, taking in the army that had been broken by my words. “He is not going to be delighted by any of this.” I tried to sound confident and uncaring, but I knew how much sharper his rages grew when he was disappointed.

  “Well, that boy cannot have his way anymore,” Father said, more like a scolding parent than a man who was trying to save his country from a tyrant.

  We walked to the center of the field, facing the river and Amalia beyond.

  “Beniamo!” Niccolò di Sangro shouted. “You cannot hide from this moment forever.”

  “You have no right to claim Vinalia, brother,” I added in a voice that carried as far and spread as thick as battlefield smoke. “You have no right to anything you’ve taken, and yet you grab with both hands.”

  “You have not faced me for Luca’s death,” Father said, digging up the feelings he had given a hasty burial when Luca failed to return over the mountains.

  “Come here, Beniamo,” I cried, my words harsh on the wind. But it was blowing strongly, and it tossed them aside.

  Father and I waited, the remnants of the church’s army, the streghe, and the soldiers of Erras behind us. The silence stretched long, rubbing away at my certainty. “Do you think he’s made a break for the Palazza and tried to finish off the coup?”

  “He can’t hope to hold the throne by himself,” Father said.

  I pictured Beniamo pushing me off Father’s walnut chair.

  Stop him, now, my magic said.

  It had been telling me this since I was nine years old, and I had always stopped myself instead. But now my silence was broken.

  “This is your final moment,” I said in steady, even tones. “You say that I have stolen away the life that should have been yours, that I turned you into a vile creature, but neither of those are true. You took my childhood long before I ever touched you with magic. And you have always been a vile creature.”

  I waited for Beniamo to appear. In a strega story, I would find some clever way to change him, even though he wore the Capo’s ring. But a shard of magic held great power—and unlike the magic in our bodies, anyone could use it.

  “Teo.” I felt a tug at my sleeve. “If your brother is making you wait, there should be anticipation in the air. A sense of waiting, wanting, bloodlust.” Xiaodan’s fingers picked at the tapestry of emotion hidden in the air. “There is . . . nothing.”

  I looked to Father. “We need to cross the Estatta and get to the Palazza. While we’ve been standing here, naming his sins, Beniamo has gone for the throat of Vinalia.”

  The direction of the wind changed, blowing in from the west with a roughness that startled my skin. Xiaodan’s hand covered her mouth. “I’m afraid it’s worse,” she said, looking back to camp.

  “Mirella,” Father said, the worry in his voice a creeping stain. “She’s there with Luciano.”

  In a breathless reversal, I became a wind, which was like being a storm, but quicker, lighter, with less fury to gift me thunder and more fear to drive me across the sky. I split the seams of my clothes when I forgot to remove them, and they fell to the ground in tatters. I rose only a little above the ground, following the line of the hills, pushing my way back to the camp.

  When I tumbled to the ground, I saw the red heaps of bodies.

  The moments we had spent staunching the blood flow of battle Beniamo had spent gutting everyone we had left behind. Our victory was the beginning of a massacre.

  Five

  All Is Magic

  I walked naked into the ruin of the camp, every cord of muscle and pinch of nerve aware that Beniamo might be waiting for
me in one of the tents. New clothes appeared on my body as if my magic needed no prompting on this subject.

  A black dress. A blood-red cloak.

  The first dead man I came upon had bright red hair. A member of the Moschella family—the young man who had been named Luciano’s godfather.

  I counted. Five men dead around the campfire, and one more in a tent, marked with bloody furrows where Beniamo’s talons had struck.

  These must have been the men sent back to camp carrying the news that we had won the day. I did not know if they had been killed before reaching Mirella or if they had delivered their message and spent the last few moments on this earth in celebration.

  I did not know which was worse.

  The day was dwindling, and the camp felt too still in the dusk. The fire flickered with a weak imitation of life. I looked everywhere for Favianne and the bone knife I’d left behind, but there was no sign of her sunlight hair. My only hope was that she’d run to the tent to protect Mirella and the baby.

  “Vanni,” I whispered. I’d sent Vanni back, his magic drained, so he could be with them. A stone of guilt sank through my terror.

  As I stood at the verge of Mirella’s tent, every prayer I had ever been taught rose like the weak, wispy smoke of votives. I didn’t speak the words, though. There were no gods left who could stop Beniamo.

  I took a step inside, my eyes closed. I knew that once I saw whatever horrible truth the tent held, it would change my life, and I wanted to keep it the way it was for one more moment. Mirella, my sister. Vanni, my brother. Luciano, their baby. All alive.

  All mine.

  There, in the darkness, I felt a sigh of hope. Magic thickened the air, like the promise of rain.

  Vanni, my magic said.

  I opened my eyes and just as quickly tried to close them again. The picture pressed into my mind. It would be trapped there forever. The red-haired boy I’d met in Amalia on the ground, both hands stabbed through, a great dark stain in the center of his chest. The brother I had chosen, the one who had fought and changed and muttered nervous jokes at my side. Beside him, my sister, one arm flung out like a broken-winged bird, her mouth trapped in a silent cry, her body so torn from the neck down that her innards dribbled out.