Storm

by Lauren L. Garcia

  Foley gave Kali a warm look. “Aye, something like that.”

  “But… He’s buried in the earth,” Hazel said, voice trembling, eyes bright with tears. “His spirit is lost.”

  Silence fell across the mages, such that Kali could make out the patter of rain outside. A distant rumble shivered through the room and when she twisted around to see out of the windows, she saw only a slate-gray sky beyond the bastion wall. When had the storm sprung up?

  “I think, perhaps, that can be rectified.” Foley looked at Sadira.

  Sadira went still, her lips parting and her hands clenched in her lap. “I cannot,” she whispered, so softly that Kali wondered if she’d meant to say the words aloud at all. “Not again.”

  The others muttered in confusion, but Kali ignored them all and risked a touch to Sadira’s sleeve. “This isn’t like what happened to your village. You can do some good here.”

  “There is no such thing as ‘good’ when magic is involved.”

  “As someone whose life was recently saved by magic, I’m inclined to disagree.”

  As Kali had hoped, a faint smile touched Sadira’s mouth, but the Zhee mage shook her head. “You don’t overstand. This has nothing to do with my…past.”

  The other mages cast each other curious looks while Kali considered. “Will your fire not work in the rain? You made the one on Heartfire last all night, and on wet wood, no less. I can help if you want–”

  “That’s not it,” Sadira broke in, trembling. “You don’t overstand.”

  “Then help me understand.”

  Pale-blue eyes blazing with pain and fury met Kali’s. “Gideon is dead,” Sadira ground out. “Magic cannot return a stolen life.”

  True enough. Kali was at a loss. What good would it do to cremate Gideon now? If the gods existed, which Kali still could not bring herself to believe, wasn’t the damage already done? Gid was dead and buried; surely, if his soul was cursed to wander the void, magic would do no good now.

  “There is a pattern to all things that is too big for us to see. After all, we are humble, and the world is vast.”

  She fought back a swell of emotion at the memory of Stonewall’s calm certainty as he’d said those words on their journey to Whitewater City. They’d stopped at a stone structure that he had called a cairn: a place where folks made offerings to the gods. At the time, she had disregarded the notion and his words, but she’d had the lingering thought that it would be good to believe in something greater, something far wiser and stronger than herself. If the truth of reality was that all of them—mages, sentinels, and common folk—were just plummeting through the void… Well, it was terrifying.

  But perhaps it doesn’t matter if the gods are real, she thought. Perhaps what matters most is being strong for each other.

  So Kali caught Sadira’s eye and gestured to the others, who had been watching the quiet conversation with varying degrees of curiosity and bewilderment. “Yes, Sadira. Your magic cannot save Gid’s life. Not now. But perhaps your magic can make others’ lives better.”

  *

  Half an hour later, Kali stood beside Sadira in the rain and slush, huddled in her cloak and trying to ignore the cold. Even Sadira’s presence was not enough to ward off the sleet and biting chill as they stood beside Gideon Echina’s grave. All fourteen mages who remained at Whitewater Bastion stood with them. Thick gray clouds had overtaken the sky, casting the world in shadow, but no one held torches. At Foley’s request, Castor, Druce, and Oly—the same men who’d buried Gideon after Heartfire—had brought out their pickaxes and shovels once more.

  As they began to exhume Gid, Hazel glanced towards the gates. “The hemies won’t like this.”

  Kali looked at the gates as well, but only saw indistinct shadows through the sleet.

  “Aye, so we must be quick.” Foley peered at Sadira from beneath his hooded cloak. “You’re certain you can do this with the collar and your torc?”

  “I am,” Sadira replied, glancing at Kali. The question on her face was clearer than if she’d given it voice: Will you help me? But that wasn’t possible. Wearing the collar was different than being cuffed; Kali could do no more than feel the presence of particles, and even that was difficult. And even if she could recreate what she’d done with Eris’ collar… Sadira was strong on her own. She didn’t need anyone’s help.

  “I can’t help you…” Kali said, trailing off as she touched the collar sitting below her scar.

  The Zhee mage shook her head. “I don’t need your assistance. I just…” Her jaw went tight and she looked at her boots, blinking rapidly.

  Understanding washed over Kali like sheets of rain. She debated between compassion and common sense; compassion won. Steeling herself for the onslaught of that strange hunger, Kali laced her pale fingers with Sadira’s darker ones. Kali’s hand, already damp, felt like ice in the rain and chilly air, but a few seconds in Sadira’s grip sent heat spreading from her palm to her arm, warming her from the inside out. The tension in her shoulders eased and she offered Sadira a faint smile of thanks – and encouragement. Sadira didn’t reply, only took a breath and faced the now open grave. Rain had soaked through the dark earth and Kali could make out a rumple of cloth, but nothing more. Small mercies.

  Sadira closed her eyes and ducked her head. She wore no cloak, only a wool dress now plastered to her body. Despite her hematite torc and the collar, steam rose from her, and Kali could hear the faint hiss of rain evaporating once it struck the Zhee mage. Sadira exhaled and her grip relaxed as she sank further into her trance. Kali tried to follow suite, if only out of solidarity, but focus was difficult through the cold and wet, and the attention of all the other mages. But she had found her focus before, in much more harrowing circumstances, so she fought for it here. She wouldn’t let her friend down.

  Hematite placed a barrier between mages and the rest of the world, so although Kali could sense Sadira’s power building, the collar prevented her from touching that power, herself. The collar rendered her only a spectator. But even so, Kali had felt the touch of Sadira’s magic before – many times. She thought she knew what to expect from her observation.

  Heat flooded Kali’s lungs and face, and prickled at her scalp. Her legs burned as if from hours of running and her toes ached as if she’d stepped into a hot spring after walking barefoot on ice-cold flagstones. Another breath, from herself or from Sadira, it was impossible to say, and the heat within her veins increased, setting each nerve alight and filling her with fire. Sadira’s magic burned—even with the collar!—and Kali bit back a cry of pain. Someone gasped. Light flared to life behind her closed eyes; a blooming warmth followed, radiating up from the earth like burning coals beneath charred logs.

  Sweet magic.

  Hunger sparked in Kali’s mind. Before she could react, a sense of possession seized her; an unseen iron grip around her throat, tighter than any collar. A sense of raw, utter want crashed over her, consuming, and Kali was only aware of a desperate yearning for the sweet, delicious threads of magic that bound her and Sadira.

  “No,” Kali gasped, yanking her hand free and stumbling backward, falling to her knees and making her brace creak ominously. The force of the impact sent streaks of hot pain through her left knee, but that was not enough to quell how the cold soaked through her again. But the break of contact also caused the bulk of the strange longing to fade, although she could feel its echo resonating within her body.

  Sweet magic. Sweet blood.

  “Kali?”

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened to her?”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Druce, Jep – help her up.”

  Panting, Kali squeezed her eyes shut, trying to ignore everything but her own breath, trying to shove aside that wild, wholly foreign hunger and find Kali again. Someone grabbed her arm but she jerked free. “Stop! Leave me alone!”

  Give it to us. Now.

  The foreign presence within her laughed; Kali felt rather than heard the sound
as if it came from her own lungs, so she clamped her mouth shut and clenched her hands so hard, her nails pierced her skin.

  But the laughter came again. You are ours.

  “No!”

  Another hand on Kali’s shoulder, warm and reassuring. Sadira. Magic clung to the Zhee mage like the scent of jessamin flowers, and Kali ground her teeth against the urge to fling herself upon Sadira, to wrest magic out of the other woman and take it for herself. Gritting her teeth, Kali shoved away Sadira’s hand as hot tears streaked her cheeks, mingling with the icy sleet. Her knee throbbed, so she concentrated on the pain, willing it to drive away all other feelings.

  Calm settled over her; not peace, but reprieve. Gradually, the foreign urge dissipated, until Kali could open her eyes and feel like herself once more. When she looked around, the other mages were gaping at her. Beyond them, Gideon’s grave smoldered, orange embers burning even in the rain. Had the cremation worked? Kali couldn’t tell. She could hardly think.

  “Kali?”

  Sadira’s voice made Kali jerk her head up to see her friend kneeling beside her, close, but not touching. When Kali looked at her, Sadira made to touch Kali’s shoulder again, but Kali shook her head. “Don’t. I’m all right.” She stood slowly, shakily. “I’m all right. I’m fine.”

  Perhaps if she said the words enough, they would be true.

  Sadira rose as well. “You don’t seem–”

  “It’s just…cramps,” Kali interrupted. She glanced between Wylie and Foley; aside from Sadira, only the older mages had come closer, although concern was written on everyone’s faces. “They come upon me so suddenly, sometimes,” Kali went on. “I should have expected them this week, maybe had some ginger tea, but…”

  She trailed off, leaving Sadira and the others to think whatever they liked. Indeed, Wylie offered Kali a sympathetic look. “Mara bless you, child. I used to have dreadful cycles, too.” She looked at Foley. “Are we done here? I’m no healer, but Kalinda needs rest and none of us should be out in this weather, unless you want the lot of us to catch our deaths.”

  Foley’s gaze shifted from Kali to the grave. Embers still glowed amid a depression in the wet ground where flecks of gray ash mixed with dark mud. “Aye,” Foley replied quietly. “We’re finished. Are you hungry, Kalinda? I prepared some tea and sweetrolls, earlier.”

  A few others murmured appreciation, but Kali’s stomach twisted at the thought of being near other mages in this state. “No,” she said, shaking her head for emphasis. “I’m not hungry. I just want to rest. Alone.”

  “You are certain?” Sadira asked, expression still troubled.

  Kali nodded. Without waiting for a response, she turned to leave. A bitter wind blew, so she pulled her sopping cloak tight as she hurried through the mud, her boots squelching with each step. Perhaps she was imagining this. Perhaps she was overtired, or she’d suffered a blow to the head during the business at Parsa, or this really was the onset of the worst cycle of her life.

  But none of those hopes rang true.

  Thank the stars, no one pursued. Soon Kali had slipped back inside the dormitories to leave a trail of droplets as she made her way back to her room. She locked the door behind her, and then sank to the floor, heart hammering, soaked in rain and sweat and fear.

  Even behind closed doors and far away from Sadira and the others, the strange hunger for magic lingered like a bitter aftertaste to the sweetest wine. Every beat of her heart, every breath, affirmed the truth.

  Thrall.

  Eleven

  Stonewall tightened his grip on his daggers and lunged at Milo. The younger man hesitated for a fraction of a second before blocking what would have been a killing blow to his heart. He grunted, and then used the leverage of his greater size to knock Stonewall back a few paces.

  Although it was midday, the sun had hidden behind a layer of thick gray clouds and only Stonewall’s squad was in the garrison courtyard. The other sentinels were either searching the province for renegade mages or patrolling the bastion. Stonewall did not miss how his squad had only been assigned the former in the week since Heartfire.

  With the bastion on lockdown and with his squad not authorized to enter, how in the void could he even get to Kali? His head swam with the events of the last few days. No doubt she was in much the same state. They needed to see each other again, but he did not think they’d get a chance unless he made one.

  “Come on, Mi!” Flint called from where she practiced with Rook and Beacon, the three of them alternating dagger strikes on a wooden practice dummy.

  If Milo heard his sister, he didn’t show it, only faced Stonewall, lips compressed and body tense. His blue eyes, which should have darted between his opponent’s feet and face, looked glazed and red-rimmed behind his helmet. Stonewall made a show of adjusting his grip on the triangular, hiltless daggers that all sentinels carried, but when Milo still looked distracted, he struck again. This time, he went right for Milo’s throat.

  Only when the younger man was on his back and blinking at the sky did Stonewall speak. “That’s the sixth time you’d be dead if this spar was in earnest.”

  Stonewall sheathed his daggers and offered Milo a hand. Once Milo was on his feet, his chin dropped to his chest. “I know.”

  Stonewall removed his helmet to better see the younger man. “Are you all right? I know you’ve had a lot of stalls to muck out.”

  “That’s what happens when people get hurt under your watch.”

  “You’ve been…uneasy, since Parsa,” Stonewall said. “I don’t blame you; the whole thing was…a nightmare. But Milo,” he placed a gloved hand on Milo’s shoulder, “you must keep your wits about you, now more than ever.”

  Blue eyes met his. “I know,” Milo whispered. “But it’s just…” He trailed off, one hand dropping to his sword before jerking away as if the hilt had burnt him. “It’s hard.”

  “Aye, and it’s going to get worse, before it gets better, I think,” Stonewall said, squeezing Milo’s shoulder. “But we’re a team. You don’t have to fight alone, remember?” He added a half smile, hoping to elicit one from Mi at the callback to words the burnie had spoken to him, not so long ago.

  He was rewarded when Milo offered his own faint smile, ducking his head once. “That’s good to know.”

  “Don’t forget it.” A sudden chill moved through Stonewall’s body, making him suck in a breath and glance around for the nearest fire, seeking warmth. His hands trembled and his feet felt like blocks of ice, and the desire for hematite was suddenly a living thing clawing at his mind. He needed a burn – now! Dread pooled in his guts but he forced himself to calm down and ignore the desire. Gradually, the chill abated.

  “Done already?” Flint said, bounding up to stand between the two men. “So are we. Rook and Beacon are tired.”

  Stonewall and Milo looked up in alarm, but Rook shook her head. “It’s nothing,” she said as she approached. “Just had a rough time falling asleep last night. It’s so cold.” Her steps lacked their usual lightness and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.

  Beacon, too, moved with heaviness, but his expression was concerned as he removed his helmet to study his squad-mates. “Any other symptoms of withdrawal? Nausea? Pain?”

  “No,” Rook replied. “I just can’t seem to stay warm.”

  The mender looked at Stonewall, who lifted his palms. “Just chills. If that changes, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “You’re all about due for a burn,” Beacon replied.

  “So are you,” Rook pointed out.

  The mender shrugged. “I’ll manage. Thank Mara none of us are cinders; Slate and Red are about to lose their wits.”

  “How much longer do we have left before…the urge becomes too much to bear?” Stonewall asked.

  “Given the timing of your last burns…” Beacon grimaced. “A couple weeks. Maybe.”

  Flint’s eyes rounded as she looked between the older sentinels. “So soon?”

  “Didn’t reali
ze you cared,” Beacon replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  Flint glared at him, but the expression held no edge. “I’m not worried about you. Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “That’s right,” Rook said, nudging Flint’s side. “She only loves me and Mi. You two,” she pointed to Stonewall and Beacon, “are on your own.”

  “Well, the sarge is all right,” Flint said. “Sometimes.”

  The others chuckled, but Stonewall’s gaze had slipped to the bastion gates. Two sentinels stood guard on either side within the garrison, and he knew that several squads patrolled the interior and atop the walls.

  “Anyway,” Flint went on. “I’m tired of sitting around. When are we going to find more thralls? Not to kill them,” she added at Milo’s horrified look. “To try and cure them.”

  Stonewall glanced back at his squad. “The commander didn’t believe me.”

  “No, she didn’t,” Rook added, frowning. “But the whole situation is difficult to believe.”

  “Maybe we can sneak Mage Halcyon out,” Milo said.

  Rook gaped at him. “Sneak out a mage? What’s gotten into you?”

  “At least it’s an idea,” Flint replied.

  “Sort of,” Milo added, beaming at his sister. “But if we could manage it…” He sighed, forlorn again. “We just need a little time.”

  “One of the many things we don’t have,” Beacon muttered.

  They all glanced toward the bastion gates now. Stonewall’s belly cramped at the mention of time; another enemy he could not hope to defeat. If hematite withdrawal was already creeping upon him…

  Even if he and those he cared about could somehow leave this life behind, how would his squad survive without hematite?

  Drake will know.

  The thought came unbidden and Stonewall fought back a grimace at the realization. He’d spent the last several days trying not to think about his supposed-to-be-dead brother; he hadn’t even breathed a word of Drake to his squad. The whole situation was too bizarre for him to wrap his mind around. But the gods had a twisted sense of humor and Stonewall didn’t think he could avoid this problem any longer.