Stormsinger
Stephanie A. Cain
Copyright 2013 Stephanie A. Cain
Published by Cathartes Press
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Also by Stephanie A. Cain
Storms in Amethir Series
The Midwinter Royal
Stormsinger (free e-book)
Stormshadow
Stormseer
Storms in Amethir Books 1 – 3 Omnibus
The Weather War (coming 2017)
Faith and Fealty Series
Sow the Wind
Circle City Magic Series
Shades of Circle City
Circle City Psychic (coming 2017)
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Dedicated to my parents, who have always believed in me
CHAPTER ONE
Following seas and a clear sunset. Arama Dzornaea closed her eyes and relished the feel of the wind in her face. It would be a short, easy sail from Maron Palace to Ranarr. She could do the run in under three days, with a good tailwind and skimming in close to The Blades. With Prince Vistaren on board, she had the dubious benefit of a stormwitch to provide those tailwinds, but there was no way she would risk the prince through The Blades. They would swing wide and take a leisurely week to make the trip.
Arama didn't think Prince Vistaren would mind the extra days; after all, they were going to Ranarr to meet his bride.
"Tighten up that topsail," she ordered, and watched her crew leap to obey. "Good. We'll be crossing the sandbar any minute. As soon as we're out, signal the lightkeepers."
Next to her, a man with short, spiky black hair gave a contented grunt. "It's been too long since I've been to sea. I'd thank his highness for this chance, if I didn't know he was so sick over the whole thing."
Arama glanced at him. "You're welcome on my ship any time you want, Lo."
He chuckled. "Aye, I know that. I suspect his majesty wouldn't care."
Arama turned her gaze back to the sea, smiling. "You might be surprised. King Rekel listens to me from time to time."
"He ought to. That last Strid vessel you took outfitted half the army."
She rolled her eyes at Lo's exaggeration, but there was no denying she was the king's top privateer. She'd received her letter of marque twelve years ago, after the Bounder went down off Swordfish Island, and she'd captured more ships than the next two privateers combined. She never had trouble filling her crew of twenty, and though she was a half-Crelin of no particular rank, she had pull most aristocrats could only dream of.
"Are you expecting any trouble?" Lo scratched at the stubble on his chin, not looking at her. His light gray eyes were focused on the sea.
"Nothing from Strid or Tamnen, if that's what you mean," she replied. "And we've that stormwitch to protect us from bad weather." She couldn't quite keep the distaste out of her voice, so to hide it she shouted, "Get that signal flag up, and sharpish! We've crossed the bar and the lightkeepers need to send word to his majesty."
Lozarr hadn't missed it. "She's a good stormwitch, Arama," he said, his voice low. "I hand-picked her. She's prickly as the seven hells, but she's strong and resilient, and she knows her craft."
Arama cleared her throat. Lozarr saw her too clearly. It threw her off balance, though she had tried for years to settle into it. They'd met on the Bounder. He knew she hated stormwitches--and why. Sometimes his understanding about it made her want to shout and throw things. Other times--not often--that same understanding made her want to lean against his chest and let him wrap strong arms around her. Whenever that particularly disconcerting desire hit her, she went looking for a Strid ship to attack. Blowing things up always made her feel better.
It bothered her that Lo knew her well enough to understand all of that. He straightened and shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway. You'll meet her tomorrow. I'm going to check on Prince Vistaren and make sure everyone's settled. I'll see you in the morning." He leaned in to brush a prickly kiss against her cheek, and she permitted it only because he'd never tried anything more familiar.
"Dream well," she said, hoping her voice wasn't too flinty. She loved Lozarr. As much as she could love anyone, she loved him. She couldn't afford to drive him away. She wouldn't want to. She just couldn't afford to let him too close.
She didn't look as he climbed down the ladder from the quarterdeck. When he'd passed amidships, though, she turned and watched his broad, wool-clad shoulders as he went below deck for the night.
Arama Dzornaea, King Rekel's privateer, infamous Storm Petrel, couldn't afford the luxury of love, but she wasn't so far gone that she didn't lament the sacrifice.
CHAPTER TWO
"Will she like me, Lo?" Prince Vistaren had no illusions about himself. Despite his good Crelin genes and olive skin, he would only be called handsome by a particularly charitable observer. His face was too round, his frame too short. He was, to put a fine point on it, pudgy. Everything, in Vistaren's opinion, that a crown prince should not be.
"Of course she will. You're intelligent and affable, and you understand both the pressure and the privilege of duty." Lozarr Algot was a kind man. Not at all what a general ought to be like, Vistaren thought. Thank the gods for that.
"I've wanted to meet her since I was ten," Vistaren admitted. "I was studying the conflict between Tamnen and Strid, and read about the battle between the Dawn Star and the Kerava. Did you know her back then?"
Lo scraped a hand down his stubbled jaw, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "I did. She was barely older than you are now, and more full of herself than a he-cock on a--" He broke off. "That is to say, she was...well. Arrogant."
There was a warmth in Lo's eyes that made Vistaren's heart jump. That, something whispered. That was what love looked like. Not a few stilted words exchanged on a page. Not a promise made for economic and political compromise. Not even lust. Vistaren might be young, but he understood lust. What he saw in Lo's eyes when he talked about Arama was the real thing.
"Deservedly so," Vistaren commented. "She was, what, twenty? And she took down the flagship of the Tamnen navy."
"She was twenty-two." Lozarr shook his head. "And I was twenty." He was smiling, but to Vistaren it looked sad. "We were so young."
"I ought to be offended at that."
Lo chuckled. "You're older at twenty than I was at twenty-five, lad. The shadow of the crown has aged you." He stood. "And taught you better manners than I've ever had. We ought to have been at breakfast five minutes ago, and Captain Arama runs a tight ship, my prince."
Vistaren jumped to his feet. "There goes my chance to make a good impression on her," he lamented. "How do I look?"
"Tidy." Vistaren twitched. He saw Lo fight a grin. Af
ter a moment, Lo added, "Elegant, but not arrogant, highness."
Vistaren gave a sharp nod and left the cabin. A man had to have standards, and for the past three years, he had decided elegant was his. Amethir wasn't the sort of nation that needed a sophisticated or flamboyant king. She was peopled with fisherfolk, shipbuilders, and stormwitches. They sang songs and wrote plays, but they did not engage in convoluted political maneuverings as did the Strid, nor did they embrace high fashion as did the Tamnen. No, Vistaren was of Amethir, and he would be what she needed.
Even if that meant denying himself.
#
Captain Dzornaea was everything Vistaren had hoped for--and nothing he had imagined. She was short and skinny, with skin the color of coffee with cream. Her eyes were blue, which spoke of Crelin blood, as did her blue-black hair. But her nose had the thin bridge and slope of a Sterr. She wore dark blue velvet breeches and a crisp, white blouse, with a fitted leather weskit over the blouse. A crimson sash held her sabre and pistol. Her dark brown jacket draped haphazardly over the back of her chair. Vistaren would have thought her formally dressed, except that her breeches ended several inches above her ankles, and her feet were bare.
"Prince Vistaren." Her voice was crisp but friendly as she bowed. "I hope you dreamt well."
Vistaren smiled. "I did indeed, Captain Dzornaea. And you?"
He didn't think he was imagining the flicker of a shadow in her gaze. "Well enough, highness." She gestured at the table.
Vistaren sat, which allowed the others to sit as well. He took a roll and a piece of meat, glancing at the captain. There were shadows under her eyes. Her hair, which was wavy and cropped jaw-length, looked tousled. For a brief instant, Vistaren allowed himself to imagine that she'd spent a passion-filled night with Lozarr. Then he remembered the lines of sorrow at either side of Lo's mouth and realized that couldn't have happened.
"Tell me about our journey," Vistaren said.
Arama smiled. "It's ill luck to say a voyage should be easy, highness." She sipped from a thick-walled mug. "I have made the run from Maron to Ranarr more times than I can count. If I skim in close to the Blades and have following seas, I can do it under three days. This trip, we'll swing well wide of the Blades and make the voyage in a week."
Vistaren nodded. "The Dawn Star is a fine vessel. I've read of your exploits, of course."
"I hope your highness does not expect battles at sea," Arama said. Her mouth was quirked up. Vistaren thought she was teasing him.
He made a show of mulling it over. "Not unless you feel it absolutely necessary, Captain," he said finally. "I understand it is a serious request to make of you."
She laughed. "Your father would have me keel-hauled if I involved you in a sea battle, Prince Vistaren." Her amusement warmed him. She thought he was funny. Then her expression sobered. "And I suspect your bride-to-be would object, as well."
It was like she'd doused him in cold water. "Indeed." He helped himself to several slices of bacon. He didn't want to think about Princess Azmei. "I have complete confidence in you, Captain Dzornaea, to see us safely to Ranarr."
She inclined her torso, which impressed Vistaren. He'd never realized one could bow effectively while seated. He dismissed the topic with a flick of his hand. "Tell me, Captain, how are the seas this morning? I have little sailing experience, so while I find the rocking of the ship exhilarating, I have no idea if we are in heavy seas or...well, whatever isn't heavy seas."
Arama laughed. "The sea is in a fine mood today, your highness. Having little sailing experience is no flaw, but we shall fill that lack before we reach Ranarr."
She launched into a lecture about the many moods of the sea. Vistaren felt his shoulders relaxing as Arama spoke, and soon he had all but forgotten he was sailing to meet his bride.
CHAPTER THREE
He sings out of his loneliness.
There is no answer. There has never been an answer.
He is aware of those who, like him, traverse the deeps and celebrate the cycle of dry and wet and storms. He is aware that he is not the only being of his kind. Yet he is alone.
There are other songs. He feels the songs against his skin, pulsing through him, resonating with the loneliness inside him. Those who are like him--like, yet unlike, somehow--sing too, but their songs are subtly different.
He tries to mimic them, but how can he perceive how his songs are received? He can only know how their songs feel on his skin, in his innermost being. He cannot imagine what his songs feel like to others.
Yet he sings on. Someone will answer him. Someday, somehow.
Someone will answer his loneliness.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Captain Dzornaea." Kinnet smoothed her skirts and watched the back of the captain's head. When the captain turned to face her, Kinnet made herself smile.
"Stormwitch Ardelis." Kinnet appreciated how careful Arama was to keep her face turned toward her. "Is there trouble?"
Kinnet inclined her torso, keeping her gaze on Arama's face. "I feel...echoes. I think echoes. I..." She drew her brows together. "I am not sure."
"Echoes of...power?" Arama asked. "Of a storm? Is there something building?"
Kinnet spread her hands and opened her mouth. After several seconds, she huffed out a breath and clenched her fists. "Echoes. My feet feel them. Through the floor."
"Deck," Arama corrected.
"Deck. They shake." Kinnet shook her head. "Vibrate."
Arama scrubbed a hand through short, blue-black hair. "What do you think it is?" she asked at last.
"I..." Kinnet let her gaze go unfocused as she searched again for any hint of recognition. "I don't know. I have never felt this before."
Arama swore. "What can you do?" She scraped her toes against a coil of rope. Kinnet wondered if they itched. What would it be like to go barefoot all the time, as Arama did?
Kinnet lifted one hand to curl around the large sea-glass pendant that hung at her throat. "I will try to sense what causes the disturbance."
"Good idea." Arama didn't hide the annoyance in her expression.
Kinnet flinched. She knew what the captain must be thinking. Any stormwitch who wore as much sea-glass as Kinnet did must be powerful. Sea-glass wasn't cheap by any measure, and a chunk as large as that pendant would have come dear. Why couldn't the woman have intelligence that equaled her wealth? Well, Kinnet would show her. She was intelligent, as well as powerful. She had just never been given the opportunities so many others got.
Kinnet glared at her. "I must not be disturbed," she said. "And I will need a pitcher of water."
"Of course." Arama signaled one of her crew and gave the orders necessary. "Should I prepare to defend ourselves?"
Kinnet's gaze turned inward. "No," she said at last. "This is something...not made by humans. I feel..." She trailed off, then clenched her teeth. Why should she try to explain how the power felt? Not even a ship's captain could understand the way stormwitchery called to you. "I will inform you when I have learned anything."
She swung around, her skirts swishing around her, and strode away, hips rolling with the pitch of the ship. She would show Arama Dzornaea. She would do whatever was necessary to protect Prince Vistaren. She would gain the prince's trust and admiration. And then Pralith Menever and all those buzzing toadies at the college would see that Kinnet Ardelis was more than a poor deaf girl who could channel lightning.
CHAPTER FIVE
The first full day of their voyage was unremarkable. Vistaren talked to the sailors and attempted to stay out of Captain Dzornaea's way while studying the way Lo interacted with her. It wasn't as difficult as he'd expected. Arama was obviously fond of Lo, but she allowed no one to interfere with her duties. She would interrupt a conversation to stride across the deck and berate one of the crew members, or instruct the helmsman to change course. The first few times Vistaren saw that happen, he admired her dedication to duty.
After a while, he recognized it for what it was: an excuse to avoid whate
ver existed between her and Lo.
A captain's duties weren't as demanding as she made them look. Not on a diplomatic mission like this, at least. He knew she had logs to keep and reports to write, but as far as the routines on deck, they seemed to run themselves. Vistaren watched the helmsman adjust course twice without Arama's intervention, and the first mate didn't hesitate to issue orders regarding the sails and lines without the captain's supervision.
Nevertheless, Vistaren wasn't certain of his conclusion until he saw Lozarr reach out and rest a hand atop Arama's on the railing. It was startling how quickly Arama went stiff and turned her face away from Lo's. She said something that made Lo's shoulders slump. Then she stalked off, snapping orders. Baffled, Vistaren watched Lo as the general watched her walk away from him.
How could Lo's high regard for her elude her so? She was gruff and somewhat unrefined, but not stupid. Lozarr Algot was a kind, well-bred man who obviously cared for her. Vistaren understood that Arama didn't crave rank or glory. She just enjoyed what she did. She was as one with her ship. She loved her country. She served her king. It was admirable and praise-worthy. Was it possible that she feared love?
It wasn't that Vistaren couldn't sympathize. He was going to meet his bride, after all. He wasn't sure if Azmei would even like him. Would she understand his proclivities or make allowances for them? He wanted to like the woman he married, but he was under no illusion that he would ever feel desire for her. It was simply one of those sacrifices that must be made in Amethir's name.
But surely such a sacrifice couldn't be expected of Arama. She had no rank to speak of, and therefore no duties that would prevent her marrying for love. She clearly cared for Lo, and Lo just as clearly cared for her. Why not allow herself such pleasure?
"My prince is obviously further away than his gaze would suggest."
Vistaren jumped. "Lo! Don't sneak up on a body like that!"
Even Lo's smirk was gentle. "I spoke your name twice. Is it my fault that you were inattentive?"
"Certainly." Vistaren shook himself. "You've been to Ranarr before, haven't you?'
"A few times, highness. It isn't so different from Maron."
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