Stormrise

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Stormrise Page 3

by Jillian Boehme


  “I know,” Willow said. “It’s just that I’ve waited so long.”

  “You’re nineteen,” Mama said. “You do not yet know what it means to wait long.”

  I took Mama’s meaning, and Willow’s expression told me that she did, too. Papa and Mama had been married for fourteen years before Willow was born. A huge disgrace, those years of childlessness. Willow had been welcomed with as much joy as if she had been a son. When Storm and I had come along two years later, they would have been content with only my brother.

  They would never have admitted that. But any second daughter in Ylanda knew it to be true.

  “Remember, too, that you had an additional suitor,” Papa said. “To my knowledge, he has still not found a wife.”

  Willow’s mouth opened, a huge O. “But he’s old. And widowed.”

  “He’s not that old,” Papa said dryly.

  “He walks with a cane. Surely you wouldn’t turn my dowry over to him, Papa.”

  “If Storm and I do not come back, there will be three mouths in this house that need feeding. Do you think, perhaps, it might be better to marry an old widower so that he could take care of you—and your mother?”

  I chewed my quail cake while Willow retreated into silence. Papa hadn’t mentioned who would take care of me if he didn’t come back. I would rather live on the riverbank and hand-catch my daily meals than marry an old man with money.

  * * *

  “Rain.”

  Papa’s voice filtered through the layers of my thoughts as I scribbled words I knew I’d only have to discard later. I looked up from my bed to see him framed in my doorway, his features soft in the lamplight.

  “Yes?” I stuck my pen behind my ear.

  He raised an eyebrow at my stained fingers. “Am I interrupting your poetry?”

  “It’s not going well, anyway,” I said. “Do you need something?”

  “Since we’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow, I thought this might be a good time to give this to you.” He walked to my bedside and handed me a thin wooden box.

  It was heavy in my hands, and something inside it shifted. “What’s this?”

  “Half of your dowry.”

  I stared at him for a moment before opening the box. More tak than I had ever seen at once lay piled inside.

  “Papa.”

  “Fifty tak isn’t enough to secure you a husband, but when I come home, I will provide the rest.”

  The weight on my heart came from words unspoken. If he didn’t come home, I would at least have half a dowry to build upon. After a few years of laboring in the fields, I could, perhaps, make up the difference.

  “Why give this to me now?” I asked. “Why not leave it in Mama’s care?”

  His smile was sad. “Somehow, I think you will do just fine, Rain L’nahn. Even if you marry at thirty, I don’t fear for you.”

  Something half laugh, half sob came out of my throat. “Thank you, Papa.”

  He kissed the top of my head. “We will weather this storm, my daughter.”

  But I had no intention of weathering the storm. I would face it head-on—and take it down. Like the Neshu fighter Papa had trained me to be.

  I hugged the coin chest for a long time after he’d left. And for even longer, I sat in the dark, unable to sleep.

  “Rain.” Storm’s whisper was husky at my door.

  I pulled my blanket over the money box. “Come in.”

  “I had a bad dream.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He sat on the bed and rubbed his eyes. “I can’t remember. But there were soldiers. And monsters.”

  “Did you kill the monsters?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  I took his hand. “Are you afraid to go to war?”

  “No. I’m a brave soldier.”

  “Being brave doesn’t mean you’re never afraid.”

  He sighed, long and deep. “Can I sleep in here?”

  “No, Storm. Papa and Mama want you to sleep in your own bed.” I kissed his hand. “I love you.”

  He stayed a while longer, sitting quietly, probably hoping I’d change my mind. Finally I gave him a gentle nudge, and he rose and shuffled out, already half asleep.

  It should have been me, waking in the dark with the dreams of a child. When Storm and I were sick, the healer had only enough medicine for one of us and said he’d come back the next day with more. Of course my parents had told him to give the medicine to their son, but he had given it to me instead. Overnight, I improved, and Storm grew worse. And never fully recovered.

  I couldn’t let him go to war. The likelihood that he and Papa would return was lower than I could bear to admit. But the only alternative would be for someone else to step up in his place.

  A nephew or cousin, second male in their own families. A second son, sound in mind and body.

  We had none of those options. There were only Papa and Storm and Mama and Willow.

  And me.

  I should have been a son.

  I could be a son.

  At first, the idea terrified me. True, I was quick on my feet and not curvy—and I looked so much like Storm. With a military hairstyle and armor, maybe I could create the illusion. But how long would it take for me to be discovered? Would the first words out of my mouth betray my true sex?

  And what would I do during my monthly bleed?

  Discovery would mean death. If I were caught, my punishment would be swift and sure.

  But.

  What if there were some way to strengthen my disguise?

  Madam S’dora’s shelves were filled with mixtures and powders and potions beyond my imaginings. And she had sold Willow a tea that would make her bleeding stop for her wedding night. Surely she had something similar that I could use to stop my bleed indefinitely?

  My heart battered my chest, forcing my breaths to come fast and shallow. If my disguise were good enough, no one would know. The possibility of meeting someone who would recognize me was small; I spent most of my time at home and had no friends from town. And because we’d kept Storm quietly hidden away since he was six or seven, there was little chance anyone would recognize him by sight, either.

  If I left at night, while everyone else slept, I could make my escape without worry.

  A hundred things could go wrong, but in my heart it was settled.

  I would go in the morning to Madam S’dora’s. If she had what I needed, then nothing would stop me.

  I would become the son my father needed.

  My hands curled around the money box, guilt prickling the edges of my heart. This was dowry money, entrusted to me in good faith. Even if I only spent a quarter of it at Madam S’dora’s, that was a lot.

  But if I went in Storm’s place, then Papa could stay home, too. He wouldn’t have to worry about never returning. And if I died, I wouldn’t need a dowry, anyway.

  “I’m doing this for you and Storm, Papa,” I whispered. Then I slid the box beneath my pillow and willed myself to sleep.

  4

  The money bag was heavy in my satchel. At first, I had intended to only bring half of the coins. But then I realized that if Madam S’dora had what I needed, I should buy as much as possible and not have to worry about running out. So I’d taken all fifty tak from the box and slid them into a bag that barely contained them. Then I stuck the bag into a satchel, hiding them beneath the linens from my bed, which I claimed I needed to wash.

  “I’ve warned you about writing in bed,” Mama had said as I left.

  It was only a partial lie. There was no ink spill on my sheets, but I did intend to wash them and lay them out on the grassy bank to dry. That part, at least, would be true. I pulled my straw hat low over my eyes and set off.

  It was hard, at first, to remember which street to turn down. Yesterday, I mostly had been following Willow and trying not to drop everything I was carrying. After a moment or so of near-panic, I recognized the building at the corner of the street I was looking for. I ducked my head a
nd hurried into the obscurity of Madam S’dora’s street and into her shop.

  She looked up as soon as I opened the door and watched me as I made my way to her counter. I meant to say hello, but my heart was beating too fast for talking to seem easy. So I forced a smile instead.

  “Has your sister sent you, or are you here on your own business?”

  She remembered me. “My own business.” I dropped my satchel—carefully—at my feet.

  Madam S’dora nodded as if she weren’t at all surprised that I’d come. “So. What does Little Sister need that she didn’t want to ask for while Big Sister was present?”

  Heat rushed to my face, and it occurred to me that there was no way for me to explain why I needed what I needed. “I need something to stop the bleeding.”

  “Bleeding?” She leaned in, her hands splayed on the counter. “Monthly bleeding, or something else?”

  “No,” I said. “Yes. Monthly.”

  A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “An elopement?”

  If my face were any hotter, it might spontaneously combust. “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Well, you’ll have to be clearer about what you want.”

  “I want”—I took a deep breath—“to stop the bleeding. Permanently.”

  I could hear the dust settling as Madam S’dora stared at me. It wasn’t a stare of judgment or even surprise. It was, simply, a stare. Like she was trying to read the thoughts behind my brow bone.

  “Permanently?” she asked.

  “For a long time, anyway,” I said. “As long as possible.”

  “Hmm.” She turned her back and disappeared through a small, curtained doorway.

  I drummed my fingers on the counter in an effort to make myself feel casual. Inside, though, I was tight as a bowstring, ready to snap if someone so much as touched me on the shoulder. I peered around the shop, making sure the scuttle I’d heard was only a mouse and not the soft shoes of someone else waiting to buy a potion.

  It seemed an entire day before Madam S’dora emerged, bearing an amber jar with a thick cork stopper. The glass was too dark for me to see inside, and I tried not to stare as she set the jar before me.

  “How much are you willing to risk?”

  I opened my mouth but closed it when I realized she hadn’t said “pay.” A creeping sensation played along the edges of my hair and down the back of my neck.

  “Silence tells me you’re unsure,” Madam S’dora said.

  “I don’t know what you mean by ‘risk,’” I said.

  Her voice trailed lower, almost reverent. “This is an ancient magic, and powerful. Not to be dealt with lightly.”

  I swallowed. “What is it?”

  She pried the stopper from the bottle and took a slow, gentle sniff. Euphoria spread over her face like sunlight. “This.” She pushed the jar toward me and gestured to her nose.

  I didn’t want to smell it. I wanted to change my mind and run from the shop. But I leaned over and took a tentative sniff.

  And gagged.

  Whatever was in the jar smelled sharp and dull and fresh and old at the same time. Mostly it smelled like dead feet, or the inside of a fish barrel that had been left in the sun.

  Madam S’dora grinned. “It’s an acquired taste.”

  “What is it?” I asked again.

  “A strong powder from the remains of T’Gonnen himself,” she said. “One pinch a day beneath your tongue will keep your womanly time from coming. But you may find it has other effects as well.” She cocked her head, waiting for my question, but I was too busy trying to imagine placing a pinch of dead feet under my tongue every day. So she continued, “It may increase your facial hair or deepen your voice. Or it may not.”

  My heart jumped. Either of those effects would help with my disguise. “Is that all?”

  Madam S’dora coiled cold fingers around my hand. “You understand what I mean when I say dragon magic?”

  I bit back a retort. Dragons were nothing but myth, dragon magic a child’s tale. If Madam S’dora believed in that, it was no wonder she sold her wares in a dark shop off the beaten path. Anyone making claims like that in the Tenema marketplace would have been ridiculed.

  Still, I didn’t want to jeopardize the sale. So I kept my expression neutral and said, “I know nothing about dragon magic, Madam S’dora.”

  She nodded soberly and her grasp on my hand tightened. “T’Gonnen was high king of dragons! When you swallow this powder, his magic becomes a part of you.”

  “I don’t care what’s in it, as long as it works.” Which, at this point, I was beginning to doubt. T’Gonnen was a name from the dragon mythology. A story told to scare children into obedience.

  Madam S’dora shrugged and wrapped her hands around the jar. “If you buy it, you can choose to care or not about what you are swallowing.” She cocked her head. “It might awaken things. You could have dreams.”

  I frowned. “Dreams?”

  “The power of T’Gonnen is strong,” Madam S’dora said. “His final gift to us. There’s no telling how it may affect you.”

  “I just need to know that it works.”

  “Everything in my shop … works.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to buy some or not?”

  I hesitated. Madam S’dora studied me, and for a moment I was five again, and she was holding out the handkerchief, smiling.

  Kind. For two heartbeats, that’s what my heart had said. But then childish fear had taken over, squashing my heart’s impression.

  “You’re afraid,” she said softly. “But it’s not the powder you fear.”

  “I’m only afraid of doing the wrong thing.”

  “Of breaking the law by pretending you’re a boy?”

  I cringed. “I know it’s against the law.”

  On the surface, it made sense—since men owned all property in Ylanda, a woman caught impersonating a man was branded a thief, under the assumption that it was her intent to claim ownership that wasn’t legally hers. The penalty was death without trial.

  “If you’re discovered, they will show you no mercy. But the magic in this powder is…” Madam S’dora lowered her voice to a whisper. “Immeasurable.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Madam S’dora smiled. “How much do you need?”

  It was a good question. How long would I have to keep up this deception? How many weeks would I last until I was found out—or fell in battle?

  “A year’s worth,” I said.

  “Dragon magic is powerful. Are you sure?”

  “I need enough for a year.”

  She nodded. “That will be eighty tak.”

  “Eighty!” It flew from my lips before I could stop it.

  “This particular magic of T’Gonnen is not replenishable,” Madam S’dora said. “When the powder is gone, there will be nothing to replace it.”

  The rarity of the powder made no difference—I didn’t have eighty tak. “I’ll take six months’ worth, then,” I said.

  “Forty tak.”

  So much money. Too much. Almost the entire half of the dowry Papa had given me in good faith. What would he think if he saw me right now?

  I swallowed the tightness in my throat. “S’da.”

  “Very well. This will take me a few minutes.”

  She retrieved a small, wide bowl from the shelf beneath the counter, along with a tiny, long-handled spoon. With a steady, graceful hand, she began to scoop the dark powder into the bowl, pinch by pinch.

  “One … two … three…”

  I turned away, desperate to find something—anything—to distract me while she painstakingly measured the powder. A box of cylindrical metal amulets set with tiny, uncut jewels caught my attention. Their beauty was negligible, but there was something compelling about them. I had just picked one up to examine it more closely when the shop door creaked open.

  A young man entered, and I lowered my head and studied the amulet as though nothing else in the world were so important.
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br />   “Madam S’dora?” The boy’s words were brusque, as though he had no time for politeness.

  “I will be right with you,” Madam S’dora said, and returned to her muttered counting.

  “I don’t have much time.”

  She ignored him, and he let out a short burst of air before beginning to pace. I peeked between baskets of empty bottles and rabbits’ feet and stole a glance. He was short and stocky with a prominent jaw and a nose that looked as though it had once been broken.

  I pulled my hat lower and made my way back to the counter, so he would see that Madam S’dora’s attention was mine right now. More than anything, I wanted to leave. She counted so slowly.

  “Seventy-one … seventy-two…”

  “You know mine will only take a moment,” the boy said.

  “You’ll have your moment next.”

  He made another exasperated sound and began to pace again. I bit back the rebuke that sizzled on my tongue. What mother had raised a son to be so rude?

  Endless minutes later, Madam S’dora tapped the contents of the bowl into a soft leather pouch. I lifted my satchel onto the counter and withdrew the money bag.

  I’m sorry, Papa.

  I counted out the forty tak and placed the leather pouch in my satchel. Then I slung the satchel over my shoulder.

  “One pinch every night before sleeping,” Madam S’dora said. “No more or less. And don’t skip a single night.”

  “Thank you.” The words felt like gravel.

  Then, suddenly, Madam S’dora reached across the counter and patted my cheek. “Whatever happens, don’t be afraid.”

  My nod felt awkward. I was going to thank her again, but Rude Boy had returned to the counter.

  “Will you help me now, old lady?”

  Ire rose in me like sparks at a blacksmith’s. I clenched my teeth to keep hot words from spilling out, and instead purposely shoved my satchel into the boy as I turned around. Our eyes met, and his face shifted into a leer. As I moved away, I felt his hand groping at my bottom.

 

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