Stormrise

by Jillian Boehme

  I swung in an instant, bringing up my knee and knocking his arm back while hitting his chest with my knife hand. He staggered backward, catching himself on the counter, his face red.

  “Your tongue should have been cut out at birth,” I spat.

  “Who do you think you are, little bitch?”

  “Someone who thinks men should know how to treat women.” I looked at Madam S’dora. “If he gives you any trouble, poison him.”

  Her eyes twinkled at me—I was sure they did—before I spun and exited. If I stayed another moment, I would be tempted to pummel that poor excuse for a son to the floor.

  * * *

  I worked out my trembling as I washed my bedding in the stream, scrubbing beyond what I needed to. After I had spread the sheets onto the grass to dry, I waded back into the water to catch some fish for that night’s meal. A surprise for Mama. Or perhaps a guilt offering.

  Papa had taught me to fish by hand as soon as my hands were big enough. “The patience of fishing lends itself well to the centeredness of a Neshu fighter,” he would tell me. I’d never forget the first fish I caught—slippery, chaotic, exploding from between my fingers. A proud moment of my girlhood.

  I took a Neshu cleansing breath, stilling myself in the water even as my mind turned over and over again the thought of swallowing Madam S’dora’s powder. One pinch under my tongue at bedtime. How bad could that be? The worst of it was having spent forty tak of my dowry and not even knowing if the powder would work. But even if it worked, then what? Would I be able to train with the others? Would my speed and agility in Neshu make up for my lack of brawny muscle and male swagger?

  It would have to. I’d made a choice that I couldn’t unmake. And didn’t want to.

  The flick of a fish tail caught my eye, and I poised to grab it. On the first try, I swept it from the water and threw it onto the bank, where it flopped in mute protest. Then I returned my attention once more to the water.

  After my third catch, I scooped the fish into my bag and left the linens to dry. I took a shorter route home, walking quickly. Even so, Mama met me in the mudroom as I was slipping off my shoes.

  “What took you so long?” she asked.

  “I caught you some fish.” I opened the bag to show her my still-twitching catch.

  She nodded, pleased. “Well, come and help me harvest the crimson squash. I can hardly keep up—such an abundance this year.”

  “I’ll be right out.”

  I hastened to my room and placed the remaining ten tak in the box beneath my pillow, along with the pouch of powder. As I passed my parents’ room on my way out, I glimpsed Papa inside, polishing his sword. My heart banged against my chest like a trapped bird as I hesitated, unsure whether to knock or to keep moving silently by.

  He looked up, sparing me the choice. “The sadness of a hundred winters is in your eyes.”

  I stepped just past the doorway. “Not sadness, Papa. Just anger at the injustice.”

  “I’m honored to serve our high king.”

  “I know.” I moved closer. “But Storm isn’t fit for this. He had nightmares last night.”

  “I will be with him,” Papa said. “I’ll calm his fears.”

  “But you shouldn’t have to go. You should have a son capable of fighting, instead of a second daughter.”

  Papa laid the sword on the bed and turned to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “You are worth more to me than twenty capable sons. Surely you know that.”

  “I—” No, I didn’t know that. I had never asked, had never let Papa’s words and actions speak for themselves. Always, it was my own inner voice whispering that I was a disappointment. That Storm should have been the one to recover from the fever instead of me.

  How many times had I heard Mama say, “If only the healer had given Storm the medicine!” when she thought I wasn’t listening? Yet now, as the warmth from Papa’s hands sank into my skin, I realized that Papa himself had never said that.

  “Thank you, Papa.” Tears puddled in my eyes as he drew me into a hug. “I’ll miss you.”

  “And I will miss you,” he said into my hair. “More than I can say.”

  I nestled into his chest, flooded with the satisfaction of knowing I would save his life. Both their lives.

  In this moment, nothing else mattered.

  * * *

  Willow sat at the table, slicing cucumbers. I grabbed a knife and sat beside her, grateful to finally have her to myself.

  She eyed me sideways. “This doesn’t bode well.”

  “I thought I’d help you.” I grabbed the nearest cucumber.

  “Please don’t cut any fingers off, little sister.”

  I wrinkled my nose at her and tried to think of a casual way to bring up what I wanted to say. “Where are Mama and Papa?”

  “Walking by the stream,” Willow said. “I … wanted to give them some time together.”

  I heard the tremble in her voice but chose to ignore it. “I was wondering.” I waited while she sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “What was the other thing you bought at Madam S’dora’s?”

  “Oh. That.” She broke into a smile that hinted at embarrassment, then leaned close and lowered her voice. “For ease of the loss of maidenhood.”

  “What—” But I didn’t really want to know. “Don’t you worry that these things might be dangerous?”

  “No.”

  “Because?”

  “Because, Rain, if people died from Madam S’dora’s wares, she wouldn’t have stayed in business this long.”

  She had a point. “And you have friends who’ve drunk the tea?”

  “Yes,” Willow said. “And it’s not only them. A lot of people have purchased from Madam S’dora over the years. They just don’t talk about it.”

  “Really?” I wanted to lay this fear to rest.

  “Really.” She placed her hand on my wrist. “Still. Don’t tell Mama and Papa about it, please?”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  “She’s from Province Ytel, you know. Madam S’dora.”

  I frowned. “Yes, I know. But her belief in the stories about dragon magic doesn’t make them true.”

  “It’s hard not to believe them when everything she sells works so well.”

  “You don’t know that, Willow.”

  “I’ve never heard a single tale of something going wrong.” She sighed. “Do you remember The Lament of Nuaga? They say Madam S’dora can recite it from memory.”

  I barely remembered; the Lament was another piece of the childhood stories that had kept me up at night. “You don’t have to keep defending her. If you trust her, then I trust you.”

  Willow’s lower lip trembled. “I need to keep believing I’ll actually need those things. That I won’t lose him before I even have him.”

  “You deserve to be happy,” I said. “I don’t think the Great God will steal that from you.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Willow reached for her next cucumber. “And please don’t think I’m not worried about Papa and Storm. I can’t bear the thought of losing either of them.”

  “Don’t worry about them.”

  I had Papa and Storm covered.

  * * *

  By the pale light of the moon, I made my way to the barn, where I had hidden a hastily altered pair of pants and a shirt from Storm’s clothing chest, and the rest of what I needed for my journey. I crept past the half-sleeping donkeys into the empty stall at the back. A single candle cast its glow as I slipped out of my nightgown and into the pants, which were slightly too big. I fumbled with the belt, cinching it tightly. Then I took the strips of linen I’d carefully cut from an old sheet and bound my chest.

  It took me three tries to get it right; the first time, it was too loose, the second, too tight. When I knotted off my third attempt and ran my hands over my breasts, I felt satisfied. I wasn’t well-endowed to begin with, and the binding did its work well. I slipped a shirt over the strips and belted it with a len
gth of braided rope. A pair of Storm’s socks and Papa’s old boots—with rags stuffed into the toes—completed my outfit. Fortunately I’d be doing more riding than walking, so the boots would be sufficient until I was outfitted at camp.

  Next, I set up a hand mirror near the candle and set to work on my hair. Papa had worn his in the military style ever since returning from his days of battle; it would be easy to imitate. After combing the tangles from my long hair, I cut it to boy-length, an inch or two below my shoulders. When I was satisfied that it was even, I swept it back and pulled it into a knot at the crown of my head, securing it with a length of twine.

  Then I stepped back and peered at my reflection.

  In the play of shadow and light, if I squinted, I looked like a boy. Like Storm, whole and bright. I studied my face, recalling the many times I’d worn his clothing and fooled my family. When we were babies, Mama had relied on the traditional “son’s cap” to tell us apart—a white silken bonnet signifying the honor of being a male child. There was no such cap for infant daughters, but tonight I passed for the son I might’ve been. Or that Storm might’ve been.

  The smoothness of my cheeks bothered me, but it wasn’t unusual for some boys to mature later. The matchmaker’s grandson was sixteen, and he didn’t look a minute older than twelve.

  With some luck, I could do this.

  I opened the leather pouch from Madam S’dora and took a pinch of the powder between my thumb and finger. Without breathing, I tucked the pinch beneath my tongue and closed my mouth.

  The initial bitterness that crept along the edges of my tongue gave way to a warm tingling, followed by a hint of earth and a distinct muskiness that made it hard to swallow. The powder itself dissolved quickly beneath my tongue, as though it were sugar. I shuddered as the bitter, earthy musk trailed down my throat. Then I took a long swallow of water from the jug I’d brought to the barn.

  Heart pounding, I stood in the quiet warmth, wondering what sudden transformation I might experience. I felt nothing different, though. Only the lingering tingle beneath my tongue hinted that I’d swallowed anything at all.

  Time would tell. I was probably three quarters of the way to my next monthly bleed. I would know soon enough if the powder was working.

  I folded a heavy blanket and laid it across the nearest donkey’s back—Sweetpea, I’d always called her. It wouldn’t be fair to take Papa’s saddle, and I could sell Sweetpea and send the money home so that Papa could replace her. He’d always claimed Sweetpea was lazy, anyway.

  My satchel contained a few things I needed—extra socks, some food, a few sheets of parchment with a writing pen and inkstick. Beneath it all lay several carefully folded rags, should my monthly bleed decide to show up despite the powder. I threw the satchel crosswise over my shoulders and led Sweetpea from her stall. She balked, not wanting to leave comfort behind in the middle of the night. I stroked her shaggy neck.

  “Come on, Sweetpea,” I said. “It’ll be an easy ride. I promise.”

  Once I’d coaxed her from her stall, I affixed a carefully written letter on the uppermost crossbeam of the door to the stall:

  Papa,

  You deserve a son who can go to war and bring you honor. If I hadn’t been given the medicine meant for him, Storm would be that son today. He is the dearest brother I could ask for, and his place is at home, where he will be safe.

  You spent so many years unable to provide for us, and now you are living honorably and have the life you deserve. Mama has no one else to provide for her, and there is a great chance that Willow’s betrothed will not return from the war, despite what Mama says. They both need you. I’m glad that I’m your daughter—but now it is my turn to be your son.

  Please do not send anyone after me; by the time you read this, I will already be a long way from home. Forgive me for taking Sweetpea without asking. I will sell her and send you the money so that you can replace her.

  I love you and Mama to the moon and beyond. I will make you proud.

  Your affectionate daughter,

  Rain

  My hand trembled as I took Sweetpea’s lead and walked her out of the barn. She was unusually quiet, and I was grateful. Probably it was because I hadn’t saddled her—she was always happier to be barebacked. After I’d eased the barn door closed, I walked her to the gate, which swung soundlessly open when I pushed it.

  I turned one last time to gaze at my home, its low, curved roof nestled gently over the four people I loved best in the world. Then I mounted Sweetpea, urged her with a single whispered command, and started out.

  I did not look back again.

  5

  The sun’s first light was barely kissing the sky when I tethered Sweetpea to the low branch of a tree and found a deep, smooth hollow between two protruding roots where I could catch a few hours of sleep. I’d made good time through the night—Sweetpea seemed eager to be out and about without a saddle, and there had been just enough moonlight to help us both see where we were going.

  Now, though, I was feeling the effects of being awake all night, the heightened sense of excitement having long since worn off. It would take the rest of today and the best part of tomorrow to arrive at Grigsbane. A few hours of sleep were mandatory.

  I emptied my bladder a few trees over, struck by yet another thing I’d have to hide and suddenly wondering how difficult it might be to find the privacy I’d need to take care of my personal business.

  “One thing at a time, Rain,” I said.

  Then I settled between the roots while Sweetpea quietly munched on the tender undergrowth. It took a while to get comfortable—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept on anything hard and bumpy—but soon exhaustion claimed me, and not even the strident calls of early birds could keep me from falling soundly asleep.

  I woke suddenly to a sharp crack and the sound of Sweetpea braying. I sat up, heart ramming into my chest, eyes scanning my surroundings.

  Less than a cat’s throw away, a boy stood peeing by a tree.

  Every bone in my body froze, as though I couldn’t have moved if I tried. I averted my eyes and debated whether I should pretend to be asleep. Sweetpea was still braying, though, and nobody could sleep through that.

  I had the thought, sharp as a knife’s edge, that this was the perfect time for me to start being the boy I claimed to be. No boy would avert his eyes. No boy would pretend to be asleep simply to avoid being confronted by another boy in the woods.

  So I stood up, stretched broadly, and walked over to Sweetpea as noisily as I could, my back to the boy.

  “Hush, Sw—” I cleared my throat and began again, forcing my voice a bit lower. “Hush, Sweetpea. Let’s move along now.”

  I was trying to remember if boys actually said “hush” when I heard the distinct swish-crunch of boots in the undergrowth behind me. It was easier to pretend not to hear, rather than turn around and show my not-exactly-male face to whoever was approaching.

  “You on your way to Grigsbane?”

  Clearly a boy’s voice—deep, but young. I squared my shoulders and turned around, my heart pattering so fast I could scarcely draw breath.

  “Yes,” I said.

  The boy surveyed me. He was tall, but not too much, so that he only had to peer down at me a little bit. His face was pleasant, and he wore his wavy-brown hair in a low, loose tail. I held my breath, wondering if my entire ruse would end with his next words.

  He placed his right hand, fingers splayed, over his heart. “I’m Forest. I’m heading there, too.”

  I returned the gesture, feeling awkwardly female. If Forest had noticed anything amiss, though, he didn’t show it. I flashed what I hoped was a boyish grin.

  Forest raised an eyebrow. “You have a name?”

  “Storm.”

  He nodded. “Where do you come from?”

  “Nandel,” I said.

  “We’re neighbors, then,” Forest said. “I’m from Thorn Village.”

  Of course. Anyone traveling this way
to Grigsbane would be coming from one of the inner villages. Probably the only reason I hadn’t met anyone yet was because I’d traveled at night.

  “You must have left before sunup.” My voice sounded squeaky in my ears. Did it sound that way to Forest?

  “You must’ve, too.”

  “I—” No. I couldn’t tell him that I’d left in the middle of the night. That would require some sort of explanation. “Yes.”

  “Well, I’d be happy to travel with you,” Forest said. “It’s a long journey to take alone.”

  I wasn’t ready for this. I’d been dressed as a boy for less than half a day, and I had no idea if the powder was going to work. Truly, I had been looking forward to the solitary ride, to allow myself time to gradually get used to my disguise.

  But to say no to Forest would be rude.

  “A pleasure,” I said.

  He didn’t ask questions as I untethered Sweetpea and led her back to the road, where Forest’s donkey stood calmly chewing on some weeds. It was the shaggiest, most haphazard beast I’d ever seen, and I stifled a laugh.

  “Appalling, isn’t he?” Forest said.

  “No, I—” Stop being apologetic. Act like a boy. “He’s a nightmare.”

  Forest laughed. “If I told you how old he is, you wouldn’t believe me.” He mounted. “I have an uncle just outside Grigsbane; I’ll drop him off there. If he lasts the journey.”

  I mounted Sweetpea. “He seems sturdy enough.”

  “You’re riding without a saddle?”

  “I’ve preferred it, ever since I was a g—” I turned the unfortunate consonant into a cough. “Since I was a boy.”

  “I’d probably fall off.”

  I smiled. “It’s not so hard.”

  For the first time, Forest looked at me more pointedly. An assessment. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Ah. You look younger.”

  Already I was stumbling my way through all the plans I’d made. I had meant to tell everyone I was sixteen, to make my smooth face and smaller stature more believable. Too late.

  I shrugged as though his comment were no big deal. “Everyone says that.”