Stormrise

by Jillian Boehme

  Though I intended to.

  In addition to our drills, we were also given chores on a rotation. On the third afternoon, I was assigned to dish out the food at lunchtime. It was hard to miss the dismissive glances and outright smirks that flew my way as I spooned carrot broth into tin bowls and counted out slices of brown bread—three per person.

  “He looks ten years old,” I heard one soldier say as he walked away with his soup.

  I would’ve liked to flatten him in an impromptu Neshu match, to show him how little he knew of me.

  The food line trickled to nothing, and I was trying to figure out what I was supposed to do with the remaining soup when Commander Dane approached. I immediately stood at attention, my heart in my teeth.

  “I’d like some soup, soldier,” he said.

  My face burned hot. Of course he wanted soup; why would I stand at attention when I was supposed to be serving food?

  “Yes, sir,” I said, spooning the soup into a bowl and grateful that I didn’t have to look at him.

  He took the soup and bread. “How long have you studied Neshu?”

  I forced my voice extra-low. “Since I was seven.”

  “Your name is Storm, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Storm.” He studied me with those piercing eyes, and I felt as though he could see right through my shirt and the layers of binding that hid my femaleness. “You have the makings of a Neshu grandmaster.”

  A compliment?

  Warmth blossomed deep inside me. “Thank you, sir.”

  “In fact, your skill surpasses anything I’ve seen here.” He regarded me for several more seconds. “Work harder to build your upper-body strength, s’da?”

  “I will, sir. Thank you.”

  He nodded once, then took his food and went to find somewhere to sit. I stood behind the soup pot, caught in the afterglow of his kind words. I’d watched him move with the grace of a mountain cat and the speed of wind during Neshu drills. I’d sparred with him, matching him move for move until his superior skill found my weakness. It would be an honor to improve myself under the command of one of the finest Neshu fighters I’d ever seen.

  Not just improve—excel. Commander Dane’s praise fed me as though it were solid food. I wanted to become more in his eyes, to be the soldier he wouldn’t expect me to be.

  To be his equal.

  If I succeeded, it would, perhaps, make up for the fact that I could never be the grandmaster I longed to be.

  * * *

  I crawled into the tent bone-weary, as I had every night. Forest was already sprawled on his blanket, so still I thought he was already asleep.

  “Your feet stink,” he said.

  I kicked him. “So do yours.”

  Sometimes it was ridiculously easy to be a boy.

  The dreams had come each night, wordless syllables interspersed with my name, and I rolled onto my side and braced myself for more of the same. If I hadn’t been so exhausted, I probably would have stayed awake, fighting sleep. But my eyelids were heavy and my body was already in a state of complete rest. And if I were honest, I’d have to admit that the dreams didn’t frighten me anymore. I was drawn to the voice, desperate to understand it. It didn’t feel threatening or fearsome, though I didn’t quite have a word to describe it.

  I sank into sleep before I could finish figuring it out.

  The words came, shapeless and meaningless as always. Something was different this time, though. I could hear distinct vowels and consonants, forming words I didn’t know. When my eyes shot open some time later, the last trace of the final word rang in my ears:

  T’Gonnen.

  I lay in the dark, savoring the word even as I feared it. T’Gonnen, the dragon. His magic, Madam S’dora had said, was in the powder. But dragons weren’t real. And if they were, we would be living in terror.

  Why was this ancient dragon name showing up in my dreams?

  It took me a long while to fall back to sleep. I considered dragging out my parchment and pen and scratching down some poetry; it had been forever since I’d written anything. But I had no light, and even if I did, it would have been rude to bother Forest simply to quench my longing for words. So I lay still and willed myself to settle.

  For the rest of the night, I dreamed and woke, dreamed and woke. By the time the horn blew, I was convinced that someone—or something—was trying to speak to me in another language in my dreams. I jumped up, still groggy, and hurried to the secret place I’d scouted out for mornings when I wasn’t able to beat the horn.

  As I emerged from the tangle of bushes, a series of horn blasts, high and short, cracked through the morning air. I joined the throng of my fellow recruits as we made our way to the east field; their heads were all turning toward the northeast.

  I found Dalen and matched his stride. “What’s going on?”

  “I think they’re marching,” Dalen said.

  Marching. The word carried a weight that I wasn’t ready to bear.

  From the east field, I could clearly see the seasoned soldiers in formation—hundreds upon hundreds in rows of straight backs and shining helmets. Instead of shouting us into motion as they usually did, Commanders Dane and Beldan allowed us a few minutes to stand and watch the troops head out. From somewhere among us, cheering began, and soon I was joining in, my voice lost in the deep tumult of voices around me, a thin thread of sound in the commotion.

  But my heart swelled, and my eyes stung with tears. Fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, marching to the call of their high king. It was no girlish response, though, and I did not wipe away the wetness that spilled down my cheek.

  I was proud of them. I was proud of myself for being one of them.

  Papa, I want to bring you honor. I want you to be proud of me, too.

  Late in the afternoon, the twelve of us stood in a wide semicircle facing a high wooden crossbeam supported by stout posts on either side and in the middle. From the crossbeam hung four ropes, two on each side of the middle post. The ropes were knotted on the bottom and thicker than any rope I’d ever seen.

  Commander Dane stood to one side, his arms behind his back. “Four lines, one for each rope,” he called. “Three men in each line, on my mark!”

  Already, we had learned to respond quickly and without hesitation. On his mark, we moved into four lines faster than, a week ago, I would have thought possible. I hung back, securing the last spot in the line on the far right.

  “This test won’t be given to the other recruits for another week,” Commander Dane said, “but I’m using it today to determine that each of you are ready to embark on the mission I’ve chosen you for. If you fail, you’ll return to the main company of recruits.”

  He paused, sweeping his eyes across us as though gauging our response. I fought hard to keep my expression neutral.

  “Your goal is to climb to the top, remove a strip of silk, climb down, and hand it to me. If you slide backward or fall from the rope, you’ll go back to the end of your line and take another turn. Every soldier who hands me a silk strip will have the privilege of calling me Jasper.”

  My own surprise was reflected in the faces of some of the soldiers I could see, though no one made a sound. It seemed obvious that Commander Dane would be leading this special unit, but sharing his given name was a sign of equality on the battlefield. If I could achieve that, surely I could achieve equality as a Neshu fighter as well.

  “On my mark.” He waited a few heartbeats, then blew into his thin silver pipe.

  The first four stepped forward and began climbing. I took notice of the way they grabbed the rope between their boots and used their legs to propel themselves upward. Sedge was on the first rope; he and the next two made it look effortless. The fourth soldier, whose name, I thought, was Cedar, visibly struggled, and when he was about halfway up, he slid down almost to the knot. I cringed at the thought of the rope burning his hands.

  “To the back!” Commander Dane yelled.

  I tried to swa
llow the dryness in my mouth.

  Cedar took his place behind me, breathing heavily. At first I thought it would be better to keep my back to him. But then I turned around.

  “You’ll make it next time,” I said.

  “Thanks.” Sprays of curly red hair had jumped free from his army bun, and his sweaty face made his freckles glisten. He brushed the back of his hand across his brow. “It’s harder than I thought.”

  Our lines moved forward. Dalen fell and was sent to the back of his line; Rock, all huge limbs and gentle spirit, made it slowly and steadily to the top. A wiry boy named Mandrake made it almost to the top before losing his grip and sliding down. Briar, the boy in front of me, was tall and muscular, and I watched him scale the rope as though he had done so hundreds of times. He landed lightly on his feet and brought his silk strip to Commander Dane.

  I stepped forward. My turn.

  I wiped my hands on my britches and approached the rope as if it were a Neshu opponent. It was thick, making me conscious of how small my hands were. I wrapped them around the rope and gave it a little pull, testing its strength.

  Squeezing the knot between my boots, I tightened my grip and tried to move my legs up the way I’d watched the others do it. Nothing moved. I clenched my teeth and pinched the rope between my knees while I pulled up a second time. This awarded me about three inches. I reached higher and tried to scoot up more.

  The rope slipped like fire through my hands as I slid down and landed hard on my feet.

  “To the back, soldier!” Commander Dane’s eyes had obviously never left me.

  I bowed my head so no one would see the angry tears blurring my vision and returned to the end of my line. I took my place behind Cedar, who gave me an encouraging nod before heading forward for his second turn. This time, he climbed all the way up without falling.

  I was the only one left. Twelve pairs of eyes were on me; I felt them burning into me even though I wasn’t looking. My gaze was on the remaining strip of silk.

  I gave myself an extra moment to prepare. Boots up, knees closed, hands ready. I scooted and pulled, thrilled when I made a good first stride. The rope swung crazily, and I waited for it to still. Then I redoubled my efforts and went for the next bit of distance up the rope. I made it.

  My arms were already aching, and when I went for the third pull, I lost a little ground. Panicked, I squeezed my feet and knees tightly to the rope and closed my eyes, waiting for Commander Dane to yell at me. He must have missed the slide, though, because no call came. I opened my eyes, fixed them on the crossbeam above my head, and went for the next bit of rope.

  Before I knew what was happening, I had slid back down again, this time landing hard on my tailbone. I was too angry to cry when Commander Dane yelled at me to try again.

  I stood and wrapped my hands around the rope as the first drops of rain slapped my cheeks. Ignoring them, I caught the knot between my boots and started my third climb.

  And fell.

  The rain came faster and harder as I made my fourth attempt. After I landed hard in the dirt that was quickly turning to mud, Commander Dane addressed the unit.

  “Well done, men. To your tents until the supper horn!” He turned to me. “Upper-body strength, soldier.”

  I watched him walk away, deeply feeling the shame of his unspoken words—that I had failed and would not be a part of the special unit. Thunder rolled in the distance, and the rain splattered in my eyes as I stared at the one remaining strip of silk on the crossbeam.

  I rose and wrapped my hands around the rope, my eyes still on the silk. Then I clenched the knot between my boots and began to climb. My breaths came in sharp gasps as I pulled and scooted, pulled and scooted. I was halfway up when my arms gave out and I half slid, half fell to the mud, hands burning.

  I stood up and climbed again. The rain began to soak the rope, making it easier, somehow, to keep my grasp on it. The crossbeam inched closer.

  Alone in the rain, without the critical eyes of Commander Dane and the others, I was able to concentrate. By the time I was three-quarters of the way up, the pain in my arms was so sharp that I had to keep alternating which arm held my weight, while squeezing the rope between my thighs so that I wouldn’t fall.

  Inch by inch. Hand over hand.

  When I reached the top, I hung for a moment, resting first one arm and then the other. The strip of silk was looped over a metal ring on the top of the crossbeam. When I was sure my left arm was rested enough to hold me, I reached up with my right and worked at the loop of silk. It was soaking wet, and the rain fell so hard that I had to squint to keep it from blinding me.

  The silk finally came free, and I held it in my teeth as I eased my way down the rope. When I reached the bottom, I allowed myself to fall. I lay on my back, legs splayed, mud squelching between my fingers. The rain pelted my face and neck and every part of me, scouring away the exhaustion and the heat of shame from my face. When my breathing was normal again, I got up, wiped my hands on my britches, and made my way to Commander Dane’s tent.

  I stood outside the full-sized, flag-festooned tent, unsure how to proceed. There was no way to knock, and I couldn’t even be sure that he was inside. The rain was starting to make me shiver, and the longer I stood there, the more foolish—and chilled—I felt.

  “Commander Dane.” Thunder rolled over my words. I sighed and tried again, more loudly. “Commander Dane.”

  The tent flap moved to the side, and Commander Dane appeared in the opening. He stared at me, his mouth open. I wasn’t even sure if he recognized me, though my failure had been so profound that I couldn’t see how he’d forget my face.

  “Storm?”

  I wanted to tell him that I’d kept trying. I wanted to thank him for reminding me that I needed to build arm strength, and to let him know that, once everyone had left, I was able to find my inner strength and climb the rope. Instead, I said nothing and handed him the wet strip of silk.

  “Sir,” I said.

  He took the silk, understanding dawning on his face as he continued to stare at me. Slowly, the understanding melted into something that looked more like approval.

  I bowed my head. “Commander Dane.” As I began to turn away, he placed his hand firmly on my shoulder.

  “Call me Jasper.”

  9

  The rain had tapered off during supper, and we now sat in the mud around our campfires celebrating the completion of six days of training. Tomorrow was Oradon, the Day of Resting. There would never truly be complete rest for us—our morning warm-ups would go on as scheduled, for one thing. But everything else would be deferred until the next day.

  Jasper hadn’t addressed the twelve of us again, and I imagined he was waiting until morning to tell us what was next. I wrapped my hands around the mug of ale I’d been holding for at least half an hour. Forest bumped my leg with his foot, which sent a strange thrill through me.

  “Are you going to drink that, or are you just catching bugs in it?”

  I smiled. “A few.”

  Dalen sat on my other side. “I’ll drink it if you don’t want it.”

  “Oh, no,” Forest said. “Storm said he’d give the ale a try tonight. I’m waiting for him to make good on his word.”

  It still felt odd being referred to as “he.” I raised the mug. “I’m always true to my word.”

  I touched my lips to the rim of the mug and held my breath. Perhaps I could take a swallow without actually tasting it. I tipped the mug, and the warm, tangy ale filled my mouth.

  The warmth remained after I’d swallowed, and a rich, nutty flavor lingered on my tongue. I took another mouthful.

  Forest and the others nearby raised their own mugs and cheered. I wanted to exclaim about the surprising nuttiness and pleasant fizz of the ale, but I reminded myself that fewer words were preferable to more.

  “Better than I expected.”

  “Guess you’re a real man now,” River said.

  If only he knew.

  “He
re’s to Storm, for not giving up until he made it up the rope—in the rain,” Forest said.

  Shouts of my name were interspersed with laughter, and I raised my mug again and felt the warmth of their praise.

  “I’ve been drinking ale since I’ve worn a son’s cap,” Dalen said. “I was going to call you ‘Grandmother’ if you didn’t like it.”

  “Why?”

  “My grandmother tried it once,” Dalen said. “Spat it out and called it dragon’s piss.”

  “She knows what that tastes like, does she?”

  “Apparently.” Dalen took a long swig from his own mug. “She once bought something from that little shop in Nandel—the one I mentioned before. Some sort of tincture to smear on a sore inside her mouth. The woman told her it was made from dragon’s piss.”

  I raised an eyebrow and tried to act as though my heart weren’t pattering relentlessly against my ribs. “Did your grandmother believe her?”

  Dalen hesitated, furtively eyeing the others. They seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. “We’re from Springton Village in Ytel. Of course she believed her.”

  I tightened my fingers around my mug and tried not to sound too eager. “So, you believe it, too?”

  “What, dragon piss?”

  “All of it.”

  Dalen took a long swig of ale and lowered his voice. “If you’re asking me if I believe in the dragons, then … yes. I do. And I believe they’ll return. But that’s not something I like to talk about outside of Ytel.”

  “So, you believe T’Gonnen was real.”

  “Yes,” Dalen said. “Always have.”

  “But what do you base that belief on?”

  “You’ve never read The Lament of Nuaga?” He sounded a bit incredulous.

  “Probably in school, I did.” Not that I had any idea what school was like, since my tutoring in reading and household skills had happened at home, like it did for all girls. And of course my brother had never seen the inside of a school, either. “But it was just a story. Something to scare children with.”

  “There’s nothing frightening about the Lament,” Dalen said. “It’s the story of T’Gonnen’s sacrifice and the promise of the dragons’ return.”