He had expected her to ask about storms, but he was learning that she rarely behaved as he expected.
Bait answered first. “I grew up in a village in the forest north of Finlagh and west of Falmast.” The novice’s accent thickened as he talked about his home. “Our homes were built up in the trees to avoid runoff from the rains. The trees provided good cover from the storms, and being between the two Stormling cities meant that we rarely had to worry about storms from the south or east. Mostly it was the snows that came down from Durgra that gave us problems.” Locke had never been as far as Durgra, the city built atop the icy tundra in the north. His southern skin was too thin for that kind of cold. “It was as good a place as any to try to survive while we petitioned for citizenship in Finlagh and Falmast.”
“Neither had room?” Roar asked, and Bait shook his head. She continued: “How then do you all go into cities now to sell your wares?”
Duke answered, “Often we pay our way in. We know guards willing to look the other way for the right price. Other times we must sneak in.”
She worried her bottom lip between her teeth, a habit Locke had noticed far too much. She turned back to Bait and asked, “How did you come to be a hunter?”
“Two Rage seasons past there was a thunderstorm that steered perfectly between the protection zones of Finlagh and Falmast, as if it knew the borders and snuck between them. Once it reached the forests, it seemed to stall right over us. It rained for days. Until the earth turned to muddy soup, and I forgot what it was to be dry. The mountain became a riverbed, water rushing down the land in never-ending streams. And then it was more than water coming down the slopes … it was mud and rocks and uprooted trees. The mountain itself came down on us.”
Roar’s hands were curled into fists atop her knees, food forgotten. “I heard about that. The mudslides took out the northernmost section of Finlagh.”
With a light shrug that belied the heavy expression on his face, Bait replied, “That it did. After it took my home first.” Locke had not even heard the entirety of this story; usually Bait stuck to the wild and outlandish tales of what came after the loss of his home. Roar, it seemed, had a way of pulling emotions out of more than just him. Bait continued: “I waited outside Finlagh for days, covered in muck and soaked through to my bones. I’d been separated from my parents when the mountain came down, and I just kept waiting for them to climb from the muck as I had. They never did. I met a group of pickpockets, and they snuck me into Finlagh, taught me the trade. One day, I was working with a partner. I’d distract, while he made the grab. Only I tried to distract the wrong girl.”
Jinx snorted. “Yes, you did.”
“Jinx caught my partner before he ever even got close, and he took off. I tried to do the same, but somehow tree roots had grown up from nowhere over my feet, trapping me in place.”
Slowly Roar’s sad expression transformed to one of delight and she finished for him, “That’s why they call you Bait.”
The novie grinned. “I still cover the distractions, but it’s much more fun to steal magic than coins.”
All of Roar’s earlier reticence had disappeared, and this time she turned to Jinx. “And you?”
Before the witch could answer, Duke cut in, “Another time.”
Duke gestured toward the sky to the southwest. Locke turned, and in the distance, he saw dark clouds building. If he were a more superstitious man, he might have thought Bait’s story conjured the thunderstorm.
Duke said, “While we’re here, we might as well do some hunting.”
Locke stood to go pack up his tent, but Duke raised a hand. “Not you, Locke. You need to heal.”
“It’s a thunderstorm,” he countered. “A little torrential rain won’t hurt me.”
Duke’s bushy gray eyebrows drew down into a flat line. And the old man continued: “We’ll take the horses. You and Roar stay with the Rock. If a storm strikes in our absence, you batten down the Rock and ride it out.”
Both Roar and Locke began to argue at the same time, but stopped when Duke growled, “Enough.” Duke fixed his eyes on Locke and said, “Don’t be reckless. She’s learning not just from what you say but what you do. If you want her to make safe decisions, you must make them too.”
Locke’s mouth snapped shut, teeth clacking together. Scorch it all. He hated when Duke was right.
* * *
The stench of death blanketed the craggy mountainside. Blood flowed down the slope like a river from the mass of bodies that had fallen under his attack. The stench of burning flesh stung his nostrils as he studied the bodies that had been scorched by his skyfire.
He heard a rattling breath, a low moan, and charged down the rocky land and found one body set apart from the rest. A soldier was sprawled facedown, short and slim, probably little better than a boy knowing the Lockes’ coldhearted ways, but he saw the sharp rise of the body as the soldier struggled to breathe. With his foot, he kicked the boy over onto his back. Blood speckled his mouth as he gasped for breath. There was a scorch mark at his shoulder, and he guessed the boy had not taken a direct hit. At least not there. A festering, charred wound marred the boy’s belly, and bloodied hands clutched at the seeping sore.
“St-St—” the boy stuttered, unable to get out the name.
“Yes. You are correct, boy. It is the Stormlord you face now.”
The soldier began to shake, his body seizing either from fear or the approaching hand of death. The Stormlord slid his foot forward until it rested against the boy’s side. Then he pushed down, and the boy screamed.
“Tell me. Why have there been so many Locke soldiers roaming the wilds? Are the Lockes foolish enough to search for me?”
The soldier choked, useless sounds bubbling from his mouth. Pressing down again with his foot, the Stormlord said, “Tell me.”
“N-not you. B-bride kid-n-napped.”
A slow smile unfurled over the Stormlord’s mouth. “The prince’s Pavanian bride? Could it be?”
The soldier nodded, coughing up more blood in the process. The Stormlord cackled with glee, throwing himself down to sit beside the dying soldier. Leaning back on his hands, he crossed his legs at the ankles and rested his boots against the boy’s bleeding stomach.
“This is more proof that the gods are on my side, boy. They were too impatient to even wait for me to bring punishment. They had to inflict some of their own. Cassius’s perfect chance to seize a new throne—foiled before it even began. Of course, it’s not enough.” He smiled down at the boy as if talking to an old friend. He leaned in close, his heels digging into the boy’s wound, and whispered conspiratorially, “The gods will not be satisfied until I’ve burned them from this earth and smeared their ashes upon my skin.”
He flopped back, his head coming to rest on what he guessed was another body. He stared at the clear sky that only moments ago had been filled with skyfire on his command. “But still … it is interesting. He cares enough to send you all out here to die. Perhaps I should search for this girl myself.”
He looked back to the boy, annoyed with his lack of reply, only to find glassy eyes and a gaping mouth. Dead. But at least he’d provided some service before he went. The Stormlord removed his boots from the boy’s body and studied him. He would remember his face, remember this sign sent by the gods to affirm his calling.
Moving to his knees, he jerked the body up and began peeling away the scorched and bloody jacket of the soldier’s uniform. When he tugged it free, the body fell away, twisted obscenely on the ground.
The Stormlord donned the coat, running his fingers over the familiar crest on his chest.
He smiled and murmured, “Time to send a message for the Lockes.”
* * *
Locke helped the others pack up for the hunt, quizzing them on tactics and backup plans as he went. A hard knot formed in his stomach as they rode off, leaving him alone with Roar. They were his team, and leading them was his responsibility. It chaffed to be left behind. Locke shut himself
inside the Rock, knowing that between the pain in his shoulder and his foul mood, he would make abysmal company for Roar. But that didn’t stop her from climbing in a while later, seeking a cure for her boredom.
He’d been poring over the maps once more, looking for the impossible—a route that would keep Roar from too much danger until they knew more about her reaction to that twister, yet would allow them to stock up on magic and lead them to a place where they could sell it.
She wandered around the Rock as he worked, asking questions about the various instruments or staring over his shoulder at the different maps. Finally, he shoved a sheaf of parchment at her. They were maps from other areas of Caelira, not useful in the least for their current course, but at least they would stop her from looming over him, the scent of her hair and the sound of her breath filling up the space around him.
Eventually, he lost himself to the silence and almost forgot she was there. Almost.
She stood a while later, abandoning the maps to walk to the front of the Rock.
“Locke?”
Her unceasing questions were going to be the death of him. “What now?”
“There’s something coming.”
It took a beat too long for his mind to process her words, but then he was up, throwing aside the maps to take hold of her shoulders. He spun her, searching her face for some sign that her emotions were being taken over again. Those striking eyes were wide and surprised, and the breath fled her mouth in a hushed gasp. He’d pulled her in close, and now she swallowed, pink tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her words barely above a whisper.
His brows furrowed. “You said … I thought … You’re not feeling strange? From another storm?”
He glanced behind her at the crystal they used to detect storm magic. Atop it sat a copper bowl filled with water and the thermascope that helped them assign numerical values to the changes in the crystal’s heat. It currently measured a six. Not insignificant, but fairly normal for a period of nonactivity in this area, this close to Sorrow’s Maw.
“No, not a storm,” she said, shrugging off his grasp. “People.”
She pointed through the glass at the front of the Rock, and sure enough there were about a dozen people lumbering down Ruined Road on foot. They were moving slowly, carrying bags of belongings, and one look at their ragged appearances told him all he needed to know.
“Remnants,” he said, full of pity.
“Remnants of what?”
He peered down at her. How could she know so much—languages and constellations and the best ways to survive a storm—and yet she did not know this?
“They’re what Bait was before he found us, before he snuck his way into Finlagh. In the wilds, most towns don’t last long. A few years, maybe a decade if they’re exceptionally lucky. The towns patch themselves up as best they can after every storm, but sometimes, there’s not enough left to patch up. People of the wilds are superstitious. They won’t rebuild on the bones of a town the storms saw fit to wipe away. So instead, they pick up and leave, looking for somewhere new.” He thought for a moment, his lips twisting. “You might have heard them called the Scourge.” He hated that word, as if people in need of help were a plague to fear. He would have expected reasonable people to understand that in the wilds, they all stood an equal chance of their homes being destroyed. Storms were not selective. They did not search the inhabitants of the town before striking. They raged, uncontrolled and indiscriminate, and they destroyed anything in their path.
Roar shook her head. “I’ve not heard that name either.”
He climbed out of the Rock and dropped to the ground, Roar on his heels. He pulled down the metal shade over the glass dome of the Rock, blocking the contraptions inside from curious eyes.
They walked out to meet the group as they approached. From what he could tell, it was mostly women, children, and a few older teens. An old woman spoke for them, her hair nearly white and her skin like parchment that had been folded too many times. Her knowledge of the common tongue was shaky, but eventually he understood that their town had been leveled two weeks past by a twister. Those who survived left together, but the dozen or so before him now were all that remained of those survivors after two weeks wandering the wildlands.
Locke led the woman to the row of plants that Jinx had grown near the camp. Bushes of berries and herbs and a few root vegetables. He told her to take whatever they’d like. Jinx could grow more in a moment. If the old woman thought the small garden on the side of a broken road was odd, she did not comment, too grateful for the additional food. As he spoke with the old woman, Roar wandered among the people, checking to see if anyone needed medical attention. For the next hour, the remnants stayed at the camp, some washing up in the river, others just resting their feet, and too many searching out Roar for her help bandaging cuts and scrapes, including several young men who did not look injured to Locke at all.
He was relieved when she retreated back into the Rock.
The matriarch began gathering her people, readying to set off once more, and Roar came darting out of the Rock, a piece of parchment in her hands. When she came to a stop next to Locke and the old woman, she thrust out the parchment. “Here,” she said, offering what appeared to be a crudely drawn map of central Caelira. She had marked Pavan, Finlagh, Falmast, and Odilar to the south. She’d roughly sketched various rivers and forests and other identifiable features, and then she’d drawn large x’s over a few regions and circled others. It took him a moment of looking to realize what she’d done. “In case you cannot find a town to take you in. The areas I’ve crossed out are known for frequent storms, but the places I’ve circled are less active. I cannot guarantee safety, of course, but maybe this will give you a better chance.”
The woman’s hands shook as she took the map, and she took Roar by the nape of her neck and kissed each of her cheeks. She whispered something Locke couldn’t understand, and Roar answered in that same purr as when she’d spoken Taraanese. When Roar reached beneath the collar of her tunic, tugging off the crystal he’d given her, he stepped in.
“No,” he snapped. “That is yours. You keep it.”
She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “If it’s mine, then it’s mine to give away.”
Sighing in exasperation, he pulled her aside, crystal still swinging from her fist. “I know you want to help, but if we gave away our wares to every person who needed something, we’d never have them to sell.”
“I’m not trying to give one to every person. Just to her.”
“And then what will you do without a crystal? Contrary to what you seem to believe, Jinx does not have unlimited magic. It takes time and a great deal of energy to make those, and then she must rest between, all while still doing her other duties as a hunter.”
“I’ll pay for another for me.”
He scoffed. “I’m not going to let you pay. You’re one of us.”
“Then I’ll buy one for her,” she said, jerking her chin toward the matriarch.
He opened his mouth to argue, but could find no more words. He would get her another crystal. Roar still saw good in this world, and he wished he could do the same. He pitied the remnants, but he knew the wilds too well to think they could walk this land on foot for long and survive.
But maybe Roar was right, maybe this would give them a fighting chance. He waved a hand for her to proceed, and then tried not to hear that worn and weary old woman weep between words of gratitude.
The matriarch hugged and kissed Roar upon the cheek several more times before the group continued on, dust rising around their feet as they searched for safety where there was none.
* * *
They stayed two more days camped in that spot, and Roar watched the others with envy as they went off to hunt. She spent her days training. Locke watched as she ran and swam, shouting orders and questions as she climbed up and down trees until her hands were scraped raw. He made her leap from branch to
branch as if there were a flood below her and her only means of escape was to scurry like an animal through the canopy. She gritted her teeth through it all and imagined dunking him in the river again to give herself an added boost of determination.
She was relieved the next day when they finally packed up to move out. She knew the ride would be brutal on her tired body, but she was desperate to feel like they were getting somewhere, like she was getting somewhere.
Jinx and Locke found her as everyone was loading the last few supplies on the horses. Locke hung back, his arms crossed over his chest as Jinx stepped forward with some kind of vine-like plant in her hands. “I have something for you,” the witch said. “A temporary precaution until we learn more about your reactions to storms. Hold out your arm.”
Roar’s eyes flicked to Locke, but his expression told her nothing. Tentatively, she did as Jinx asked. The vine was coiled into a small wreath, and Jinx slipped it on Roar’s wrist. A tingle passed over her skin as the branches twisted, tightening to fit better. The leaves rustled and then lay flat against her skin.
“This plant is called Rezna’s rest. It’s a natural sedative that I have preserved with magic so that it does not die even though it has been cut. The next time you are in the presence of a storm, try to pinpoint how it’s getting past your defenses. Do your best to shut it out. But if you are unable, if you’re in pain or become a danger to yourself or others, tear a few leaves from this bracelet and chew them up. One leaf should relax you. Chew three or four and you’ll fall unconscious within moments. The bracelet will replenish itself, so don’t worry about running out.”
Roar eyed the plant warily. “I guess this is preferable to being knocked out anytime a storm appears.”
Locke finally spoke behind Jinx, growling, “That’s not happening again. Not even if you ask. So don’t.”
Roar ran her fingers over the leaves, her mouth dry. Maybe the twister was a bizarre fluke. But she knew deep in her gut that it wasn’t. She had always known she was different, she just hadn’t understood how much.