The Last Stormlord s-1 Page 5

  "Even Reduner sandmasters and tribemasters have some talent with water," Ethelva said, "and they aren't supposed to be related to us at all."

  Granthon nodded. "We have searched the Red Quarter and the Scarpen-scoured them, more like-for the past twenty-five years, and found nothing. Think, Rith. The three new talents we identified in that time, we found right here at home. Your daughter Senya, Iani's Lyneth, and Ryka Feldspar. Ryka may be the daughter of a rainlord, but her power is weak. And Senya looks to be no better. Lyneth, now-but we all know what happened to Lyneth."

  He fell silent, and Ethelva squeezed his hand. Even Nealrith was discomforted by the memory. How could he forget? She had been the hope of the Quartern, Iani's lovely six-year-old daughter. Dark-eyed and dimpled and plump, she had charmed them all with her lively inquisitiveness, her mischievous charm. And she'd been stormlord-talented. Then one day some fifteen years past, on a routine journey with her parents to attend a family wedding in another Scarpen city, she had wandered off into the desert. Nealrith felt sick about it even now. They had never found her body, and her father had never recovered from the shock. Iani the Sandcrazy-he had blamed himself because he was the rainlord of the group; he should at least have been able to follow the trace of her water.

  Granthon stirred restlessly. "Only three children in almost thirty years-and we didn't even have to look for them, as they were all born to rainlords. What harm can it do to search the Gibber?"

  "Father, it'll take a year or more! What about my duties here?"

  "They can be shared by the city's other rainlords. This is important." Granthon lay back, fumbling for the support of the cushions. "Let's just say that we found a child in the Scarpen or the Red Quarter who has the potential to be a stormlord. It would be many more years before they would be skilled enough to help me." He gave a sick smile. "By that time we could all have died of thirst. On the other hand, if you find someone in the Gibber, they could perhaps be older and closer to attaining their full powers."

  Nealrith grimaced. "I once had my purse cut by a waterless Gibberman, and I've seen how they live down on the last level. Hovels, reeking with vermin. And you should hear what caravanners say about travelling through the Gibber itself. They have to pay outrageous taxes just for passing through, whether they take water or not. If they don't pay up, they risk getting raided. Murdered even. Is that the kind of person we want as a new stormlord?"

  "You are not usually so quick to judge!" his mother snapped. "Every pot is black on the bottom. They are not the only ones with a dark underside. There will be many good folk among them, too."

  He forced a smile. "I'll try to remember that."

  "Do so," she said with some asperity. "If there are ills on Level Forty, then ask yourself if that is not the fault of the city's ruler." Before he could retort, she added, "Perhaps the two of you should ask yourselves this: Why do we lack talented children all of a sudden?"

  "What do you mean?" Nealrith asked, still smarting from her implied criticism of his rule.

  "Just that. Never before has the Quartern been short of stormlords, let alone rainlords. Perhaps we should be looking for the reason."

  It was Granthon who answered. "There's nothing so unusual in going for a time with so few stormlords born. My study of history has taught me that much. It will change; it always does. In the past it never mattered much if there was a gap in births, because there were enough older rainlords or stormlords to manage until a new generation came along. It's just that this time we have been unlucky. We lost a lot of young, talented people."

  Nealrith nodded. He'd numbered good friends among them.

  "Two were probable stormlords and the others were possibles. Such a tragedy. Iani's Lyneth was just the last," Granthon said.

  "Garouth called the deaths an unnatural coincidence," Ethelva said thoughtfully, then reminded Nealrith, "Your grandfather put all you younger rainlords-those who might have developed into stormlords-under guard after that."

  "Unnatural? They were just unfortunate accidents and illnesses," Granthon said, but his protest was hesitant, as if he doubted its truth. "Two disappeared during a spindevil windstorm, I remember. We nearly lost Taquar Sardonyx then, too." He shook his head sadly. "I had high hopes of Taquar. I thought he might just make a stormlord. He came so close, but never had quite enough pull. I wondered if what he suffered in the sandstorm might not have been the reason he lost the edge a stormlord needs. So close, so close, and he took it badly."

  He shifted position, trying to get comfortable. "He offered me his aid recently, you know. He added his strength to mine, to see if it helped me."

  Nealrith tried to quell the jealousy that raged through him at the thought. It should have been me. But then, what would have been the point? They both knew the limitations of Nealrith's rainlord skills.

  "No, I didn't know. When was this?" he asked.

  Ethelva came to rearrange the cushions at Granthon's back as he elaborated. "Last year when you were out inspecting the tunnels. I tried to teach him the knack of gathering a cloud out of the sea." He sighed. "He is stronger than you, certainly, but not as strong as I hoped. He had nothing to lend me that would make any difference."

  "Oh. He wouldn't have been holding back deliberately, would he?"

  His father lashed out with a hint of his old energy. "That suggestion is unworthy of you! And ridiculous."

  Nealrith flushed. "Perhaps. Father, there's something you should know. Kaneth and, I suspect, Taquar, and maybe others as well, are saying that we should abandon the 'Basters and the Gibber folk. That you should bring rain only to the Red and Scarpen Quarters."

  To his surprise, his father said merely, "Ah yes. Taquar mentioned that to me. Several years back, when it became clear that we were not going to find any more stormlords in a hurry. He regards both quarters as expendable. In a way, he is right. We don't need them for our survival. We'd be short of resin and salt and soda and some minerals, but we'd survive." He looked up at his son. "So he's persuaded Kaneth to his point of view, has he?"

  "It's an… an evil idea. How can they even consider-"

  "Nealrith, don't be a fool. This is exactly the sort of thing we may have to consider. I will have to decide soon which areas must get no rain at all so that I have the strength to bring rain elsewhere. Would you rather we die first?"

  Nealrith stared at his father in horror.

  "Ah, I see. You would have us all go down together, so that no one survives at all?"

  "I can't believe you would-"

  "Believe it!" his father growled in another display of his old strength. "Stop dreaming, Nealrith. Even if you find a potential stormlord or two in the Gibber Quarter, we may have to let whole parts of the Quartern die. There won't be a choice. My disagreement with Taquar is over when to do it, not whether to do it. He wants me to conserve my energies as long as possible by cutting down on cloudmaking. It's a wise strategy; I'm just not quite desperate enough to do it yet. But if you fail in the Gibber Quarter, then yes, I will withhold rainstorms from that whole Quarter. And the White Quarter, too."

  For a moment Nealrith stood, immobile, the blood drained from his face. Ethelva came and laid a hand on his arm. He turned to look at her and saw the acquiescence there, written in her eyes. His horror deepened, choking off thought. His mother could believe such a solution was necessary?

  "Do as your father asked, dear. Open the shutters."

  He strove for coherence. "Sandblighted eyes, Mother, he-"

  "Nealrith, just do it."

  He made a gesture of negation but threw open the shutters anyway. Light blasted in on a wave of dry heat, both so intense he winced.

  Granthon did not bother to look down at the slopes of the city below; instead he squinted towards the horizon and waited for his eyes to adjust. Nealrith knew he was already assessing the distant water in the air, far beyond a mere rainlord's perception.

  "The conditions are good," he said. "Can you see, Nealrith?"

  It took a
moment, but then he could indeed see wispy clouds dissolving and coalescing above where the Giving Sea bordered the southern limits of the Quartern. Not many, but enough to make Granthon's stormquest easier.

  "Yes," Nealrith said heavily. If only I could help! Guilt rippled through him. Irrational, he knew. It wasn't his fault that he was no more than an average rainlord. Watergiver knew he tried.

  Then his father's focus was gone from him, turned inwards, pushed outwards, whatever it was that he did at moments like this, with whatever power he possessed. Nealrith gazed at the cloud over the sea and tried to imagine that he could see the changes his father wrought, the gathering of water, the building of the dark storm clouds packed with the potential of life-giving rain.

  For a long while there was nothing; then the storm clouds were there, growing larger and darker by the moment. Time passed; a servant entered the room twice to upend the sandglass. The clouds moved away from the sea, rose higher, slowly shifted closer across the Skirtings.

  His father lay, propped up on the divan at the window, bathed in sweat. Giving up his own water in the effort. His own life seeping away as he reached the limits of his power. His skin was pale, his breathing shallow; his body shivered.

  Nealrith shot a look at his mother, knowing he could not keep his fear out of the glance.

  "Yes, it is too much," she whispered, the words soft, her voice resigned. "It was too soon. One day he will not come back." She held her son's gaze. "One day there will be one stormquest too many."

  He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. "Could it be… today?"

  "No, no, not yet. A year, two… who knows? Lord Gold makes sacrifices, the Sun Temple worshippers pray for him, the High Physician doses him; perhaps one of them will find the miracle they seek. We all do what we can. I no longer grow flowers. I bathe infrequently. I don't give my clothes to be washed so often."

  He looked back at the clouds. They would bypass the city to the east, and they moved as if they rode winds across the sky. He knew there were no winds; there never were. Nothing except the force a stormlord sent from himself. All being well, soon they would reach the Warthago Range and be forced to rise and drop their rain.

  Priests explained all water-power by saying the Sunlord had gifted it to his believers in order to mitigate the ferocity of his radiance. That made sense to Nealrith. A god by his very nature must always overwhelm, and water-power evened up the balance. What puzzled him was why the Sunlord had not helped as the stormlords disappeared one by one from the Quartern. Why had he not ensured the birth of others?

  I mustn't question, he thought. The Sunlord knows best and the priests say we must accept his will. Everything happens for a reason.

  He looked back at his father, the last stormlord in the land. He wanted to help him, yet he knew in his heart he was glad he didn't have to give up so much of himself to keep others alive. He was glad his whole life was not governed by the quest for storms. Still, he would have done it to help his father, to prevent the Cloudmaster's life seeping away from him, his strength draining drop by precious drop.

  And then Granthon cried out, a heart-rending cry of pain and outrage and despair.

  Ethelva gasped and dropped to her knees at his side, grabbing for his hand, but Granthon pushed her away.

  "No!" he cried. "No-"

  "Father, what is it?" Nealrith's heart was pounding. He couldn't even begin to guess what had gone wrong. He glanced at the storm clouds again. They were dark enough to carry rain and they were heading-as far as he could tell-in the right direction.

  Granthon clutched at him. "Nealrith," he said, and shock made his voice quaver, "someone took it away from me. Someone stole my storm."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Scarpen Quarter Breccia City Feldspar House, Level 3 "Ryka, Ryka, come quickly!"

  Ryka Feldspar looked up as her younger sister Beryll came skidding across the terracotta tiles into the room, grinning with a mixture of delight and mischief. "Quickly, change out of that horrible tunic thing and wear something pretty, for pity's sake. Your Destined One is here! Talking to Papa."

  Ryka pushed away the document she had been translating and looked short-sightedly at Beryll, who was already rooting through her wardrobe. It shook alarmingly under the onslaught.

  "What are you doing?" Her newest silk outfit, intended to be worn for the first time at the annual Temple Gratitudes, came sailing through the air and only her quick reflexes stopped it from overturning the ink jar. "Beryll, please! Stop and tell me what's going on."

  Her sister's head ducked down into the cupboard, her voice muffled as she rummaged through footwear. "Lord Kaneth Carnelian is here, asking to see you. Mama way-laid him and sent me to tell you to dress nicely."

  She looked at Beryll blankly. "Uh?"

  Her sister emerged triumphant, waving a pair of embroidered slippers. "He's come as a suitor, you dryhead! Oh, Ryka-how did you manage to get ink all over your fingers? You'd better wash."

  Ryka laughed, unbelieving, and went to return the dress to the wardrobe. "Whatever he's here for, it's certainly not as my suitor. He might have an eye on you in a year or two, perhaps, if he wanted to marry a Feldspar. But I doubt he'll ever marry. He likes his women pretty and plentiful and playful, does Kaneth."

  And he likes snuggery jades, too, from all accounts, she added sourly to herself.

  Beryll laughed. "He's too old for me. At least thirty-five. Besides, I'm not a rainlord. You are. And so is he. Two rainlords: more chance of a stormlord child. Mama says there's a rumour that the Cloudmaster ordered Kaneth to marry if he wanted to continue to receive a rainlord allowance from the Quartern's coffers. The only other unmarried rainlord female is Senya Almandine and she's a child, so what does that tell you?"

  Ryka stilled, and the silk slid to the floor, unheeded. "Are you serious, Beryll?" she asked at last. "Cloudmaster Granthon ordered him?"

  "After a fashion. Marry, or find tokens in short supply."

  She felt the colour drain from her face and abruptly sat down again.

  "You have a dowry you didn't even know about!" Beryll crowed.

  "Even though I'm so low in talent I'm only a cat's whisker from being a mere reeve?" She pursed her lips, her anger growing. If Kaneth really was coming to propose, then he had a cheek! Suddenly willing to marry her because he needed a rainlord's allowance from the treasury? She'd have something to say about that.

  "Maybe so, but you're the best the Quartern's got for Kaneth." Beryll grinned, enjoying her sister's discomfort. She did a little dance, scooped the outfit from the floor without breaking step and thrust it at Ryka with a flourish. "Like it or not, you're getting married!"

  "Not if I can help it!" She snatched the dress and threw it back into the wardrobe with scant respect for its fragility. "I am certainly not wearing that to meet Kaneth. Spindevil take it, Beryll-we grew up together and if he doesn't know exactly what I look like by now, then he's a lot more dense than I thought." She refused to even glance in the polished surface of the mirror stone, and stalked out of the room, exactly as she was. She couldn't believe Kaneth was thinking of marriage to her anyway. The idea was ludicrous.

  Plain Ryka, the other girls had called her in their younger years. The boys, still too young to appreciate her long legs and golden hair, had been even less kind. They'd taunted her with names like mangle-gangle or fumble-tumble, because a combination of short-sightedness and dreaminess meant she tended to trip over things a lot. Kaneth had been one of the worst of her tormentors.

  When they were all older, the girls had-more kindly-encouraged her to improve her looks with powders and paints, but she'd always known the results were absurd. She was too solid of body, too mannish in the way she moved, too tall, too… un-dainty. Moreover, she had a habit of creasing her brow when she squinted to see better, which gave her an unjustified reputation for bad temper. As time passed, the boys, young men by then, had simply drifted away, indifferent, to marry others. And Ryka had shrugged and got on with h
er life. At least her eyesight didn't hamper her reading; it was only when things were more than a pace or two away that they started to go blurry.

  Now, as she took the stairs two at a time on her way down to the reception room, Beryll following her, she frowned again, not caring if she appeared forbidding. By the time she entered the room where Kaneth waited with her parents, she felt thunderous and guessed it was obvious. She ignored the signal of her mother's desperately fluttering hands, and glared at Kaneth.

  Her father said, "Ah, there you are. Kaneth has something to say to you. Come, my dear," he added, taking his wife's arm and ushering Beryll out at the same time, "we'll leave them to talk things over."

  Kaneth, who had also risen, came across to her saying, "Sorry to disturb you. Your father said you were busy translating some Reduner scrolls for the Cloudmaster."

  "Yes. And Beryll said you've been ordered to marry."

  He looked taken aback. "News travels fast."

  "And that you have me in mind."

  "Blighted eyes, Ryka, can't you at least let me do the asking?"

  She folded her arms. "All right. Go ahead."

  "I was thinking of something more romantic. You know, out under a flowering orange tree or something. A stroll on the rooftop."

  "Don't be ridiculous. This is me you're talking to, Kaneth. Ryka Feldspar. Tell me you have suddenly developed an overwhelming passion that necessitates a romantic proposal doused in the scent of orange blossom and I shall laugh in your face."

  "You are not making this easy for me."

  "Why in all the Scarpen should I? You are only proposing because you've been ordered to."

  "There's more to it than that-"

  "So I was informed. Cloudmaster Granthon threatened to cut your allowance."

  "Er, well, yes, but-"

  "But nothing! We fight like a couple of horned mountain cats every time we meet, you chase every female who bats her eyelids at you and you sleep with anyone who will have you, and then you expect me to fall into your arms because you take the trouble to arrange a romantic interlude for a proposal? I can only assume you are out of your sunfried mind. Have you been going outside without a hat on your head?"