Stormlord Rising Read online

  Ryka wanted to sit down and give in to despair. Instead, she began to search methodically, looking for anything that could be helpful. In the study she salvaged some paper and a graphite stick for writing, a piece of twine, a tinderbox, flint and steel. In the water-room she drank deeply from the dayjar; in the reception room she examined the broken sword point. It was, she decided, too short to be of any use to her as a weapon. She considered digging out the spearhead, decided Ravard might notice it had gone and reluctantly left it where it was, a symbol of a battle lost. Her gaze alighted on the wood of the broken chair with more hope. The shards were long and sharp; the wood hard. She found a number of pieces that might have potential as makeshift daggers, and secreted them in various places around the rooms, tucking one under the pallet of the bed.

  In the bedroom she picked through what was left of the clothes to find something clean and small enough for her to wear, finally selecting a tunic and a pair of trousers probably dating back to Nealrith’s adolescent years. In the water-room she used the water closet, then eyed with interest the porphyry bathtub big enough to sit in, the full copper, the seaweed briquettes in the fireplace underneath, and the soap. She hadn’t had a proper bath in over a star cycle. She and Kaneth had done their best to cut water consumption, wiping themselves clean with wet cloths—but right now she couldn’t think of any material thing she wanted more than a soaking hot bath. And why conserve water, anyway? Whatever there was would only go to the city’s conquerors.

  She started a fire under the copper, and when the water was warm she ladled it into the porphyry tub. After a quick listen at the door to the outside passage just to make sure there was no sign of Ravard’s approach, she returned to the water-room, stripped off and stepped into the glorious decadence of a hot, soapy bath.

  Ryka woke before dawn, ravenous and in a state of unfocused terror. Fatigue and tattered emotions had plummeted her into the oblivion of an exhausted sleep in one of the large woven chairs in the reception room, covered by a blanket taken from Nealrith’s bed.

  Even before she was properly awake, she was on her feet. She had slept. How could she have fallen asleep? She’d been devastated by Beryll’s death. So scared of the Reduner returning and demanding the use of her body. Worried sick by Kaneth’s disappearance, by the unthinkable idea the Reduners had thrown his unconscious body on a funeral pyre and burned him alive.

  And she had slept like a child. What sort of woman was she? Furious with her weakness, she stood in the dimness of the room lit by a single guttering oil lamp, shivering. And then realized—this was not the lamp she had been using.

  Her nebulous fear coagulated into something more immediate. She drew in a sharp breath. She wasn’t alone.

  Someone stood beside the open door to the bedroom. She stared. A Reduner. Not Ravard. Someone else—a man standing with folded arms, a favorite stance of a dune warrior on guard. Guarding the door from her? She stared past him to the room beyond. A man lay sprawled on the bed, on top of the covers and still dressed. Another lamp at the bedside showed a face smoothed by sleep into youthful innocence.

  She knew better than to trust her eyesight. “Ravard?” she asked softly, raising an eyebrow in query at the guard. His face was impassive, but his eyes glinted, promising action if she moved toward the door.

  “Kher Ravard,” he agreed, his tone chiding because she had not used the honorific.

  She allowed herself the hint of a smile. So she worried Ravard enough he didn’t feel quite safe and had to have a guard at his door? Good. She wanted to keep him off balance. Then her smile faded. He had come, found her asleep in the chair and then left her alone. Strange, unsettling man.

  Who could this Ravard be?

  Kher, she knew, meant the equivalent of lord. It was a title carried by only a handful of any dune’s elite, including the tribemasters, the men who commanded one of the encampments of that dune. No more than ten men, fifteen at the outside, even on a large dune like the Watergatherer.

  Three of these tribal leaders were particularly important; they were the sandmaster’s blood sons or adopted sons and they would all be water sensitives. The least of them was the Drover Son, who was charged with the care of the dune’s pedes, their capture, training and sale. The second in importance was the Warrior Son, who trained and commanded all the dune’s armed tribesmen. The most important was the Master Son, who would one day be sandmaster unless there was a closer blood relative with water sensitivity to take his place.

  When a sandmaster didn’t have three blood sons, or if his sons were still children, or if they were water-blind, then it was common practice to adopt sons. This arrangement was sometimes lasting, sometimes temporary.

  Ryka wrinkled her forehead, trying to recall anything else that might be useful to know. There were at least two others who would be addressed as kher as well, the Shaman Kher and the Trader Kher, but neither of them, she decided, would be given Nealrith’s rooms for their use, even if they were in Breccia. No, Ravard must be a tribemaster at least, sandblast his eyes.

  Cold and frightened, she turned away from the guard and limped to open the shutters and walk through to the balcony. He made no move to stop her. Dawn light was already in the sky, and the wall and its sentries were outlined against a pale background streaked with rose pink, promising a lovely sunrise over a devastated, suffering city. She dropped her gaze to the huddled sleeping warriors below; their fires extinguished, they were barely visible in the darkness of the courtyard.

  “Kaneth,” she whispered, “where are you? Please be alive. I need you to help me protect our son. He is all that matters. He must have a future, even if we do not…”

  She waited for the sun to rise and the day to begin, dreading the new griefs it would harbor. Hunger gnawed at her insides, not just for food but for the renewal of her power. In her weakened state, she could feel neither the water within living things nor the bodies of water within the city; she had no more perception than an ordinary citizen. She’d never been the best of rainlords, but she hated being so water-blind, so cut off from her surroundings. To add to her physical misery, her muscles ached from the fighting of the previous two days and the healing wound on her leg was stiff and sore.

  When there was movement in the rooms behind her, she did not move. She heard Ravard murmur something to the guard, but could not sense his water, so when he stepped up behind her and draped his cloak over her shoulders she jumped.

  “Cold at this time of the morning,” he said. “You shouldn’t be standing out here so ill-clad.”

  She did not turn to face him. “Thank you,” she said, her voice flat.

  “Glad t’see you slept,” he added.

  “Better than remembering the horror of yesterday.”

  “War and horror are twin brothers.”

  “We did not ask for this war.”

  He shrugged. “Weren’t none of my doing, neither.” When she didn’t reply, he added, “I’ll not force you t’share my nights, y’know. I get no joy from that. But I need a woman t’warm me. Last night I was too tired, but that won’t last. If it’s not you, then I’ll choose another.”

  “And what happens to me then?” she asked, already knowing what the answer was likely to be.

  “You go back to the general pick. Take your chances when the warriors choose a woman. Many of ’em share and some are none too fussy what they do with a woman. You’re better off with me, but it’s your choice.”

  She turned to face him then, tilting her head in question as she asked with genuine curiosity, “Why me?”

  His mouth quirked up. “I like a feisty woman. Women of courage breed warriors. The tribe needs good strong blood, like yours. Pretty faces mean nothing. Not to me.”

  Well, thanks for that, you oaf. “I’ve got to be ten years older than you.”

  Ravard continued to smile. “An advantage. I seek learning from the experienced.”

  “What do you offer me?”

  He laughed out loud. “I’ll
be waterless! You have the cheek of a sand-tick, woman. All right, I’ll tell you. The alternative you know, and it’s not pleasant. With me, there’s only me. No one else will dare t’touch you. And best of all, your child—girl or boy—will come under my protection. Not just now, but always. On that you have m’word.”

  “What proof do I have you’ll keep your word?”

  His face darkened and his jaw tightened. It was a moment before he replied. “I am Tribemaster Kher Ravard, son of the sandmaster. My word is my honor.”

  Son? Watergiver help me. He would have water competence equivalent to a reeve! A chill coursed down her spine. He could resist any attempt she made to kill him by taking his water.

  Damn, damn, damn. “I apologize. How could I know that?”

  “Don’t make the same mistake twice. Grown men have died for less insult to the son of Davim.”

  “I am not a fool. Very well; I accept your offer. I will, er, warm your bed.” You withering waste of water.

  “Willingly?”

  “Yes, in exchange for your protection for me and my child. But I would ask a small boon.”

  “Boon? I don’t know the word.”

  Ryka was gambling, she knew. “A favor. Yesterday I lost my husband, my sister, my parents, my city. To lie with you so soon would be to dishonor them. Give me ten days to grieve. It is our custom.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You dream.”

  “The difference between a reluctant woman in your bed and a willing one is worth the wait.”

  He considered and then shrugged. “Three. You can have three days and nights to grieve. Starting now.”

  She allowed a short silence before she nodded. And you’ll be dead before then, you arrogant louse. You think a woman forgets the father of her son so readily? “I sleep alone three more nights, and then come willingly,” she agreed. Blighted eyes, this has to be the strangest ravishment ever.

  Before he could answer, a loud knocking came at the door. Ravard stepped back into the reception room to deal with the visitor, and Ryka turned away to look down at the forecourt once more. The warriors were awake, eating food brought to them from the kitchens by Scarpen women. She looked on the scene with pity; even with her poor eyesight she could see the women looked wretched and that most had torn clothes. She averted her eyes, rather than watch.

  Ravard came out onto the balcony once more. “My father calls me. You stay here, in these rooms. I’ll be back on the fourth day. I expect to be welcomed.”

  “I hope you intend to feed me in the meantime. I had nothing to eat at all yesterday, and not much the day before, either.”

  “Oh. Of course. I never thought of that. I’ll have something sent up.”

  As he turned to go, she asked, “Are you really Davim’s son?”

  He paused to answer. “Not blood son, no, but his son for all that. If not, you’d have died on the floor together with the girl you so foolishly tried t’protect.”

  Once again she gambled, hoping he would not see anything odd in her knowledge. “You are the Warrior Son?”

  Another smile. “No, Garnet. I’m the Master Son.”

  He departed then, leaving her in shock. Master Son! He was heir to Davim, to the leadership of the whole Watergatherer Dune. Not only would she be unable to kill him the rainlord way, but his importance meant she would be under scrutiny, too. She leaned against the balcony railing and dropped her head into her hands, giving in to her despair.

  Barely half the run of a sandglass later, still before any food had been brought to her, Ryka saw Ravard again. He was in the forecourt talking to several guards, giving orders. A few moments later, a number of prisoners were brought out of the building. Most of them were boys, varying in age from about nine or ten to fourteen or so. Scattered among them were some older men. She squinted hard, cursing her inadequate eyesight, and thought she recognized Breccia Hall livery.

  Skilled men, I bet, she thought. The kind of people they need as slaves. Cooks, perhaps. Or pede grooms.

  Anxiously she scanned the men, looking for others she might know. And spotted one she had not thought to see again: the pikeman Elmar Waggoner. At least he was easy to recognize; there was no mistaking his face with its twisted scar from the chin across his left cheek to his forehead. She drew in a sharp breath. He had been one of their academy teachers and later one of Kaneth’s men, the pikeman who had fought at his side against the Reduner incursions into the Scarpen. He had been with Kaneth when they snatched Jasper from Highlord Taquar and the seneschal of Scarcleft. And he had fought alongside her and Kaneth in the waterhall. She’d thought him dead, but he must have been one of the few who’d escaped in the final few moments after the roof was breached.

  She shook her head in disbelief. The man led a charmed life. Possibly because he’s a damn fine warrior. Smart, skilled and withering lucky, the ugly bastard, she thought affectionately.

  Fingers gripping the balcony balustrade, she stared at him, willing him to look up. He did not notice, apparently fully concerned with the man dressed in a hall servant’s livery who stood, half-slumped, next to him. The fellow swayed as if injured; a rough bandage had been wrapped around his bald head. Which was odd, when she came to think of it. They killed their own badly wounded; why by all that’s wet would they leave a wounded Scarperman alive?

  The prisoners were lined up at the foot of the steps leading to the massive main doors of the hall, from which Davim emerged a moment later. He halted on the top step to survey the people arrayed before him, then beckoned to Ravard. The young man took the stairs two at a time to his father’s side. The two men had a conversation, after which Ravard turned to address the prisoners, his voice strong and clear. Ryka had no trouble hearing him from where she was.

  “You’re now slaves of the dunes,” he began. “You have a choice. You can submit t’slavery, or you can die now. Your women folk had the same choice. Most chose t’live. Work hard and display loyalty to your masters and one day you’ll earn your freedom. If you choose t’serve, tomorrow you will be taken to the dunes—refuse, and you die here, today. Now.”

  He nodded to the row of watching guards. Five of them came to the bottom of the steps, where they drew their scimitars. Davim stayed where he was, but Ravard descended to the forecourt, where he seized one of the prisoners, a half-grown boy, by the scruff of the neck and pushed him down onto his knees. When he spoke again, the words were still loud enough for all the slaves to hear. “Say this, lad: ‘I swear obedience t’my new masters. I swear loyalty t’Davim, sandmaster.’ ”

  The boy looked around wildly, seeking aid from the crowd of slaves. One of the guards slapped his face with the flat of his scimitar, drawing a thin line of blood. The boy started to stutter the submission, but Ravard had to prompt him several times before he could get the words out.

  Ryka watched, unable to drag her eyes away from the sickening fascination of the scene. One by one the other boys in the front row followed the example of the first, but she knew sooner or later someone would choose death. It came with the tenth prisoner—a lad of perhaps fourteen or fifteen who refused to kneel. He was not given a chance to draw another breath. His throat was slit and his blood pumped out onto the paving, dark and viscous.

  Yet still Ryka could not look away. It seemed right that she was there to bear witness to such bravery, even as her heart ached and her logic told her it was better to go on living—to live so one day you could fight back.

  Elmar was the first adult to be asked to swear fealty. Ryka’s fingers tightened their grip on the balustrade. She expected him to choose death. Elmar, a slave? It was unthinkable. He was one of the bravest men she knew, never showing any fear of death. Anxiously she strained to hear his answer.

  Before he gave it, however, Davim intervened, calling out in Reduner, “Why do we want this man? With a scar on his face like that, he must have been a warrior.”

  Ryka felt sick.

  Ravard replied in the same language, “He’s a worker of metals. He
told me the scar’s from a splash of liquid metal. We need his skills, and he says he’ll work for us.”

  “And the man standing next to him?” Davim asked.

  “That’s the fellow I mentioned earlier,” Ravard said. He had to speak loudly so Davim could hear, but Ryka guessed it didn’t worry either of them because they assumed no one except the Reduners understood their tongue. “The one who survived the fire and can’t remember who he is. He has a wound on his head, in addition to the burns, which probably explains the loss of his wits.”

  Ryka stiffened and leaned forward. Nausea swamped her, trailing a futile hope. The man didn’t look like Kaneth.

  At Ravard’s words, several of the guards shifted uneasily, and exchanged glances. Davim, his interest sharply focused, took several steps down the stairs to see better. Ryka could not take her gaze from the wounded man. He remained where he had been, his stillness remarkable in one who had obviously been so badly hurt. He waited as if he was uninterested in the outcome, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. There was nothing in the relaxed way he stood to tell Ryka it was Kaneth, yet her heart started to pound.

  Oh, what I wouldn’t give to have decent eyesight!

  “Bring him here,” Davim told Ravard.

  Ravard gripped the man by the arm and urged him to mount the steps to the sandmaster. At that moment, Ryka heard the door to Nealrith’s reception room open and looked over her shoulder. A young woman she didn’t know entered carrying a tray laden with food. Bobbing her head quickly in Ryka’s direction, she deposited the tray on the table and scuttled toward the door where a guard waited.

  Ryka, no longer interested in food, quickly turned her attention back to what was happening outside. She heard the door close, but her focus was elsewhere.

  “Food,” a voice behind her said.

  She jumped, her heart pounding wildly as she whirled to see that, although the woman had left, the guard had not. He stood close behind her, pointing at the tray. “Eat. Kher Ravard say.”