Stormlord Rising Read online

  Jasper sat, but did not reply to the question. “Where’s Terelle?” he asked instead.

  Taquar shrugged indifferently and poured two goblets of amber. “I’ve no idea.”

  Dragging in a deep breath, Jasper curbed a desire to slam a fist into the man’s face. “I know you had her—you forced her to write that note to me. You said you’d tell me what became of her. Do so.”

  “I don’t know where she is. Nor do I have any interest now you are here.” He handed one of the goblets to Jasper.

  You wilted bastard. You’re playing games with me. He took the goblet, but did not drink. “In the letter you sent, you threatened to kill her. To torture her, if I did not return.”

  “And you were supposed to believe it. But really, I am not the monster you think me to be. Having written the note, the little whore was free to go. After a while, she did.” He turned to look at the portrait of himself on the wall. “She left me that, a memento of our times together, the little jade! Quite a fine painting, don’t you think?”

  The feeling smothering Jasper was so intense he could hardly breathe. It was every searing event he had ever endured: the moment when Citrine had been thrown into the air and skewered on the chala spear; the moment when he had seen carvings on a pede and known its owner was the man who had killed her; the moment he had drawn his blade across Nealrith’s neck; the moment one of Davim’s bladesmen had uttered Mica’s name only to die. It was the last time he had seen Terelle, when Harkel Tallyman, Scarcleft’s seneschal, had said so casually: “Kill her.”

  Silent, struggling with the intensity of his feeling, he stared at the painting and saw all Terelle had put into it: the despair, the hate, the fear of the power intimidating her. Worse, he also saw Taquar’s sexuality, his attractiveness, through her eyes. The allure. Terelle had looked at this man and part of her had been mesmerized by him.

  Jasper’s bitterness stirred. Is that what attracts a woman? Sensuality coupled with a callous indifference to others? An attractive body coupled with the reality of power?

  He battled his jealousy, knowing it was ridiculous. No, not Terelle. Never Terelle.

  Yet the pain of those thoughts ebbed but slowly. Expressionless, he looked at Taquar. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a very fine portrait. And you are lying. What happened to her?”

  Taken aback, Taquar blinked.

  Good, I’ve disconcerted him.

  “You saw the damage to part of the city as we rode in.”

  “The earth shook and walls fell down, you said. What did you call it? An earthquake? What has that to do with Terelle?”

  “She escaped that night. She was here in the hall. You’re right; I had no intention of letting her go. I thought if I had her, I had a way of ensuring your cooperation. Believe me, the last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt her.”

  “Did she have her paints?” Jasper asked suddenly.

  Taquar blinked in surprise at the question. “Yes, she did. So?”

  “Nothing. Nothing that matters now, anyway.” But inwardly he smiled. He knew now what had brought down the outer wall of Scarcleft Hall. Terelle had not escaped by accident—she had painted her way free. “I am sure you tried to find her afterward,” he said. “Where did she go?”

  “It was a day before I realized she was even missing. We were somewhat preoccupied in the aftermath of the earthquake,” Taquar said, his irritation surfacing.

  “I can imagine. But I still know you tried to find her. Are you saying she escaped your clutches leaving not a single clue behind?”

  “Not exactly. Harkel found out she went to that old man—the waterpainter. What was his name again?”

  “Russet Kermes.”

  “Russet, that’s right. The two of them left Scarcleft on a pede, immediately after the quake. No one saw which way they went. By the time we found out, there didn’t seem to be much point in searching.”

  Jasper considered, wondering if he should continue to needle the highlord or if he now had an approximation of the truth. He was inclined to think so. A spike of grief jabbed at his heart, then receded to a dull ache. The odds were he would never see her again. Russet had wanted to take her to his home, way beyond the borders of the Quartern. Terelle was lost to him.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll accept that as the truth. But it’s not the only thing I need to know. You told me you had no knowledge of Mica’s fate. But all the while you were allied to Davim. I assume you asked him what happened to my brother. What did he tell you?”

  “That he had placed your brother in one of the Reduner tribes. He didn’t tell me which one. Several years later he told me Mica died in an accident with a pede. That’s all I know.”

  He went cold all over. Mica was dead? Only a few days earlier, back in Breccia, he’d talked to one of the invaders from the Red Quarter who’d known Mica and he’d begun to hope again that his brother was alive. “Was—was that the truth?”

  “I can’t think of any reason he would lie.”

  Jasper put down his drink, untouched, and stood up. He went to stand at the window, looking out, yet seeing nothing beyond his memory of the day Wash Drybone Settle had been slaughtered. The fires, the blood, the screams, the dispassionate killing by men who simply didn’t care. He remembered hearing Mica calling out to him as he was taken away.

  I didn’t believe he’d died, he acknowledged. I never truly admitted it was even possible. Even now, I go on hoping.

  How long he stood there grieving, yet refusing to lose hold of hope, he did not know. If Taquar spoke to him, he did not hear. When he turned once more to face the highlord, he said calmly, “Now, shall we see if we have any real basis for a partnership? I want to know if you can truly raise water vapor from the Giving Sea.”

  “Now?” Taquar appeared dumbfounded.

  “Why not? I have no intention of staying here unless there is good reason. And cloudmaking is that reason. The only one.” He put his drink down. “Do you have a stormquest room?”

  Taquar drank the last of his amber. “Yes. Although it hasn’t been used as that for as long as I remember. It’s the library now.” He rose to his feet. “Follow me.”

  The library had the elements Jasper had come to think of as essential to stormshifting: a view out toward the Giving Sea, lecterns suitable for looking at scroll maps and a large table for bigger maps. For the time being, though, he was unconcerned about where to send water. He just wanted to know if they could do it at all.

  He walked straight over to the open shutters. He could not see the sea in the heat haze of the horizon, but he could feel it: a vast expanse of water impinging on him as a vague presence just at the edges of his conscious thought. “Show me.”

  Taquar came to stand beside him. Without speaking he stared outward. Jasper waited at his side, sending his water-sense seaward, concentrating to feel the first movement of pure mist wisping out of the salt water. It came, such a tiny spiral of vapor he almost missed it. He gathered it together, controlling it with ease so it didn’t escape and dissipate. Easy enough, especially when the amount was so small. He searched for other misty half-formed clouds typical of the coastal areas and started to pull them together. Not enough to form a rain cloud, he had to admit, but it all helped.

  He glanced at Taquar. The highlord was sweating with the effort.

  Pede piss, Jasper thought. Is this the most he can do? If a cloud hardly the size of a myriapede took this much effort, how were they ever going to create clouds containing enough water to supply even Scarcleft, let alone the whole of the Quartern? Impatiently, he tugged at the vapor, pulling it upward away from the surface of the sea, dragging it out of Taquar’s hold as fast as the highlord created it.

  “That’s it!” Taquar said, gasping. “Makes it easier.”

  It was true. The set of Taquar’s shoulders relaxed, his breathing steadied. The vapor eased out of the Giving Sea at a faster pace. The cloud thickened, billowed larger. It took time, but finally Jasper could feel the weight of its wa
ter.

  But even so, he thought bleakly, people are going to die all over the Quartern. Taquar hasn’t as much power as Granthon, even when Granthon was at his most ill. He swore under his breath, all the worst epithets he had learned down on Level Thirty-six.

  Still, it was a start. It was a cloud. It held water and he could send it high enough over the Warthago to bring rain to the mother wells of one of the cities.

  And, sunblast it, it meant he had to stay in Scarcleft Hall.

  Then he smiled, a grim smile of determination. He had been Taquar’s prisoner once, but this time things would be different.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Scarpen Quarter

  Breccia City

  Breccia Hall, Level 2

  Kaneth is alive.

  Ryka was consumed by the thought. He was alive. Injured, but standing. They had thrown him onto a pyre and burned his face, yet he was still alive. Dear Watergiver. She stopped that thought, fought her nausea, quelled the bile in her throat. Don’t think about that. He was here, that was all that mattered.

  Kaneth—his name an anguished whisper in her head—we can get out of here, the two of us. And we can kill Ravard and Davim before we leave. After all, Kaneth was a more powerful rainlord than she was, and a fine swordsman, too. If the Reduner sandmaster and his heir were dead, that would leave their forces in disarray, surely.

  Leaning against the balcony railing, she willed him to look up. Please, love, see: I’m here. You always said you knew when I was near; you sensed my water.

  It was one of the quirky oddities of his unpredictable power, and she was the only person he could recognize that way. The ability to identify people by their water was supposed to be a stormlord skill, and Kaneth was no stormlord.

  But he didn’t look her way. No, of course he wouldn’t. He’s too afraid to give away his identity. Her next thought horrified her. But Ravard said the burned man can’t remember who he is. What if that’s true? For a moment she was back in the Breccia waterhall. A spear had creased Kaneth’s head. He’d staggered and fallen, dragging her with him into the cistern. So much blood… He’d been conscious for a bit, then he’d drifted away to some place and she hadn’t been able to call him back. For a moment she was paralyzed with pain and grief and worry.

  Get a hold of yourself, Ry. You need to eat to restore your power. She had to eat a lot. Drained by the battle, without food and rest, she wouldn’t have sensed even a cistern two paces away. Ravenous, she left the balcony to fetch some food from the reception room.

  She stuffed a slice of bab bread into her mouth, all of it at once, then followed it with a piece of unidentifiable meat and a boiled egg. Piling more food into a bowl, she carried it out to the balcony. Overlooking the forecourt once more, she continued to eat greedily as she watched what was happening below.

  When several more men were killed with casual efficiency because they refused to swear fealty, she almost vomited all she had eaten. Kaneth hardly seemed to notice. He swayed slightly as he stood, and several times Elmar reached out to steady him. Ryka’s heart plummeted.

  He looks ill, she thought. And so hurt.

  She forced herself to eat more even though her appetite had gone. Gradually, she felt the dim stirrings of her power within her once more. Not enough to kill a man, but she thought she could move a drop of water. When they were all students at Breccia Academy, much of the flirting had involved moving drops of water. He would recognize that, surely, and think of her?

  She separated a drop out from the onyx carafe on her food tray and sent it down into the forecourt. Carefully, she manoeuvred it to trickle down Kaneth’s face, the unburned side, just as she had done so often when she had been a cheeky academy student and he an exasperated senior. He batted absently at his face, as if brushing away an insect. When his fingers came away wet, he looked at them absently and wiped them down his tunic.

  Ryka winced. No… make it not true. He must remember. He must. She brought out another drop from the jar. This time she danced it right in front of his eyes. At first he didn’t seem to notice, then he caught the drop in his fingers, but made no move to look around. Instead, he rubbed his forehead the way he always did when something puzzled him.

  Thank the Sunlord, no one noticed. They all had their own problems. But, agonized, she wondered how he could be so… so… unlike himself.

  The last of the slaves swore their fealty, Davim disappeared inside the hall once more and Ravard gave orders to the guards. The slaves were marched out of the courtyard in the direction of the pede stables and all was quiet in the courtyard again.

  Ryka returned inside and began to pace. She tried the outer door once more. Barred on the outside, of course. She raged with frustration, desperate to build her power and let it fly, to do something, anything.

  Kaneth was acting a part. Of course he was. He had to be. If they thought he was half-senseless, they wouldn’t fear him, even if they found out he was a rainlord. He was waiting for the best moment to kill Davim and his immediate underlings, that was all.

  And yet her fears niggled. Maybe he was as sick as he appeared. Maybe he couldn’t remember who he was. Maybe he didn’t remember her.

  She paced some more, swallowing her fury at her situation, battling her frustration.

  The woman delivered another meal in the late afternoon. The guard accompanying her, a man Ryka had not seen before, let the servant into the room and then leaned against the doorway, watching. He was a gaunt man with bushy eyebrows as red as his skin; elderly, but a warrior nonetheless, with scars on his face and several fingers missing on his left hand.

  She inclined her head respectfully in his direction and, using the Quartern language, asked him what his name was. He just stared at her.

  “You are the son of a whore and you have the prick of a wilted sand-leech,” she said with a pleasant smile. The woman’s eyes went wide with horror, but the Reduner didn’t react. Still smiling, Ryka spoke to the woman, waving a hand at the food as if she was merely thanking her for bringing the meal. “Don’t worry, he doesn’t understand. Can you tell me where the Breccians intended for slavery are being kept? The men and the boys?”

  The woman paled, but fortunately did not look guiltily at the guard as Ryka had feared she might. “The pede stables,” she said, as she stacked up the empty dishes from the morning’s meal. “They took all the pedes away and they’re using the stable to keep people.” She glanced at the guard then, to see if he objected to the conversation, but he was gazing around the room, his look one of scornful contempt. “They’re being taken to the dunes tomorrow morning. Early, like. The kitchens have to prepare food for the journey.”

  “Are the stables guarded?”

  “’Course.” She looked at Ryka, and the desolation in her gaze was almost beyond fear, or grief. “They say—they say all the rainlords are dead. The Cloudmaster and Stormlord Jasper, too. They even killed the priests. There’s no hope for us. We either die now, or thirst to death later.” She ducked her head and turned away. The guard didn’t react.

  Ryka, sick at heart, said nothing. She was one person, one rainlord.

  Watergiver forgive me. What can we do? I can’t save everybody; not even Kaneth and I together can do that.

  She turned her back as the woman and guard left.

  She ate again, forcing the food down, even though her anxiety made her nauseous. Her power was nearly wholly restored, and she wanted to keep it that way.

  Come on, Ryka; you pride yourself on your mind. You need a plan, and you need it quickly.

  Ravard had given her three nights to sleep alone. Could she trust him? He’d made a promise and something told her he took his promises seriously. He’d told her he preferred an acquiescent woman in his bed and she had no reason—yet—to think he lied. She was reasonably certain he would not come to Nealrith’s quarters until the three nights were up.

  She had to use the time alone to escape. Or at the very least, to arrange an escape. Leaving the room would
not be difficult. She could tear bedding to make a rope from the balcony to the ground, for instance—but to remain unseen? The courtyard was never empty of Reduners.

  She could entice the guard outside her room to enter, kill him, and escape that way. A better solution, perhaps, but there would be no going back from that. If she used her water skills, the Reduners would know they had a rainlord in their midst. They wouldn’t know who, so they might well kill all the Breccians in the hall just to make certain they had eliminated all possibilities. If she didn’t use her water-powers, she might die in a fight.

  Once free of the room, she would still have to enter the stables, presumably by killing more guards. Then free Kaneth. Elmar, too; he would be an asset in any escape. But how would they get out of Breccia Hall? Through one of the water tunnels? What if Kaneth was too sick to use his powers? And she was one of the weakest ever to be granted the title of rainlord. Yet she had to do something. She couldn’t allow them to move Kaneth to the Red Quarter. In his condition, he might die. Unless he was faking it…

  She grunted in exasperation. How could she plan anything when she knew so little about what was happening outside Nealrith’s apartment?

  Restlessly she prowled the rooms, seeking ideas or a fresh perspective. Just as the sun set, she realized she had overlooked the obvious. The room above had a small projecting balcony. She could climb to it by standing on the balustrade of her own balcony, with a good likelihood no one in the courtyard below would notice in the dark. She had no idea who was sleeping up there, if anyone, but she did know most Reduners did not favor sleeping indoors, enclosed by walls. From the room above, she might be able to make her way through Breccia Hall, using her water-sense to avoid meeting Reduner guards as she went.

  While trying to picture what she knew of the layout of the hall, she heard the door of Nealrith’s bedroom opening, the one she had guessed led to Laisa’s rooms. A moment later Kher Ravard was striding across the reception room toward her. His eyes flashed with anger; his whole stance radiated suppressed rage.