Stormcallers: Chapter 30
Know this, beloved, for it is one of many truths this story will teach you. There is much allure in the act of ruling over another. While Teschemar’s heart beat strong at the thought of returning to Herathia with blood on his sword, on the other side of the Autumn Wall, Ceinneret’s heart beat faster still.
While Teschemar knew the battlefield, Ceinneret knew gossip. It is like a plague, spreading from person to person, through the air on wings of whispers. The Court of Cast was a plague pit for rumor. Hidden diseases from all across Cast found their way to the lords and ladies of her throne-room, until all were infected.
Even the strong can fall to this disease, but for many years it had avoided Ceinneret. Her place on the throne was a convenience for everyone, and to threaten it was to court chaos. Her father had ruled Cast as a beloved king, and even those who still ached for his rule would not be so quick to defile his bloodline.
Queen Ceinneret too knew that those who yearned for the day when she no longer sat on her father’s throne. They respected the throne, not her. They respected the throne. Her crown was heavy, her royal dress a mere costume. They appreciated the pageantry, they were grateful that she could perform her part so well; the part of the iron lady, the role of the stern and stoic matriarch.
She was clever as well, and so she had no heir. If she were removed as Queen, what family could take her place? Why, she had two brothers, Argenture and Owengallon. Only neither would ever allow the other the prize. To rule a third of Cast was power enough, when no other king or queen held more; but to allow the other to take a full two-thirds of Cast, double what they themselves ruled…It would be chaos. War. Even if they decided to divide her kingdom in half, who received which provinces would only be resolved in blood.
How much simpler, then, to allow the Queen to remain on the throne? She was fair, firm, and merciful when it suited her, which was often enough. Her emotions were few, and they were always under control.
But the truth of it is, my beloved, that when the winds shift, people seek stability. When the world was calm, a woman ruler was safe enough, but now uncertainty grew. Could the people of Cast well afford a Queen instead of a King? That they even asked the question was a threat to Ceinneret, and she knew they were asking. How could they not, when she might be a storm-hag?
And the winds were indeed changing. There was a new face in her court, it was being worn by Lords and Ladies from all across Cast. The Earls and Duchesses from every province looked about behind unfamiliar eyes. It was fear. They were frightened of her. They thought she bewitched the storms.
Do you know the tale of Lady Sambell? She is a folk legend of Cast; the mighty witch of the mountain, who hurdled rivers of flame and avalanches of ice on villages who dared to resist her power. So too are there the stories of the Haggard Women skulking through the hills at night, singing to lure children away and feast on their blood, their cries whisked away by their servant winds. Legends, myths, superstitions abounded of the women who had power, despite casting aside everything that could make a woman; their youth, their beauty, and their motherhood.
You must know, beloved, how to Queen Ceinneret, it was appealing. Tantalizing. She had played her role for so long, but had never been feared or loved as her father had been. A strong and vindictive man, the people had cheered his brutality when he leveled it on the deserving, confident the loyal would never feel his heavy hand.
Ceinneret was no fool. She knew she was not loved; she was tolerated. Accepted as better than a violent upheaval as the families of Owengallon and Argenture fought over her lands and provinces.
But neither had she ever been feared. Not like this. She could see it in the steps of the Lords and Ladies, hear it in their hushed voices. The care with which Baron Treave had approached her was now commonplace, as the nobility of her court took such care with their performances, lest a single foot out of place incur her wrath.
She had never felt like this before. The looks on their faces, the submission in their eyes…it was intoxicating. To hold the lives and livelihoods of the court in her hand was not unfamiliar, but to see in their eyes that they knew it too was a heady drought. It filled her chest. With such power, her people would agree to her every demand lest she conjure up a storm to crush their villas and townhouses. Drunk on the possibilities, she wondered if this was what her father felt like all the time.
So then you must know, dearest beloved, it was no difficult choice for poor Queen Ceinneret to make; and when the last noble had bowed and retreated from her steady gaze, having received her judgment; she stood from her throne and raised her hand in the air like she had seen her father do, like this, and she said:
“It does the Kingdom of Cast good to see the hearts of its nobility turned towards its future. We are gratified to hear the faithful words of loyalty fall from your lips like jewels, and receive your levies of troops, coin, steel, and blood. From every province in the kingdom, we have taken our due, and in return for your oaths and pledges, We now pledge ourselves once more to Cast. Our blood is your blood. Our breath your breath.”
She paused only a moment before continuing, her voice low.
“There is a storm brewing beyond the Autumn Wall. Herathia wakes, and the Erwind Trade Conglomerate is sharpening its knives. There are none in this room who are so foolish to believe that the foreign merchants will not soon turn their hungry eyes to our verdant lands, our green hills, our rich provinces. Some may be uncertain of my strength or power. Some may doubt me. I will put your minds at ease. Let the uncertainty be swept away, the rumors ground to dust to blow away on the winds. I am my father’s daughter. I am the Queen of Cast, and with every ounce of power I wield, I bend myself to the Kingdom of Cast. The Autumn wall will hold, our sea-walls will prevail, our arms will hold back the rising floodwaters, and our siege engines will bring down any ships who dare to threaten our rightful claims. Should they dare rouse our deep and terrible wrath, the might of Cast will descend on the brutish and violent Herathians like a storm from the heavens.”
When she finished her speech, a mighty rumble of a distant storm echoed from the skies above. Was it providence or fortune, we may never know. But clever Ceinneret knew how to use what she had been given. As the rumble faded, she lowered her hand and said: “Let any who doubt me speak now.”
Like drops of falling rain, one by one the nobles of her court bowed, curtsied, and placed their hands over their hearts. Soon, the entire room had bowed their heads. Even the guards, usually exempt from such presentations, knelt together, their metal armor clanking in the silent throne-room.
When the court had been dismissed, Ceinneret prepared for bed with the aid of her queensmaid, hope brimming in her heart.
But poor Queen Ceinneret, she saw one thing still standing between her and the power she had so long desired. It was, in her mind, a failing she could no longer abide. And so it was, before she had dismissed Melora from her service for the night, she said in hushed but firm tones:
“Sexton Tarran, I worry he may not appreciate what I have done.”
Melora did not question her Queen, nor did she accede. Instead she stood, silent in the shadows, while Ceinneret said at last: “He may be an obstacle.”
Now Melora knew that when Ceinneret mentioned such things to her, and in such a manor, it was as good as a command. So Melora curtsied to her queen, and closed the chamber door behind her.
That night, she stole from the castle, hidden from the guards’ watchful eyes by long shadows, and made her way through the town towards the Sexton’s chapel. With a practiced hand she unlocked the chapel door, slipping thought as quiet as a mouse. It took her not a minute to find the Sexton, asleep in his bed, and feed him from a vial she had prepared.
Out of respect for her Queen, Melora sat and watched until the man’s breathing had stopped completely. Then, she left as quickly and quietly as she had come.
You should know, beloved, that Rukiya’s hand was sorely burned by the fire-storm Vishala had called to the earth. In her fear, she had thrown her arms around the closest slave, covering her face with her hands to protect the child from the raging fire, and before the storm had passed them by, before Vishala had grabbed them all and run into the jungle, the back of her hand had burnt and blistered in the heat.
How her hand stung as they ran, a burning reminder of the magic she had seen, for it had to have been magic, she thought. What else could bring down the Storms upon the land?
They did not rest nor pause, so still her hand throbbed as the slave-girls ran, as fast as their aching bodies would carry them. Past snake and vine, over marsh and mud, the slave-girls ran deeper and deeper into the jungle, following the lithe and limber form of Vishala, she of Dancing Hands.
Now Rukiya was frightened of Vishala, because edge-witches were said to each young children. Of course, Rukiya knew there was no such thing as an edge-witch, that they were just stories to frighten children; but too had she seen with her own eyes Vishala call down flame from the skies, a fire-storm the likes of which she had not seen since leaving the Islands of Lergos.
But too Rukiya could not leave Vishala’s side. Poor Rukiya, she knew well the forests of Oleni and Orem, but never before had she traveled so deep into dark and gnarled jungles. Vishala guided them past tree and swamp, urging them to be swift, silent, and calm.
She was not like the stories of the edge-witches: she was neither hideous nor had she a voice of cracking branches. Her hands were not claws, and nor was her breath of rotting flesh. Could she have bewitched them all into seeing her as a kind and gentle woman, instead of the monster she was?
At long last they rested in a circle of twisted trees. Gasping and panting the girls lay, while Vishala promised to return. “There is a small village up ahead,” she said in voice soft as feathers. “I will go there to beg for food. You must stay here and be quiet, so the Herathian army does not find you.” With that, Vishala vanished into the jungle once more, leaving the slave-girls alone together.
Rukiya felt the urge to follow the powerful and dangerous woman who could protect them all with fire from the skies, but the slaves had learned obedience, discipline worthy of any soldier, and so they waited in the jungle, hungry, cold, and exhausted.
What whispers they must have heard, the poor children. What dark and twisted fears the Storms must have slid into their ears. What horrible things might have come of that single night, had not Rukiya known the great secret of the Storms, and power of bonding.
There, that night, with no sound but the buzzing of the insects and the distant call of a hunting bird, Rukiya spoke in a slave-whisper, no louder than a drop of water.
“Rukiya.”
The other slaves opened their eyes, looked up from their laps, opened their mouths in astonishment. They studied Rukiya’s face as she looked at each one of them in turn, and rested an open palm upon her chest. “Rukiya.”
In the quiet darkness, the girl Rukiya had known as Hara raised her own hand to her heart, and in a whisper no louder than Rukiya’s said: “Nanela.”
Then, another voice from across the clearing: “Shakma.”
“Nima,” said another.
“Girvi.”
“Umani.”
“Rasma.”
The names came faster and louder. Words long forgotten or only whispered came flooding from the poor girls mouths. Their voices, which once only brought them pain, could now be used free of fear.
They laughed silent laughter, and cried silent tears. They held each other gasping for breath, and touched each others faces. Nanela, who was once called Hara, traced the scars on Rukiya’s cheek, back, and arm with her finger, gentle and loving. They existed. They lived. They breathed. They were free.
When Vishala returned, she held them too, and only repremanded them for their noise after they had eaten from the tiny morsels of meat and sagging vegetables she had brought, and drunk from the small flask of water she had begged for.
“But we were only slaves,” Rukiya protested once she had eaten her share. “They will forget about us, or not bother to look for us. We are but a few slaves, we are no threat to their king.”
Wise Vishala shook her head. “Escaped slaves are always a threat to kings. Our freedom goes against everything a king stands for.” It was here that Vishala saw the burned flesh on the back of Rukiya’s hand, and she drew her aside to mend her wound with torn cloth and the last of the cold water from her flask. “It was a brave thing you did, to protect another in the midst of a Storm.”
“It was a Storm you brought to life,” Rukiya whispered, afraid in spite of Vishala’s soothing touch. “You are an edge-witch.”
“I am many things,” Vishala said. “I am a daughter twice, and a friend seven times over. I have been a lover to some and an enemy to others. I have hurt many, but I hope I have helped more. I imagine you and I are not so very different.”
This was as much as Vishala would say, because she knew things that Rukiya did not, but it was not her place to say them aloud. Instead, Rukiya asked: “Where are we going?”
“We are going to the edge of the island,” Vishala answered. “We had not planned on the Empire of Herathia attacking Tarras Bastion. We had other plans that now must be forgotten. If we can reach the edge of the island before ten days have passed, then you may be able to escape Madrain forever.”
“I can hunt,” Rukiya said. “With a bow and arrow, I can get us food.”
Vishala smiled at this, and when they returned to the clearing with Rukiya’s hand bound in cloth, Rukiya set about making a bow from a jungle-tree branch and thin vine.
The journey was long and dangerous. They slept huddled together for warmth. They ate what little Rukiya could hunt with a makeshift bow. It kept them alive, but they slept hungry most nights.
One evening, instead of Kerrom, Rukiya heard sobbing. When she found the girl Nanela, who was once called Hara weeping into her hands, she put her arm around her shoulders.
“It will never end,” Nanela sobbed quietly into Rukiya’s shoulder. “The hunger, the darkness, the pain…we will never leave this horrible place. We are trapped…our iron chains have become vines and creeper, the stone walls gnarled wood. We will never escape. We are slaves forever.”
As the poor girl spoke, Rukiya could not help but feel the same. Nanela’s pain flowed through her words and into Rukiya’s heart, took root, and began to grow.
They held each other, weeping and sharing their pain. The other girls joined in, offering their own pain and taking on their suffering, binding themselves tighter in bonds of misery. They joy of finding their voices had faded to the awareness of their plight.
Eight days they traveled, surviving on the meager scraps they could scavenge. At night they slave-whispered to each other, sharing joys, pains, and fears, telling each other what they could remember of themselves. Eight days they spoke of their hearts, their families, their lands, their stories, and through this magic they kept the whispers of the Storms at bay.
During the day, Rukiya never stopped looking and listening, straining to hear Kerrom’s silent footsteps, see his tall form slipping through the trees.
“We are nearing the edge,” Vishala warned them on the eighth day. “The land is becoming soft, and there may be Storms. Do not stray from the path I walk, and do not let anyone out of your sight.”
Rukiya knew how to walk the soft edge, and so she helped her fellows along, pointing out the cracking sound and the bubbling sight of land that was soon to break away, erupt in flame or ice, or sink into the cloud-sea beneath the island.
Their sleep was fitful, awoken as they were by the shifting land and the harsh winds that howled past them in their sleep. Twice was a girl almost lost to the sinking earth only to be pulled back by a quick hand.
On the morning of the tenth day, Vishala shook Rukiya awake. “Up!” she snapped, louder than she had ever been before. “Up and quick! We must move at once!”
Confused but obedient, the girls tore themselves from each other and began to follow Vishala’s steady gait. Under bough and over bush they ran, circling around like a pack of wolves until at last the jungle parted.
There, as wide and unending as the sky, lay the cloud-sea. They had reached the edge of Madrain. Clumps of stone and dirt floated just beyond, tumbling and circling the island. And what did Rukiya see, floating above the crumbled edge, but a ship! A ship held aloft with canvas balloon and silken wind-catchers. It was smaller than the Prezon had been, and sleeker, with a thin keel that dipped as tall as a mast.
On the deck of the vessel, they could see, were crates of bread and salted meat, and barrels of fresh water. A small pile of warm blankets and clean clothes was sat next to them, and squatting in the middle of it all was an old woman.
“Come aboard,” she waved, dropping a rope ladder to the land below. “Once your feet leave the ground you’ll be free from Madrain at last.”
How fast the girls climbed! As weak and exhausted as they were, no force on the cloud-sea could keep them tethered. Once they were all aboard, the old woman gave them blankets and clothes. “Eat and drink and dress yourselves. There is warm straw below decks, and water to wash in.”
Rukiya did not eat, nor drink. She did not wash herself, nor dress in new clothes. Now that she was aboard the ship, she could do nothing but stare at the old woman as she beamed at each child in turn, before Rukiya ran to her arms, for the old woman was Goduu, she of Gemstone Ear, the woman who had helped Rukiya so many months ago.