Stormcallers

But what of Phalamili Rukiya? What happened to her when she woke again in the hold of the Prezon, curled tightly on the dry straw?

She saw the old face of the ship’s gook; Goduu Dzitugan, She of Gemstone Ear, Minister to the rebellion, teacher of the calling, bringer of quakes, mother, widow, daughter, and friend. At the time, however, Phalamili didn’t even know that her name was Goduu. “Come now, child, you can’t sleep all day, can you?” the old woman asked, because she had once been a mother, and knew how to deal with young girls. She could see the red rings that were the signs of one who had cried themselves to sleep, and her heart went out to this poor girl who was now the Captain’s slave. “Here, wash your face in this bowl of water.”

Phalamili did so, and then ate the tiny piece of cheese, and a square of hard-crust, which is a kind of sailor’s food for long voyages. It does not spoil as meat or fruit does, but neither does it taste. When she had finished grinding the hard meal between her teeth, she spoke to the old cook: “You do not look like an Erosean.”

News came on a cold misty evening, when the fog of Greater Norrholt spilled down from the mountains and crept across the land towards the edges. A merchant caravan brought news from the capital, the King had surrendered. They were to be Wendshan no more, but citizens of the Empire.

All through Jarhaan, the people were frightened of what would come of their town. They knew the price of surrender, but never had surrender come without war. Would the armies of Herathia march through their village, burning and pillaging without resistance? Would they be taken as slaves and gifted to high Herathian officials?

Friar Henrik soothed his frightened flock: “Peace is nothing to be feared, and by the will of the Light above, our village will survive. Let us not fear, but hope.”

But Ysalla was afraid, because she saw how Friar Henrik stayed awake long into the night, his hands clasping and unclasping, tears threatening to run down his cheeks. She wondered what could make a man so afraid yet still counsel others to hope? In the language of her heart, it was a cruelty; those who were not cautioned were not prepared.

Now, let us look to the other side of the Autumn Wall, to the land known only as the Kingdom of Cast. Called the first kingdom, Cast was an ancient and once mighty land ruled over by monarchs of great wisdom and strength. The castles of Cast have stood proud and tall for many generations, rivaling the mountains in age and fortitude.

A decade ago, the High King Terythein of Cast ruled from the castle of Benhavle, Highest of all Cast. Built in the exact center of the kingdom, Benhavle was a fortress filled with towers and spires and an overabundance of stairs. His favorite castle, it was here that the High King died, passing his throne on to the next ruler of Cast.

But what do we find in the tallest tower of Benhavle, not one ruler but three; for in his foolishness the High King divided the Kingdom of Cast and bestowed a third each to his three children. Each now ruled from their own castles, and it was here at Benhavle they traveled once every year to speak to each other, the rulers of Cast.

Now, beloved, we must leave Rukiya where she sleeps and travel across the cloud-sea, to the island of Norrholt, the land of mists and mountains, of plains and dark forests. Greatest Norrholt, the largest island in the cloud-sea, torn in half by the great Autumn Wall.

On one side of the Autumn Wall, the side known among those who live there as Greater Norrholt, lies the mighty Herathian Empire. Once a land of many tribes and houses, now all united under the Red Saqur, the banner of a brutal and violent Law handed down to the Herathi people from the great warlord Zouhbal centuries ago.

Past town and village we must go, over the fog-soaked lands of rice and wine, of wandering needle-deer and watchful redcats. Deeper into Greater Norrholt, up the hills and towards the longest mountain range in the cloud-sea, the Saber Mountains.

The Captain’s Cabin was like nothing Rukiya had ever seen before. It was made entirely of wood and not a single spot was bare of something to look at. A tapestry of many shapes and colors hung on the wall next to a pair of mounted swords. A broad desk was covered with an open book, small bags, and a box next to a feather stuck in a tiny bottle. Thick wooden ribs reached across the ceiling, and shadows danced in every corner, cast from a glowing glass orb that sat on a small metal vase. This was an oil lamp, and Rukiya had never seen one before.

Her fascination was interrupted by a sudden swaying of the ship. As she looked out the large window, she saw the land of Clashwind slowly begin to move.

At first she thought, as would we all, that she was mad. How could the island move so suddenly and swiftly? Was this more Two-chin magic? But no, so smooth and gentle was the rocking of the ship that she had not realized that they were moving away from Clashwind.

The deal was struck, the bargain made, and Rukiya followed Hyleastus Asidi out of the Trade House. The Light Above had vanished and dusk blanketed Clashwind town, pushed back only by the now burning metal torches that rose along the street. The cloud-sea was high that evening, the swirling gray mists curling over the edge of the island and drifting upwards to meet with the curtain of clouds that was the sky.

Greedy Hyleastus Asidi took Rukiya to the great stone walls of Clashwind town, down dark and shadowy streets until they reached a small wooden door. Here he knocked three times, like this. The door opened, and Rukiya could hear whispering. The sound of clinking metal reached her ears, and then Hyleastus Asidi bid her follow him through the door.

On the other side of the wall was a guard and a horse. Hyleastus Asidi mounted the horse, and pulled Rukiya up after him. Taking a lantern from the guard’s offered hand, he kicked his heels against the horses flank, and the two of them rode off down the hill towards the edge of the island.

Now I must tell you of the Eroseans, once a proud people, who traveled from their distant island to many a land in the great cloud-sea. They knew the art of trade and built an empire of coin to whet the lips of the most greedy of men. There are few Eroseans who can withstand the lure of money, and so across the many islands they traded food and fur, silks and perfume, jewels and steel, animals and stories of heathen nations.

But the Eroseans were no savages, and so they had learned the secrets of the Trade House.

Rukiya had not understood the Trade House, because it was a very Two-chin idea; to have an entire building devoted to offering goods and accepting bonds. For the Orenda people, it was their way to swear one’s word and the deal was done. For the Two-chins, one’s word was not enough; you also had to be in the right place.

Now you should know that Rukiya had left her village many times. There was not a span of Oleni or Orem that she had not felt under her feet. Yet today she journeyed alone, without adult or gathering of children. She had never wandered far from home before, alone.

Poor Rukiya, she had expected a sense of thrill or delight, traveling for the first time by herself. Now she was a woman, free from the firm grip of her father; but she felt no joy, no happiness.

Why not?

Who knows? Perhaps her mind was so worried about her uncertain future, she could feel no joy. Or perhaps she would not let herself rejoice while Old Wana lay sick. Or perhaps Rukiya had learned well the secrets of men, and so thought that to be brave was to walk with grim determination down the long and winding path. The day was young, and the light had only just begun to bathe the land in a misty glow. Young quayla darted out and back from the forests, plucking fallen seeds and grains once hidden by the frosts, and preparing once more to fly free in the cloud-sea, high above and below the floating islands like fish in a river.

Hearken and hear the tale of Rukiya, she of Puddle Tears, wise woman of Lergos, caller of storms, Phalamili, scourge of the empire, midwife of the Wailing Hour, Ada, shackle-breaker, she most fortunate, mother, daughter, and friend; But before she earned her many names, before the scars and wrinkles covered her skin like the bark of a tree, before legends were whispered of her among the many floating islands of the cloud-sea, her only name was Rukiya.

She only had one name? Why?

Because it was the way of the many tribes of Lergos, who called themselves the People, to give only a single name to their children. From the nomadic Onwatomi to the steadfast and bloodthirsty Biret, there was never a need for a second name; Rukiya was Rukiya, and she was of the Orenda people.

Ah, colonialism.

Anti-colonial texts are hard to write, especially when you yourself are a colonialist. In a very real way, anti-colonialism is not my wheelhouse. It is the purview and right of the colonized to write powerful and sweeping tales of overcoming colonialism, patriarchy, and religious bigotry.

Of course, it is hardly exclusively the duty of the colonized to do all the heavy lifting. Allies must share and uplift the voices of the persecuted, not subsume or claim their words as one’s own.

And naturally, it’s all a spectrum. And boy howdy did I hit the wrong end of the spectrum on my first draft of The Stormcallers.