Stormcallers

When the Sexton had adjusted his robes about himself, and left the Queen’s meeting chamber, Queen Ceinneret reached out to pluck a tiny silver bell from its surface.

This bell was her lifeline; the one constancy in her life that went beyond ceremony and duty. Her fingers brushed the curving sides for only a moment before she gripped the handle and waved the bell back and forth under her hand, gently, like this.

The sound was softer than the patter of rain on a roof. It tinkled so lightly through the air, that she scarce believed that it could be heard beyond the thick wooden door. But heard it was, and the door to the chamber opened as her queensmaid Melora stepped into view.

She gave a deep curtsy, like this, and her Queen spoke: “Prepare the tincture.”

What of Queen Ceinneret? She now sits on her mighty throne in the Palace of Trethewey, mighty capital of her Kingdom. See her sitting there, tall and proud, among the nobles of her court. Hear them whisper and mutter among themselves as they play their games of intrigue. Scoundrels birthed scandal while ill-planned marriages bred ill-will and poor progeny. Bitter rivalries begat feuds that spilled across the court like tossed wine. Queen Ceinneret sat and watched, her heart aching in sympathy to those hapless nobles who found themselves too far involved in dangerous or uncertain schemes. She delighted in marriages that managed to be both of circumstance and romance entwined, and yearned to challenge the boisterous and pigheaded peacocks who strutted about challenging others with their own ill-thought and poorly framed opinions.

But alas, poor Queen Ceinneret, she was a monarch of the realm, and so she locked her heart away to rule without bias or inclination. Like her father, she saw her heart as an obstacle to be overcome, as she listened impartially to every lord and lady who entered her court.

But let it not be said, beloved, that Phalamili Rukiya was now safe. Still they sailed not a full ballast above the depths of the cloud-sea. The storms continued to rise and their final crate of food was almost empty.

When Rukiya and Kerrom left the Captain’s cabin, the first-mate saw what had happened. It was no small thing they had done; A slave girl from Lergos and the mercenary swamp-knight had killed the ship’s captain, and there was no greater crime on the cloud-sea than the murder of a fellow shipmate.

But what mattered crimes on a doomed ship? Leig, once first-mate now captain, demanded Kerrom and Rukiya to be bound and tried by the crew, but the knots were not tight and the glares held no fire. They all would be dead soon enough, lost to the cloud-sea forever more, or so they thought.

What of Phalamili Rukiya? It was another day of sailing along the shrouded land before the Prezon’s lookouts spied another lighthouse. The distant light pierced through the clouds of Norrholt, guiding the Prezon to port.

When the Herathian port-city appeared, tall and dark against the mists, Phalamili was once again amazed at how similar and how different the Herathian City looked, compared to the Castian towns they had avoided only days before. Curled eves and paper lanterns framed the short buildings on narrow streets. Clean-faced men and long-haired women wore fur around their necks and heads. They were not Eroseans, nor were they like Kerrom, nor Atamato. They looked more like the old cook than anyone else Rukiya had ever seen. For not the last time, Phalamili was astounded by the number of the kinds of people who lived across the cloud-sea.

But Teschemar, Cloud Commander, was a good Herathian, and so he could not set his plans in motion before he recieved a blessing from his superior. Not the Emperor, no, but the High Varus of the Herathian Empire, Highest Commander and Ruler of the Herathian Military, Keeper of the Gate, and Minister of the five Commanders: Luvanar Testunava.

There were few in the whole of the Herathian Empire who were allowed to see the Varus. Even fewer were allowed to speak with him. There were only five who could knock on his door.

As Teschemar approached the Varus’s chamber, the guards along the passageway saluted his passing with their hands placed over their hearts, like this. Teschemar saw how their muscles tightened, and their weapons shone in the dusk light. The guards were strong, and through their submission to Teschemar they made him stronger. This was part of the Law.

The Varus’s door servant bowed low at Teschemar’s approach, and allowed him entrance. Such a room it was! High vaulted ceilings, rich vessels of oil and wine, thick bowls of fruit and sugared breads, and servants dressed finer than any noble met Teschemar’s eyes. Men and woman of every age stood along the wall, waiting to be given purpose by their master’s command. Teschemar’s cloak, cap, and sword of mark were taken; wine and fruit offered. None of the slaves dared raise their gaze from the floor. This too was part of the Law.

When he had drunk and eaten his fill, a young slave stood before him and said “His Highest Varus will see you in his room.” This was not part of the Law.

But now I must tell you of another meeting, that bound the fortunes of two great and terrible nations together. Yes, I say nations, for the Erwind Trade Conglomerate was as powerful as any kingdom, as strong and as prosperous; though it had no borders beyond oman, and no nobles beyond coin.

The Erwind Trade Conglomerate saw power in coin, and so they coveted their wealth and used it only to create more power for themselves, which they then used to collect more coin. Like the turning of the seasons, the Erwind Trade Conglomerate was an unending cycle that trapped men and women in its luscious snare.

It was this lust for power that brought them to the Cloud Commander of Herathia, Teschemar. The powerful merchants of Erwind thought he could be a useful tool, and so crafted many plans to bring him into their fold. An alliance, they hoped, would solidify their power over the cloud-sea. All they needed was to get him to agree.

For two days the Prezon sailed along the coast of Norrholt, past the cliffs of Cast, beyond the Autumn Wall, and on to Greater Norrholt and the united Herathian Empire. Their supplies continued to dwindle, and the crew’s grumbling became louder than before. The Captain punished several of his crew for insubordinate talk, though this only stilled their tongues. Phalamili could still see their spiteful hearts in the movements of their bodies, their squared shoulders, and their darting eyes. Phalamili kept her distance as best she could, weathering the abusive blows and bitter words while cleaning the deck and fetching food.

When her duties were finished, she tried to learn Erosean letters and numbers. Though at first confusing, she soon grasped the core of it, and understood simpler writing and arithmetic.

The rest of her time was spent watching the lands of Norrholt as they passed. She had never seen foreign land before, and was determined not to miss a single hill or tree.

It took two more days, two more greets, before the Prezon at last sighted land. Each day the sailors more angry, and Atamato’s cocky smile became more worried.

The fresh fruit and vegetables spoiled in the ship’s larder. Phalamili Rukiya sometimes watched as the old cook spread powders and spices on her ingredients to hide the foul taste. Hard-crust dipped in weak alcohol soon followed, as did the grumbling and frustration of the crew.

“They don’t mean anything by it,” Goduu told Phalamili. “It’s the same with any journey across the cloud-sea. They’re just being children, angry that they can’t change things as they are. We’ll survive to the end of our journey, at least.”

Phalamili was not convinced. “How much longer will our journey be?” she asked.

When Phalamili stepped above deck once more, she was amazed to see how well the Prezon had weathered the storm. The ice had begun to melt, and the winds blew gently compare to their earlier tempestuousness. Ropes twisted in the wind like dried vines, and shards of splintered wood covered the deck.

But the sails were still full, and the masts still stood tall. Phalamili could scarce believe her eyes, as she had been certain the storm would have destroyed them all.

But the ice-storm had been a small one, the kind often seen on the cloud-sea. Loud and dangerous, yes, as all storms are, but the sailors were experienced hands. They had pulled up the sails, so the ice did not cut them. They turned into the wind, so the squalls did not crash into their sides. They had spread salt and sand, so the ice did not freeze so readily. Thus, they had avoided the worst of the storm’s wrath. Phalamili did not know this, however, and she thought it more evidence of the Erosean’s great magics.

But alas, there was one piece of the Prezon that did not fare so well; the stach-fin had been torn to pieces, and now hung limply off the ship’s side. Poor Phalamili, no sooner had she spied the pitiful wreck, then a shout came from the aft of the ship. “There she is! Beldam! Storm-blown hag! Do you see what she has done?”

It was not the last time she saw Atamato, nor the last time she spoke with him. For you see, when there was nothing to clean, deliver, or watch, Phalamili Rukiya stood atop the quarterdeck and breathed in the cloud-sea air. The winds of the cloud-sea were always strong, pushing hard against her chest before flitting away past her hair and through her clothes. In the depths, deep cracks and soft hissing marked the storms churning beneath the ship. The smell of the air was at times cold and dusty, other times warm and salty. Ashen mists flowed over the sides before fading again, and the creaking of the giant balloon up above provided a steady rhythm to life at cloud-sea. A heartbeat that kept them all aloft. It was terrifying, but also beautiful.

And yet it seemed that whenever she was on deck, the boy Atamato would return time and again to measure the wind and mark the sun with his strange wooden and iron tools. He did this as a Navigator, but also as a student of the Academy.