Cassius heard a commotion stirring outside the room he had claimed for himself in the royal wing—the heavy thud of boots and shouting voices. He pushed open his door to see a small contingent of soldiers barreling their way down the hall, swords drawn.
He stepped out, his hands held palms up. “Gentlemen, there is no need for weapons, I assure you. What seems to be the issue?”
He recognized the soldier in the lead as part of Aurora’s guard, the one who had carried her after the knife incident. Taven, Cassius believed was his name. He fought a scowl.
“We demand to see the queen.”
Cassius sighed. Honestly, he was surprised it had taken this long.
“I understand your concern, but the queen is unwell. I assure you a maid is looking after her. But I hardly think a group of soldiers barging into her personal rooms is going to help her recovery.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Taven growled. “Does she know your father is cavorting about the throne room as if it were his?”
Cassius gritted his teeth. The old fool. Did he not realize that caution was imperative? “My father is used to being in charge, and might occasionally step over the line. It’s why my brother and I took over handling storm duty for Locke. I assure you, the king means no harm.” The lie slid like a razor off his tongue.
“Then perhaps it’s time for your family to return home.”
Cassius narrowed his eyes at Taven. “So you’ve already given up on your princess?”
The man’s nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched. “Never.”
“And yet you would have me give up on her and leave? Take all my soldiers with me?” Cassius’s eyes flicked to the bands on the soldier’s arm, signifying his affinities. Thunderstorm and skyfire. “Taven, is it?” He did not wait for confirmation before continuing: “I’m going to be quite blunt with you. Your queen won’t get out of bed. Your princess has been kidnapped. The Rage season is in full swing. The soldiers I have out searching for the princess have reported multiple destroyed villages, far more than is typical for this soon in the season. And yet you would have one of the strongest Stormling families in existence leave so that the city is protected only by … whom? You with your two affinities?” He glanced at the soldiers behind Taven; none had more than one band. “Them with only one? Do you know what happens to a kingdom with a power vacuum? It collapses while people fight over control like dogs. I can let that happen. Or … you can let us keep the ship sailing smoothly until either your queen or my wife is ready to take the helm.”
The soldiers shifted uneasily, and Taven replied, “Then you stay. Your family must want to return home. The king has been absent from his throne for weeks now. I’m sure he would be glad to return home and relieve his … brother, was it? He must trust him a great deal to leave the kingdom in his hands for all this time.”
Clearly, someone had been talking. The question was how much Taven knew. Cassius had a feeling the soldier was just stabbing in the dark. None of his soldiers would dare to speak any of their secrets. They were far too knowledgeable about his father’s penchant for cruel and painful punishments.
“I’m sure my father would like to return home very much. My mother and brother too. But they are staying as a kindness to me. Even with my betrothal to Princess Aurora, my position here is tenuous at best. If left here alone, some might see me as a stepping-stone to taking the throne for themselves. And I’m not keen on being collateral damage in a coup. So, you see, we are simply doing what must be done to keep the kingdom stable.”
Most of the soldiers looked mollified. Taven did not. Cassius sighed dramatically. “I suppose we could let one of you in to see the queen. But you must not upset her. She’s been distraught for some time, and has only recently found any peace.” Cassius was fairly sure that was because his father was paying the maid to keep her heavily sedated, but of course they did not know that. He did not even know it for sure. He just knew his father too well.
The others remained in the hallway while he took Taven inside the queen’s rooms. A maid rose from her seat by the bed, the same maid Cassius had paid all those weeks ago for information. He was sure she had no qualms about taking his father’s gold. She curtsied and moved aside as they came closer. The queen lay abed, her eyes open but unseeing, fixed on the open window and the land that stretched on and on until the horizon.
Taven sheathed his sword and knelt beside the bed.
“Your Highness.”
Queen Aphra did not respond.
Tentatively, the soldier reached and touched her hand. It lay limp on the bed. No reaction.
“Do you see?” Cassius asked. “All is as I said.”
It did not stop Taven from glaring at him. “I’ve never seen her like this.”
“Yes, well, her only remaining family has never been kidnapped, has it?” he hissed.
Taven clenched his fists and turned away, back toward the bed. He took the queen’s hands once more and bent to kiss the ring on her finger. “Do not lose hope, Your Majesty. We will return Aurora to you.”
The queen blinked, her fingers tightened, and she said in a rasp, “They’ve killed her by now.”
Cassius stiffened, then moved closer to the bed. This was new.
“No. Don’t think like that,” Taven said. “She’s of far too much worth for them to harm her.”
The queen squeezed her eyes shut tightly and shook her head against her pillow, her already tangled hair mussing further. “The goddess is punishing me for my disbelief. She took them all, one by one.”
“Your Majesty, please. All hope is not lost.”
But Queen Aphra was no longer listening. Her gaze returned to the window, and her grip went soft. Taven tried to rouse her again, but this time not even her daughter’s name pulled her from her stupor.
Taven stood and marched across the room to Cassius. “My men are at your service for the search of Princess Aurora. Whatever you need. Just find her.”
The soldier left and, before Cassius followed, looked back at Queen Aphra. Cassius hadn’t meant for it to be like this. But he did not know how to fix it without Aurora.
Perhaps he too should reconsider his belief in the gods. How else could things go so incredibly wrong at every turn? After all, he had lost not just one bride now but two. He would not let the same hold true for kingdoms.
* * *
Locke thought he probably should have felt guilty, seeing the blood drain from Roar’s face when he told her where she would be riding now that her horse was pulling the Rock. But Ransom had put the idea into his head, and it had stayed there, tugging at his mind. And it did seem like a much better idea to have her ride on his horse with him than for her to squeeze into the already packed Rock with Duke, Bait, and now Sly.
Besides, if he could not scrape up any guilt for kissing her, there was little chance he’d feel any about having her pressed up against him on a horse.
According to their maps, there had once been a town a few hours east of their current location. No one could remember any specifics about it, so they just had to hope it had a blacksmith, but the first concern was finding out if the town was even still there.
And if having Roar on his horse gave him the opportunity to wheedle a little more information out of her, then all the better. He heaved himself into the saddle, then held a hand out to help her up too. She gave him that furious glare that never failed to make his blood pump a little faster. She ignored his hand and hauled herself up behind him without any help, and her tall, lithe frame molded against his back. Almost immediately, she shifted, trying to find a way to sit comfortably in the saddle while also touching him as little as possible. The saddle was large, but not meant for two people, so she would end up pressed against him sooner or later. He only smiled, and snapped the reins.
He hadn’t lied when he’d told her he didn’t understand her, at least not completely. She’d kissed him back, but he honestly did not know what she would do if he kissed her again—accept him or punch him. She was a bundle of contradictions, but one thing he understood all too well was her independence.
It reminded him of his own early days with Duke. The old man, whose hair had been shorter and darker then and only streaked with gray, had given Locke more than he could possibly hope for. A purpose. A home. It was on the road and ever changing, but it was more of a home than what he’d had in Locke. But even with the delirious happiness he felt with his new life, he had chaffed under Duke’s control. He’d been a scrawny child the last time anyone had ever told him what to do; and for every ounce of strength he spent holding on to his new life, he expended just as much energy rebelling against it. Hell, it wasn’t that long ago that he’d slipped away in the night to go after a hurricane alone when Duke had expressly forbidden it.
He was intimately familiar with Roar’s sort of reckless independence. It was one thing for him to risk his own life, but to see her risk hers uncorked emotions in him that he thought he had buried years ago.
For the first hour, Roar was stubbornly silent behind him. She had pushed herself back so far in the saddle that she sat on the upward curve at the back, and had to clench her legs tight to keep herself in place. And even then, a change in terrain or speed sent her tumbling forward, her hands grabbing his waist to keep from slamming into him. After the tenth or so time she had tried and failed to keep from falling against him, he was out of patience. Wrapping the reins once around the pommel so he didn’t lose them, he reached both hands back to grip her thighs, well above her burns, and tugged her forward. She squeaked in response, her fingers tangling in the leather straps and holsters that crossed his abdomen. He would be lying if he didn’t admit that he got pleasure out of both her outraged cry and the feel of her surrounding him.
“There,” he said, his voice low so that only she could hear. “We’re touching. I can feel you, all soft and warm against my back.” He heard her sharp intake of breath behind him, and he could swear her fingers tightened on the holster around his midsection. “You can feel me, and the world has not descended into flame again.” Though there was plenty of heat moving down his spine.
“You are such an ass!”
He smiled. “Probably.”
“Definitely.”
“Yes, but I’m an ass who gets what he wants.”
He hadn’t meant those words to sound quite so possessive. He still thought it was a bad idea to get attached to her, but since the kiss, he was having trouble getting himself to care. All the thoughts he had ignored so diligently before abraded him constantly now. Good idea or not—he wanted her. He feared she was fast becoming a chink in his armor, but with her arms still around his middle, those long, delicate fingers splayed out over his stomach, the last thing he wanted to do was pull away.
The sun was setting, but they were near the town on the map, so they pushed on. A smell hung on the breeze that singed his nose and made his eyes water—the rot of death and the smell of burned flesh. In the falling night, they could not see the town clearly, but he had a feeling he knew what was waiting. And sure enough when they got close enough to see, the town was in ruins. Stone and wood lay in heaping piles, the shape of what once was visible only in a few places where a wall or a chimney had miraculously stayed standing.
Behind the ruins of the town they found a funeral pyre, only half burned. He had a feeling this was the town the remnants fled. They likely set the pyre ablaze before they left, and the fire died before it finished the job. Roar buried her face between his shoulder blades and he heard her taking short, broken breaths. Duke lit the pyre again, and the scent of smoke and horror followed them long after they left.
When no trace of death clung to the air, they stopped to make camp for the night. No one wanted to go to sleep, nor did anyone want to light a fire after what they’d seen. So they sat for a while in the dark, talking quietly. They ate bread and berries grown by Jinx before exhaustion forced them all to sleep.
* * *
The door to Novaya’s cell slammed open in the dead of night. She was curled up on her pitiful cot, and she quickly adjusted her threadbare blanket to ensure it covered the handprint-shaped burn marks on her mattress.
Prince Cassius stepped inside, a torch held high in his hand, and Nova’s magic shook awake at the sight of the flame.
She had not bathed properly in weeks. A handful of times they had dropped a bucket of water into her cell. She had tried to make it go as far as possible, but even on those days, she never got fully clean. Even her body seemed changed—her arms and legs thinner, the roundness of her hips and stomach less pronounced.
Was it not enough that the prince came to question her during the day, now he had to disturb her nights as well? Before all this, nighttime had been the height of her anxiety. But now it was her one solace. The air grew cooler, soothing her heated skin. The dark blocked out her surroundings so that just for a little while, she could pretend she was back in her own room.
Cassius cut straight to the point. “The queen seems to be under the impression that her daughter is dead. Do you know why that might be?”
“Rora is not dead,” Nova hissed back.
“And you know that how? Perhaps because you were involved in the plot to take her?”
“I’ve told you. She is my friend. I would never harm her. Never cause her pain.”
“Would you put her in danger?”
Nova hesitated. She had put Rora in danger, not purposely, but from her inability to tell her friend no. And she’d certainly had more than a few dark thoughts since about all the things that could go wrong in the wilds.
“You know, I had my men search your room again. And do you know what they found? Hidden beneath a loose floorboard under your bed? Quite a stockpile of coins. Perhaps, payment for services rendered?”
“I saved that money myself. Some of it even came from you, if you recall. Bribing me for information on the Eye.”
His eyes narrowed. “All that tells me is you are willing to break the law for gold.”
“And what were you willing to break the law for?”
“I am the law.”
Nova scoffed and gestured around the cell. “Clearly.”
His face was harsh in the flickering glow of the torch and he growled, “I do not wish to hurt you, but far more depends on Aurora’s survival than you know. I will do what I must to get her back. I am not afraid of crossing lines. You would be smarter to cooperate before I do. Did you tell the queen something different in your account of the kidnapping? Something that would make her believe the princess to be dead?”
Nova’s stomach sank. The queen thought her daughter had been kidnapped for her Stormling abilities. Only the two of them knew Rora had no magic. No wonder the queen was so brokenhearted. She assumed that when the kidnappers discovered Rora was no use to them, they would dispose of her.
Nova said, “I told her and everyone else in that courtyard the same thing I told you. I am cooperating. I don’t know what else you want from me.” Nova swallowed, her throat dry, and asked, “Can I see the queen? Maybe I can comfort her.”
Cassius sneered. “What could you possibly say that hasn’t already been said? If you know something, you’ll tell me, and I’ll decide if it’s worth telling the queen.”
Nova sat up on the bed, pushing the blanket off her legs as the fire inside her began to rise. She did not want the queen to suffer, but she had made Rora a promise. And telling Prince Cassius that the princess knowingly broke a betrothal treaty could make things far worse.
“I have told you everything there is to tell.”
“You are a good liar, Novaya. Many would likely believe you, but I am not so easily fooled. I know the taste of a lie better than I know the truth. I don’t know what secret you’re keeping, but I will. Eventually. Perhaps if sleep does not come so easily, you’ll find your tongue loosened.”
He took hold of her wrist and dragged her up from the bed. She barely fought; she had to focus too hard to keep from burning him where he stood. And when she felt a surge of heat at her back, she thought for a moment she had failed.
But then she opened her eyes and saw that he’d tossed his torch onto the bed, and the thin mattress, filled with straw, had gone up like kindling. Her anger surged and with it the fire on her bed. Flames licked as high as the ceiling, and a dozen fiery fingers seemed to crook at her, beckoning her toward the blaze.
Instead she stumbled back, her body slamming into the stone wall behind her.
“Why are you doing this?” Nova asked through gritted teeth.
The fire cast flickering shadows over the hard angles of the prince’s face. And for the first time, he did not look cold and emotionless to her. He looked … desperate.
“I’m doing what I must, doing everything I know to make this right, to bring Aurora home. While it’s still hers. If you won’t help me, then you are my enemy. And I have no mercy for enemies.”
He opened the door and a guard in a blue Locke uniform set three buckets of water just inside the door. Then they left, and it was just her and the fire, raging inside and out.
Nova did not bother going for the water. Instead she stood and ambled closer to the bed. The smoke burned down her throat and the heat was enough to make her drip with sweat. But she closed her eyes and stuck her hands into the blaze. It did not burn. It never did. And instead of trying to douse the flame, she pulled it to her instead. She imagined it soaking past her skin, engulfing her muscles, streaming through her blood. She coaxed it up her arms and toward her chest and shoved it down, down, down toward that door barred inside her.
One thing was clear to her now. Cassius would not release her, not ever. If she wanted to be free, she would have to make the opportunity herself. So instead of denying the fire, she would save it up. And she would wait. Wait until a moment presented itself.
When there was no more fire to pull, she opened her eyes and found her bed charred black, only the smell of smoke left behind. At least she did not have to worry about the handprint burns any longer. She stumbled back, feeling like she was filled to the brim, like her very soul was stretched to its limits.
Then she went to the buckets of water in the corner, and for the first time in weeks, she scrubbed herself completely clean.
* * *
The hunters did not find another town until late afternoon on the next day. At first sight it appeared whole, if not a little worse for wear. A stone wall encircled the town, probably about as tall as Locke. It wouldn’t be much good for keeping anyone out. In at least two places, Locke saw piles of rubble where the wall had been knocked down. Storm damage. They were at the westernmost edge of the Sangsorra desert. What little grass there was had been swallowed up by a sea of rusty-red sand that had given the desert its name. Sangsorra meant blood sands in Vyhodin. The trees were the short, brushy type that could live through long droughts. Some of those appeared to be broken or split. Skyfire.
The town looked better on the inside than the outside. The houses, though simple, were in decent shape and made from some kind of clay that was nearly the same color as the earth. People walked and talked in the streets, but they were clean and well dressed. Neighbors, not beggars. A few stared at the group as they made their way down a dusty road toward the town center, but the townsfolk appeared friendly enough.
Locke spotted a nearby building with an oversize chimney and a blacksmith sign out front. He caught Duke’s eye and nodded. The town roads sprawled out like rays from the sun, everything meeting together in the center. They slowed the horses as they approached a courtyard in the middle, and already waiting for them was a well-dressed man with graying hair and a thick mustache. He stood with hands linked behind his back, strong posture, chin tilted up with confidence. At his back were a few sturdy men, not quite menacing, but with the potential to be so.
Roar’s arm was wrapped around his midsection, and he laid his hand atop hers. She tensed behind him, but he kept her fingers pinned where they were, and gave a quick squeeze.
“Stay here. Stay alert. If something goes wrong, take the horse and go.”
Her fingers twitched beneath his. “Well, that’s stupid. I wouldn’t just leave you here.”
He peeled her hands away from him, holding them a moment longer than necessary. Just a moment, not enough to hurt. “Glad to know you care about my well-being.”
He slid carefully off the horse, and Roar mumbled, “It’s only because I’m safer with you than without you.”
“You can’t fool me, princess. It’s too late. I know your secret.” She blanched, her already light skin paling further.
Scorch it all. How could someone so bold be so skittish? He patted her knee, just above her bandages, and said, “Sometimes in small towns like this, local bullies like to throw their weight around. Never anything too bad. It usually gets sorted out with a little coin, maybe a couple fists. But I would rather not take any chances with you. If things go sour, get safe, and I’ll find you when everything is over.”
“How about if things go sour, you yell for my help.” She touched one of the knives tucked over her shoulder to make her point.
He scowled up at her. He didn’t have time for this. Duke was already out of the Rock and heading for the men, but suddenly he was thinking about kissing her again, tugging her down until their mouths crashed together. Would she yell at him or kiss him back? He shook his head and said, “If you get hurt, you won’t like the training sessions I devise as punishment.”
“If I’m hurt, you can hardly make me run all day.”
He sighed. “Please. Stay on the horse.”
He joined Duke in time to hear his mentor introduce himself and explain that they were looking for a place to stay while repairing their carriage. The man with the mustache was clearly the leader, and he leaned to look past Duke at the Rock. His eyes flicked over the horses and the wheels, not seeing the damaged back end, and he said, “Seems to be working fine.”
This was always the hard part about staying in small towns. The bigger cities allowed them to pass unnoticed, but that was impossible in a place like this. And the decision on whether or not to reveal their status as hunters was always complex and dangerous.
“Hello. Name’s Locke,” he said. “We ran into trouble earlier today with a firestorm, and it did some damage. We could have her fixed up and on the road in a few days. Maybe a week.”
The man scratched two fingers over his mustache, brown eyes flicking repeatedly to the carriage and the rest of their crew. “Never seen a carriage like that before. What’s put you folk on the road? You scourge?”
Locke’s spine straightened, and he clenched his teeth. That hateful term told him they would indeed have to tread carefully here.
“We’re tradesmen. We flee no storms.”
“What kind of tradesmen?” The man was suspicious already, his voice hard.
Duke cut in. “We want no trouble. Nor do we seek to sell and hamper your own businesses. We were just passing through and hit a bit of misfortune. We’ll pay well for food and lodging as well as the help of your blacksmith.”
Locke looked to one of the men behind the leader, a dark-skinned man whose posture seemed more relaxed than the rest. The man nodded. Mustache said, “We can accommodate you. But you will have to make an offering. Everyone in this town is a follower of the Sacred Souls. It has kept us alive while others nearby have perished. We do not require membership, only observance.”
Damn. It would have to do, but a Sacred town would not be Locke’s first choice for refuge.
“Locke?” Duke’s voice snapped Locke back into the moment, and he focused while the town’s apparent leader explained what would be required of them. Locke nodded at his mentor, who said, “I’ll take care of payment with Minister Vareeth, if you’ll explain to the others.”
“Of course.”
“Welcome to Toleme,” the minister said as he led Duke away.
Locke made his way back to the group. He heard the minister reciting an invocation, and Duke repeating it. Locke glanced over his shoulder to see his friend lay something on a large circular stone altar just beyond the well in the center of the courtyard. He fought off the shiver that climbed his spine and gestured for the others to dismount or exit the Rock. They met on the road, out of earshot of the minister’s men who stayed nearby to watch them. The expressions on his team varied from grim to hopeful, and in Roar’s case a confused sort of eagerness.
“Did he say Sacred Souls?” she asked. “They follow the old ways?”
“They are not old ways to us all,” Sly said, and her normally soft voice held a cutting edge. He would have to keep an eye on that. He trusted Sly, but whatever rankled her about Roar, he couldn’t let it fester. Hunters who weren’t completely focused and in tune with each other became dead hunters more often than not.
“They’ll let us stay. But only if we observe their ways with offerings.”
“What kinds of offerings?” Ransom asked. He, like Sly, was raised around religion, but the two had left home with vastly different perspectives on what it meant to worship storms.
“A token of sacrifice or daily blood.”
Sacred Soul communities differed widely in their degree of devotion and the severity of their traditions. It certainly could have been worse. While a nuisance, it wasn’t a great hardship to offer a few drops of blood every morning. And a token of sacrifice only needed to be something of importance, something used well and often that the person offering would miss. But in some places, a token was not enough, and much greater sacrifices were required. Ransom left his hometown after his childhood sweetheart was offered up as a sacrifice, and he’d met Duke less than a year later in Odilar. Locke knew his friend wouldn’t take well to this town, no matter how mild their customs.
Ransom ran a hand over his mouth, scratching what was left of his beard in agitation before replying, “Fine.”
Locke gave everyone a moment to decide what they would offer and fetch it if need be. All scattered except Roar. She glanced behind him at the altar with fascination and a healthy dose of fear. “I don’t know what to offer,” she told him. “Nothing I have is particularly valuable.” She clutched at something beneath her shirt, a necklace he guessed. “Nothing that I can part with anyway.”
“It’s not about the value of the object, but the value of the sacrifice. To these people, the storms are gods. Not the kind you pray to or the kind who grant miracles or comfort. They are like the gods of old who were a race all their own. Immortal and proud and unpredictable … and prone to cruelty. Like a child crushing a bug beneath his heels because he can. Followers of the Sacred Souls believe if they willingly sacrifice to the storms, they’re less likely to tempt their wrath.”
Locke didn’t loathe religion the way Ransom did, but he’d been a hunter long enough to see that storms cared nothing for trinkets or blood. But this town believed, and it had helped them survive without a Stormling this long. So he would do what he must.
In the end, Locke, Roar, and Bait chose blood, while Ransom, Jinx, and Sly chose tokens. He led the way over to the altar where Minister Vareeth and two others waited. The dark-skinned man was walking away with Duke, and Locke guessed he was the owner of the inn.
Sly volunteered to go first. She wasn’t technically a Sacred Soul follower. Her beliefs dated further back than the customs followed here, but it was close enough. She pulled back her hood, revealing the dark curls that were cut close to her scalp. Sly favored simplicity, another inclination from her childhood, so she didn’t keep much with her on the road. She walked up next to the minister, and then removed the shoes from her feet. She had others, he knew, but they were old and worn, and she had replaced them just weeks ago in Pavan.
She held her new shoes in her hands, and the minister smiled, approving her choice.
“Repeat after me,” Vareeth said. “We call to the heavens, to the Sacred Skies.”
Sly glanced briefly back at Roar, then at Locke, before repeating the words the minister spoke.
“We call to the souls ancient and wise. We humble ourselves before your strength. We beseech you for your mercy. We honor your power and control.”
The minister gestured for her to place her shoes upon the altar where dozens of other items already lay. Like most Storm altars, it was made from a mineral. This one was a glassy black crystal, cut through with brownish-red stone and sediment. Locke guessed it was fulgurite, which formed when skyfire met sand, cut to form a raised circular altar. Sly set her shoes down carefully and repeated the last of the minister’s chant.
“We offer a sacrifice to you in hopes you find it worthy and true.” When she was finished, the minister ran his thumb vertically from the bridge of her nose to the top of her forehead, where the Sacred Soul followers often wore painted markings in their more formal ceremonies.
“May the Storms grant you mercy and peace. Welcome to Toleme.”
Sly took the blessing in silence, and then stepped aside for the next in their group. No one immediately came forward, so Locke pulled a blade from a holster at his hip and took his turn. He repeated the same invocation, then before the last lines, pricked his thumb with the tip of his knife and let the blood drip onto the black stone as he said the final words. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket to stop the blood and stood patiently as the minister gave him the same blessing. When he backed away, his eyes shifted to meet Roar’s wide-eyed gaze. He watched her observe the others, as one by one they made their offerings. Ransom gave a knife, and Jinx one of the many rings decorating her fingers. Then finally, Bait spilled his drops of blood, and it was Roar’s turn.
She squared her shoulders, set her jaw, and stepped up to the altar. He saw her hand shake as she reached back to pull a knife from the harness at her back. Her pale skin had gone ashen, and she looked … nervous. She usually did her best to hide all her emotions but anger, but now, it was as if she couldn’t.
It only took a second for him to decide, and he turned to the minister. “Father, if I may, can I stay with her? She is new to our party, and this is well beyond the scope of her experience.”
It was a testament to her anxiety that Roar didn’t even argue when he removed the knife from her grip. He took her shaking hand in his as the minister began to speak.
* * *
Roar felt so ashamed, so embarrassed, but not even those emotions could push out the one that crowded in her chest and made it hard to take a full breath. Worse, she couldn’t even give the emotion a name. She only knew that as each of her companions had recited the words, calling out to the heavens, she had grown more and more uncomfortable, like a heavy weight pressed down on her shoulders. She was not afraid of a tiny prick of a knife when she had willingly taken a blade to her arm not so long ago. But some bone-deep instinct whispered of danger here.
She wished she had taken the time to find a token, but the only true belongings of worth she had were the twister ring about her neck and the Finneus Wolfram book that she brought along for comfort and inspiration. Both meant far too much to sacrifice, but something about the notion of dropping her blood on that altar did not sit well with her.
The minister began to speak, and Locke steadied her hands. She would worry about the vulnerability she was showing him later when her heart did not feel like it was about to burst from her chest. She squeezed his fingers, pressing them into the knife he held, and she dared not look at him. “Easy,” he whispered. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She took too long to say the first line of the invocation, so the minister repeated it again, as if she hadn’t heard. Her voice came out as little more than a whisper as she said, “We call to the heavens, to the Sacred Skies.” Little bumps lifted along her skin, her hair standing on end as she continued: “We call to the souls ancient and wise.”
Out of nowhere, lightning streaked overhead, splintering the quiet sky. She jumped and turned away and Locke was there, his chest wide and warm and solid against her cheek. When no more lightning appeared, she eased herself out of his arms.
The minister watched her with confusion, but it was Sly just behind her shoulder that stared with clear, unadulterated distrust.
She was being silly. It was only blood. She had sprinkled far more than a few drops of it along the southern road out of Pavan. She nodded for the minister to continue, but the moment she spoke her next words, lightning lit up the sky once more. She finished the sentence quickly, praising the strength of storms as one attempted to make itself known overhead. She glanced at Locke for the first time, and she could not help but let him see her fear. If a storm formed now, here with these strangers, and she reacted badly …
His hand rubbed soothingly up and down her spine. Any other time she would have shrugged off the touch. There were too many people around. But it did calm her. Just that little touch made breathing feel like less of a challenge. “Don’t worry about the skyfire. It’s only in the clouds for now,” he said. “Finish this, and we’ll go inside. And if a storm comes, the others can handle it.”
That only made her more furious with herself. She didn’t want the others to handle it. In fact, she should be jumping at the chance to face a skyfire storm. That was her family’s strongest affinity, and she could not go back home without it.
You are lightning made flesh. Colder than falling snow. Unstoppable as the desert sands.
She couldn’t say the rest because she was done pretending to be Stormling, but the rest was true. Her blood, like her ancestors’ before her, was filled with the light of skyfire. She knew her heart could freeze out fear and doubt because she had done it all her life. And her will, her desire to obtain storm magic, had pushed her through far worse situations than a tiny drop of blood on an altar.
She kept her eyes on the sky as she said the next two phrases.
“We offer a sacrifice to you…”
She did not flinch as the skyfire above her bounced from cloud to cloud, lighting up the sky from horizon to horizon.
Locke peeled back the fingers of one hand she had been fisting at her side. He smoothed his palm over hers, once and then again, tracing the healed scar from when she had cut her palm to sow the tale of her kidnapping. Then he made the tiniest of pricks on the tip of her index finger. She watched a single drop of blood land, and above her head, the sky exploded with light, so bright that it burned like the sun in her peripheral vision. She snatched her hand to her chest and threw her head back, but the sky was dark and still once more. She spat out quickly, “In hopes you find it worthy and true.”
Then she put several steps between her and the altar, clutching her blood-smeared finger inside her other fist. The minister didn’t approach to touch her, but rather said his blessing from afar, his eyes wide and fearful.