by Cora Carmack
When her eyes found Locke, he was standing near the coach, facing the city. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his body tight with tension. She called out, “Hoping I wouldn’t show?”
He turned, and his hair blew over his face in the breeze. He frowned and glanced behind Rora. “Where did you come from?”
She gestured to the road behind her. “I was too excited to sleep, so I went for a ride.”
His frown deepened. “Where did you get the horse?”
“I didn’t steal her, if that’s what you’re accusing me of.” At least … not really. She was Rora’s.
His jaw clenched. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then why ask?”
“I thought you were—”
“A helpless girl who needed you to rescue her? Did you expect me to show up with nothing but the clothes on my back, needing you for every little thing? While you might have helped me the other night, generally I can take care of myself just fine.”
He ground his teeth so hard, Rora wouldn’t have been surprised to see them crumble into dust in his mouth. “I didn’t say that either.”
“Good. Because I would have been tempted to have Honey here trample you if you did.”
With a loud, metallic scrape, a hatch slid open on top of the strange coach, and a loud laugh poured out from it, followed shortly by Bait’s fiery red-orange hair.
“Marry me. Please. Anyone who threatens Locke without batting an eye is my ideal woman.”
Locke turned on the other hunter, his face set in a menacing scowl, and the young teen gave an inelegant squeak before disappearing into the carriage. Rora laughed, and Locke’s scowl was turned on her. But rather than the angry retort she expected, he barked, “Your hair is dark.”
Her stomach flipped in momentary fear before she said, “So?”
He shrugged, grumbling something she couldn’t hear before gesturing for her to get down from her horse. He reintroduced her to each member of the crew. Most of them were enthusiastic at the prospect of her joining the team. Jinx had practically tackled her in excitement. Ransom was more subdued, but she had the feeling that he rarely showed much emotion. Sly, on the other hand, had not even tried to disguise her glare. Rora remembered only a brief glimpse of the girl that first night in the market, and that made more sense when Locke said, “Sly is our stealth specialist. You won’t hear her sneaking up on you unless she wants you to hear her.” The smile Sly gave Rora after that declaration made the hair on her neck rise.
“You can ride in the Rock,” Locke said, gesturing toward the odd carriage. Through the glass dome at the front, she could see all manner of knobs and dials and cranks, and though she was curious, her pull toward Honey was stronger.
“I’d prefer to be on my horse.”
He sighed. “This isn’t going to work if you argue with every thing I say.”
“I wasn’t arguing. My horse has never left this area. I’d prefer to be with her, so she stays calm. Do I need to argue?”
“Fine,” he said, but he didn’t look happy about it. “Get on your horse. We’re leaving now.” He followed that declaration with a shrill whistle that was apparently the signal for everyone else to pack up and prepare to leave. Duke and Bait both climbed into the Rock, and the redheaded teen blew her a playful kiss before he closed the top hatch. Everyone else took a horse, leaving a few more horses to carry supplies.
Rora crossed to Honey and ran a hand along her flank before hoisting herself up into the saddle. She leaned against Honey’s neck, patting the horse’s jaw, and asked, “Ready, girl?”
Honey stamped her hooves restlessly as if to say get on with it. Rora knew it was a risk taking Honey with her, but she needed her as a reminder of home, as a companion in an adventure that was either brave or insane.
“Sly, you take lead. We’re not expecting to run into any storms today, but you have the best eyes. Ran, you bring up the tail. Bait—you ready?”
From inside the carriage, Rora heard Bait call out, “Ready!”
She frowned. There had been two horses hooked to the carriage when she arrived, but now those horses were saddled with supplies, and the carriage sat alone. How did they expect it to move without horses? She heard another scrape of metal, a loud whooshing noise that morphed into a whir, and the clank of turning gears. The sound sped up, and she saw Duke pull a lever inside the Rock. The wheels of the carriage began to roll despite the utter lack of incline on the land. The wheels spun faster, until the carriage was a dozen horse lengths ahead.
With another whistle from Locke, the remaining crew took off on horseback. Rora tapped her heels against Honey’s sides, and they darted forward. Honey must have been excited or anxious, because the horse took off faster than Rora expected. With a pull on the reins and a few soft whispers, Rora convinced Honey to ease her hurried pace, and they moved into position on the left of the carriage near Locke.
“How does the Rock move?” she asked. “I have never seen anything like it.”
“That’s because it’s the only one of its kind as far as I know. And it works on storm magic. There’s an enclosed space in the back, a chamber that we throw torque magic into, and the rotation turns a ratchet system that turns other gears that turn the wheels and allow the carriage to move unassisted.”
“Torque magic?”
“It’s what hunters call storms that rotate around a center point. The eye.”
She frowned. “I’ve never heard it called that. Not in all the books I’ve read about—”
“Ah, but your books are written by Stormlings, aren’t they? They inherit their power. They rely on their magic to fight at a distance. Any idiot with an affinity can dispel a storm, but to get close and stay close long enough to steal magic—that takes skill.”
“And just a dash of a death wish,” Jinx called back.
“Maybe a little more than a dash.” Locke smiled at his friend, and it was the first time Rora had seen him do so since she arrived.
He turned back to her and continued: “No one has ever gotten as good a look at the inner workings of a storm as us. To defeat a storm without an affinity, you have to know how it behaves, which is why we divided storms by movement. Besides torque, there’s torrent—rain, snow, sleet, lightning.”
“Storms that move from sky to ground?”
“Exactly. Third type is tide. Anything that sweeps over the land like an ocean tide. Sandstorms are one. Though it can happen with dust here in the grasslands too.”
“Fog,” she supplied quietly. Though unassuming, fog had always featured prominently in her nightmares. Perhaps it was the parallel to her real life—that slow, agonizing creep toward the inevitable. Fog had not the strength of a twister or the power of a firestorm, but fog was greedy with its victims. Once it had them trapped in the mists, it liked to keep them, wandering till madness or death or both.
“Depending on which of us you talk to, tsunamis or forest fires could be considered tide storms too.”
“Those have Stormhearts?” Rora had thought it only the religious sects that worshiped storms who believed that way.
Locke shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Sly believes they do because that’s how she grew up. Her tribe believe all extreme acts of nature to be storms. They believe that storms come from the souls of the dead who lived exemplary lives. They’re birthed again as part of the elements. But as far as I know, no one has ever successfully captured a Stormheart from one.”
“Sly belongs to the Church of the Sacred Souls?” Rora had read about the cult that worshiped storms, but she never considered it more than superstition and foolishness.
Locke laughed. “Don’t let her hear you say that. The Church of the Sacred Souls is a new group that borrowed some old ideals. Sly was raised by a much older tradition. In Vyhodi.”
Rora’s jaw dropped. Those that remained of the first tribes after the Time of Tempests were said to be extremely devoted to the old ways, the old gods. They did not even associate with the
rest of Caelira. They had no royalty or palaces but lived simple lives in the near wilderness. How had Sly come to join a crew that hunted storms if she was from a tribe that revered them?
“And what do you believe?” she asked Locke.
He adjusted his grip on the reins and tossed his head to move some unruly hair out of his face. “I think this world is an incredibly complex place and we’ve barely scratched the surface of knowing it. But I’d rather stay dead and buried than come back as a storm.”
“Then I guess we don’t disagree on everything.”
He looked at her, but did not smile like he did for Jinx. “I suppose not.”
“When do you think we’ll meet our first storm?” Rora asked. Her heart thumped as something occurred to her. “Will we wait for the storm approaching Pavan?”
“You are not ready to be anywhere near a storm, princess.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he added, “And we only hunt in the wilds. Unclaimed territories are fair game, but near cities, the risk of getting tangled up with Stormling militaries is high. They’d sooner throw people like us to the storms than save us.”
She wanted to object to his insult to the military, many members of whom had offered up their time and patience over the years to help her. She hated to think ill of them, but if Locke was wary and Nova too, she would have to learn from the experiences of others instead of just her own.
Locke picked up speed, pulling away from her and focusing his gaze ahead of them. Rora knew that was her dismissal, and she saved the rest of her questions for later.
They were moving past the wheat fields now. She loosened her grip on the reins, and twisted her torso for one last long look at home. The palace glittered in the early-morning light, the black rolling clouds of an incoming storm unfurled behind it. Pavan was not a particularly religious land. They held no monuments to the old gods, only to Stormlings. Her homeland had stopped looking up for answers centuries ago. Only one thing came from the heavens here, and it wasn’t hope.
But even so, Rora said a prayer to whoever would listen. Whether it was the old gods or nature or simply the open air that surrounded her. She prayed for safety on this journey, and that Nova would not suffer any consequences from their actions today. She prayed that her mother would understand and forgive her. And selfishly, she prayed that when she returned, Cassius would be long gone, and she would never have to face him again.
With that done, she took a deep breath and said her final good-bye.
To Pavan. And to Aurora.
From this point on, she could only be Roar.
Encompassing over sixty percent of Caelira’s land mass, the wildlands are the unprotected territories that remain unclaimed by any Stormling kingdom. Like the boundaries of Stormling strongholds, the geography of the wildlands has changed over time as kingdoms have risen to power and fallen from grace.
—The Perilous Lands of Caelira
10
They rode for hours in near silence, with only the whirring sound of the Rock’s mechanisms to war with the thoughts in Locke’s head. He tried to stay busy, riding back and forth through the group on occasion to check with Sly at the front, then Ransom at the back. But he always found himself settling in the middle of the group, near Roar.
She rode well, he begrudgingly admitted. In the beginning, he had watched her for any sign that she might change her mind. There had been a moment when Roar turned back to gaze at the shrinking city that had made him hope she would reconsider. But after a long, lingering look, she’d faced forward, leaned into the wind, and picked up her pace. And from that point on, the only times she had looked back had been with caution, as though she expected a storm to come barreling after them at any moment.
He almost wished it would. He could use the distraction.
Little by little, her nervous glances backward lessened, so that by the time they stopped to eat and rest at a spot known as Death’s Spine, she appeared completely at ease. Almost … giddy.
It only soured his mood more.
Jinx used her gift to light a small fire, and Ran began reheating a soup he’d made the night before. Soon they would begin hunting for the majority of their food, supplementing whatever meat they killed with supplies they brought along or things Jinx could grow. The witch had already wandered off, looking for a good patch of soil to grow some berries for dessert. He focused on Jinx, staring hard while she dug her hands into the soil, pushing a single seed as deep as she could. She kept her hands buried in the dirt, closed her eyes, and began to use her magic. It should have been enough to hold his attention—his friend coaxing a fully grown plant into existence from almost nothing.
But his eyes kept wandering to where Roar walked along the rocky line of sandstone that gave this area its name. Death’s Spine was the unofficial end of Pavan territory, and from this point on it was them versus the wildlands. There was something captivating about Roar, standing upon that dividing line—framed by civilization on one side and wild terrain on the other. She stared out at the surrounding land, hair blowing in the breeze, taking it all in like she was tasting joy for the first time. He blamed Jinx’s earth magic; when she worked it always seemed to affect more than just whatever plant she was focused on. The sun shone a little brighter, the grass appeared greener, even the breeze seemed to luxuriate in the presence of magic, curling indulgently around them. That had to be why the sight of Roar drew his eye.
“Think she can cut it?” Ransom asked between stirs of the soup.
“I’ll make sure of it.”
His friend knew him too well. “You sound less than pleased about that.”
“Yes, well, I was not given much of a choice.”
“Don’t act like you’re not happy she’s here. We’ve all seen the way you look at her.”
Locke scowled. “She was a pretty girl I never expected to see again. I certainly didn’t expect her to become a permanent fixture in my life.” Locke would do his duty and train her, but that had to be it. There was no room in him to care about her. Once you let those kinds of emotions in, it was a lot harder to hurl yourself into death’s path on a daily basis. “Besides … if I did look at her in a way that actually meant something, I would hardly want to introduce her to a life like ours.”
Locke left Ransom to cook and busied himself checking their supplies, far from where Roar wandered. When they sat down to eat, he listened to Jinx tell Roar about Taraanar. “If you thought the Eye was impressive, just wait until you see the Taraanese markets. They go on for what seems like forever, and even the nonmagic markets are a sight to behold. Rich tapestries and spices and pottery—”
Locke interrupted to ask Roar, “You speak Taraanese, right? That’s what you said before.”
Roar sipped soup from her spoon before answering, “I do.”
“But you’ve never been?”
She shook her head. “A childhood friend was Taraanese. I picked up most of it from her and practiced by reading books in the language.”
She was puzzling to be sure. There were ranking nobles that didn’t speak any other languages, and yet this girl from the streets spoke several.
“Well, go on,” Bait said. “Speak Taraanese to me.”
She laughed. “What do you want me to say?”
“Say I’m the most handsome man you’ve ever met, and you’re falling madly in love with me.”
“Does anyone else speak Taraanese?” she asked. No one answered, but Locke knew Duke understood it fairly well.
She turned to Bait with a small smile, and she spoke. Locke had no idea what she said, but he watched her mouth move as the low, soft sounds poured out. He had never found Taraanese a particularly beautiful language. So many of the sounds were made in the back of the mouth and throat that he often thought it sounded garbled or disjointed. But Roar made it sound like a purr, sweet and throaty.
“What did you say?” Locke asked, unable to help himself.
She did not answer but gave him a curious look and continued speakin
g, and this time he got the feeling it was about him. He made a vow then and there to learn Taraanese. He saw Duke duck his head to hide a smile, and he asked, “What’s she saying?”
Roar stopped midsound, her face blooming with red as she looked at Duke. Her voice shook as she asked in the common tongue, “You speak it?”
“Not nearly so well as you. But I understand enough to get by.”
“What did she say?” Bait asked, practically bouncing on the rock where he sat.
Duke answered, “She said you were like a small puppy. All excited energy and overflowing with love. And she hopes that you don’t drool like a puppy too.”
Everyone laughed, but Bait did not seem to mind. He didn’t know how to be serious. Sometimes Locke wondered if he did it on purpose, if it was easier to joke than face what was real. Everyone on this crew was here because they had left something worse behind. You did not choose this life if there was a better option waiting for you.
“I am overflowing with love,” Bait said. “And it’s all for you, Roar.” He gave a suggestive arch of his eyebrows, and Locke fought the urge to shove him into the campfire.
“All right, lover boy,” Jinx cut in. “Ease up before I lose my soup.”
Ransom mumbled between sips, “Watch out. Puppies will also try to hump your leg if you’re not careful.”
Roar gasped with laughter, her whole head thrown back. The normally silent Ransom cracked a smile.
Jinx added, “It’s true though. Bait really can’t be trusted.”
One corner of Roar’s mouth tipped up. “With my leg?”
Jinx cackled. “With anything. The novie thinks it’s funny to play pranks. He might flatter you now, but that won’t stop him from torturing you in the name of fun later.”
Locke added a second helping of soup to his bowl and said, “You might end up with a haircut like Jinx.”
Roar’s jaw dropped and she looked to the witch, whose hair was shorn on one side, a design cut into the hair just above her ear. “Bait cut your hair?”
Jinx laughed and smacked Locke on the arm. “Now who’s torturing the girl? Bait didn’t touch my hair. He’s not that stupid.”