He pulled something from his pocket that she could not make out in the dark. Then he settled two long leather cords around her neck. From the first dangled a white crystal, like the ones they sold in the market that detected storm magic. He said, “Until then, I will ensure your safety in every way I can. Whoever is on duty in the Rock monitors a larger version of this crystal and will sound a horn should they detect magic nearby. But in case you’re alone, you’ll have this. If it grows hot, you find shelter as fast as you can.”
He still held the crystal between them when she reached down for the item on the other necklace. Her hand bumped against Locke’s as she brought the small tube closer to her eyes. “Firestorm powder,” she breathed.
“Yes, and you’ll take it if we ever get near one. Even if the rest of us are there, you take no chances. The embers are too dangerous. Do you understand?”
She nodded, and their hands brushed once more before he dropped the crystal and stepped away. She tucked the two trinkets beneath her tunic, and they fell alongside the Stormheart ring that dangled between her breasts.
They began walking back toward camp in the dark. “Roar?” Locke said. She hummed in response. It was dark enough that she could barely see him a pace away. “I don’t think your loved ones will hate you for chasing what you want. But if they don’t support you, they’re the fools. Not you.”
Roar smothered a smile. “I seem to remember a certain hunter who wasn’t all that supportive of my decision.”
His low chuckle carried in the dark. “Maybe he’s a fool too.”
Storms are the greatest predators in existence because they can destroy you with their savage strength or enthrall you with their terrible beauty. Like a poison flower with the stealth of a snake and the ferocity of a lion and the force of all the world’s armies combined.
—The Tale of Lord Finneus Wolfram
11
Locke hadn’t been sleeping well. The first night on the road, he blamed it on his adjusting schedule. On the second night, he did the same. But now after three nights of restless sleep, broken by nightmares about a girl in danger who was somehow both his sister and Roar simultaneously, he had run out of excuses. It had been ages since he’d last had a nightmare. He knew having Roar here would throw him off balance, but it was even worse than he anticipated. It was still a while yet before dawn, and he nicked several jars of skyfire magic to give him light enough to work. Across his lap, he laid out several maps of the wilds between here and Taraanar. Normally, it was Duke’s job to do the navigating, but the old man hadn’t complained when Locke kept bringing him suggestions for safer routes that would hopefully postpone any run-ins with storms until he felt Roar was ready.
She would be furious if she knew, but he didn’t care. It wasn’t just about her. He trusted his gut, and something wasn’t right. And in the wilds, all it took was one mistake to wipe out an entire crew. He had to get his head straight.
They’d left the Ruined Road behind two days prior, opting to follow the river as it curved northeast, but yesterday in the late afternoon the river turned south again, bringing them back to Ruined Road.
As Locke studied the maps, it was glaringly obvious that there were no more safe routes for the next part of the journey. Hunters understood the wildlands and storms better than most. Duke was brilliant, and he could talk for hours about how nature and magic merged to make such beasts. The old hunter hypothesized that storms could form one of two ways: as a result of what he called colliding weather systems that changed the pressure of the air or from colliding natural magics. So like explorers traveling new lands, they kept notes and drew maps for everything they saw and experienced. In the Rock, Duke monitored the levels of magic in the air and kept lists upon lists of readings. They kept a separate map that marked locations of any storms they crossed or damage they saw from presumed storms. Over time, all that information allowed them to mark spots where magic was consistently more prevalent and the types of conditions or geographical features that made storms more likely.
He’d used those maps and figures to create their route so far, but they were approaching a valley called Sorrow’s Maw to the south, where storms formed with frightening regularity. The land there teemed with so much raw magic that it would be a miracle if they did not encounter a storm sometime soon. Normally, they might have spent a few days camped out north of the valley, using the storms that rolled out of the Maw to bulk up their supplies. But it was too risky to camp near a hotbed when they had a newcomer like Roar and a novice like Bait.
For the last three days, he’d made Roar run morning and night, and though he hated to admit it, she was more than capable of surviving that way if necessary. Already she was probably faster than anyone else on the crew save him. And skies knew she was stubborn. He’d pushed and pushed, and never once had she asked for a break or for him to slow down. Not even last night when he’d run her until she doubled over, heaving her supper into the grass. He’d gone too far then—even his own lungs had felt on the verge of collapse—but she’d simply wiped her mouth with the hem of her shirt, then kept going.
He sighed. It was well past time to start training her for real. Clearly, she would not be scared off by a little hard work as he had hoped.
He stowed the maps back in the Rock, and then set off toward Roar’s shoddily constructed tent. The thing stood haphazardly, leaning with the wind, but true to her stubbornness, she had refused to let anyone help her set it up.
He lifted the tent flap carefully, and called into the dark space, “Rise and shine, princess.”
Locke heard the shuffling of blankets, and a grumbled, “I will murder you.”
He fought a smile and crooned, “Come on, princess. Don’t make me drag you out of there. I guarantee I’ll enjoy it entirely too much.”
He narrowly dodged a waterskin she tossed through the open flap of her tent, but he heard her moving around. She was always a little grumpy in the mornings, and it entertained him to no end.
“You know storms wait for no one. They come when you’re sleeping or sore or tired, and those not strong enough to outrun them are those that don’t survive.”
“I’m coming. Calm your skies, hunter.”
He dropped the tent flap and walked several paces away to wait. When she climbed out of the tent, he lost his train of thought completely. Her hair was mussed and wild, and her mouth open in a yawn. She wore a large linen tunic that swallowed her slim form, hanging down to midthigh. Beneath it her legs were bare, the light of the moon casting them in a soft glow. The sight burned into his brain, never to be forgotten.
He really did push her too hard last night. Normally, she was already awake (albeit irritable) by the time he came to collect her.
“I’ll … leave you to get ready. Meet me at the campfire.”