*
Locke helped the others pack up for the hunt, quizzing them on tactics and backup plans as he went. A hard knot formed in his stomach as they rode off, leaving him alone with Roar. They were his team, and leading them was his responsibility. It chaffed to be left behind. Locke shut himself inside the Rock, knowing that between the pain in his shoulder and his foul mood, he would make abysmal company for Roar. But that didn’t stop her from climbing in a while later, seeking a cure for her boredom.
He’d been poring over the maps once more, looking for the impossible—a route that would keep Roar from too much danger until they knew more about her reaction to that twister, yet would allow them to stock up on magic and lead them to a place where they could sell it.
She wandered around the Rock as he worked, asking questions about the various instruments or staring over his shoulder at the different maps. Finally, he shoved a sheaf of parchment at her. They were maps from other areas of Caelira, not useful in the least for their current course, but at least they would stop her from looming over him, the scent of her hair and the sound of her breath filling up the space around him.
Eventually, he lost himself to the silence and almost forgot she was there. Almost.
She stood a while later, abandoning the maps to walk to the front of the Rock.
“Locke?”
Her unceasing questions were going to be the death of him. “What now?”
“There’s something coming.”
It took a beat too long for his mind to process her words, but then he was up, throwing aside the maps to take hold of her shoulders. He spun her, searching her face for some sign that her emotions were being taken over again. Those striking eyes were wide and surprised, and the breath fled her mouth in a hushed gasp. He’d pulled her in close, and now she swallowed, pink tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her words barely above a whisper.
His brows furrowed. “You said … I thought … You’re not feeling strange? From another storm?”
He glanced behind her at the crystal they used to detect storm magic. Atop it sat a copper bowl filled with water and the thermascope that helped them assign numerical values to the changes in the crystal’s heat. It currently measured a six. Not insignificant, but fairly normal for a period of nonactivity in this area, this close to Sorrow’s Maw.
“No, not a storm,” she said, shrugging off his grasp. “People.”
She pointed through the glass at the front of the Rock, and sure enough there were about a dozen people lumbering down Ruined Road on foot. They were moving slowly, carrying bags of belongings, and one look at their ragged appearances told him all he needed to know.
“Remnants,” he said, full of pity.
“Remnants of what?”
He peered down at her. How could she know so much—languages and constellations and the best ways to survive a storm—and yet she did not know this?
“They’re what Bait was before he found us, before he snuck his way into Finlagh. In the wilds, most towns don’t last long. A few years, maybe a decade if they’re exceptionally lucky. The towns patch themselves up as best they can after every storm, but sometimes, there’s not enough left to patch up. People of the wilds are superstitious. They won’t rebuild on the bones of a town the storms saw fit to wipe away. So instead, they pick up and leave, looking for somewhere new.” He thought for a moment, his lips twisting. “You might have heard them called the Scourge.” He hated that word, as if people in need of help were a plague to fear. He would have expected reasonable people to understand that in the wilds, they all stood an equal chance of their homes being destroyed. Storms were not selective. They did not search the inhabitants of the town before striking. They raged, uncontrolled and indiscriminate, and they destroyed anything in their path.
Roar shook her head. “I’ve not heard that name either.”
He climbed out of the Rock and dropped to the ground, Roar on his heels. He pulled down the metal shade over the glass dome of the Rock, blocking the contraptions inside from curious eyes.
They walked out to meet the group as they approached. From what he could tell, it was mostly women, children, and a few older teens. An old woman spoke for them, her hair nearly white and her skin like parchment that had been folded too many times. Her knowledge of the common tongue was shaky, but eventually he understood that their town had been leveled two weeks past by a twister. Those who survived left together, but the dozen or so before him now were all that remained of those survivors after two weeks wandering the wildlands.
Locke led the woman to the row of plants that Jinx had grown near the camp. Bushes of berries and herbs and a few root vegetables. He told her to take whatever they’d like. Jinx could grow more in a moment. If the old woman thought the small garden on the side of a broken road was odd, she did not comment, too grateful for the additional food. As he spoke with the old woman, Roar wandered among the people, checking to see if anyone needed medical attention. For the next hour, the remnants stayed at the camp, some washing up in the river, others just resting their feet, and too many searching out Roar for her help bandaging cuts and scrapes, including several young men who did not look injured to Locke at all.
He was relieved when she retreated back into the Rock.
The matriarch began gathering her people, readying to set off once more, and Roar came darting out of the Rock, a piece of parchment in her hands. When she came to a stop next to Locke and the old woman, she thrust out the parchment. “Here,” she said, offering what appeared to be a crudely drawn map of central Caelira. She had marked Pavan, Finlagh, Falmast, and Odilar to the south. She’d roughly sketched various rivers and forests and other identifiable features, and then she’d drawn large x’s over a few regions and circled others. It took him a moment of looking to realize what she’d done. “In case you cannot find a town to take you in. The areas I’ve crossed out are known for frequent storms, but the places I’ve circled are less active. I cannot guarantee safety, of course, but maybe this will give you a better chance.”
The woman’s hands shook as she took the map, and she took Roar by the nape of her neck and kissed each of her cheeks. She whispered something Locke couldn’t understand, and Roar answered in that same purr as when she’d spoken Taraanese. When Roar reached beneath the collar of her tunic, tugging off the crystal he’d given her, he stepped in.
“No,” he snapped. “That is yours. You keep it.”
She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes. “If it’s mine, then it’s mine to give away.”