“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.