He left her there, both relieved to escape and aching to stay. He could apologize. Maybe he had not completely ruined the chance for trust between them, but there had been too little to begin with. Someone had hurt her, and now he had as well. So much for the promises he had made her only a little while ago.
But he was still her mentor. It was her survival he needed to focus on now. He needed to discover whatever was happening to her and find a way to fix it. Or temper it at least. Otherwise, he would have to take her back to Pavan, whether he wanted to or not. He would not let her suffer every time a storm came near.
He searched the main part of the inn and found a night maid on duty. She looked at him with wide, nervous eyes that only made him feel guiltier. He was tall and broad and not just a little intimidating. Most of the time, he leaned into that image, but tonight he wished he could be different. Softer, somehow. With a hot cup of tea and a plate of toast, he ventured back to his room.
He knocked, but Roar didn’t answer, so he carefully eased open the door, keeping his eyes low in case she was not finished changing. When he heard no scandalized scream, he looked around to find Roar fast asleep. She had changed clothes as he suggested. But she lay sideways on his bed, not even under the covers. How bad must the pain have been to leave her in such a state?
He gritted his teeth against his frustration and laid the tea and toast on a rickety table beside the bed, in case she woke later and wanted it. Then as carefully as he could, he lifted her sleeping form into his arms. She groaned and mumbled something unintelligible, pressing her face into his chest. He dipped down, wrenching back the covers and laying her gently on the sheets. She curled up on her side once more in the same way she had during the storm. The sight sent a twinge of pain through his chest, and he rushed to pull the covers up to hide the reminder.
He’d made the choice to care about her, and he could not undo that now. In fact, he was sure it had been inevitable from the moment they met. He took a seat in his desk chair, resigning himself to a night sleeping upright.
“I’ll figure this out,” he vowed in a whisper.
He had to. It was the only way he stood any chance of keeping her.
*
A cold smile spread over his lips at the sight before him.
It was rare to see this many people gathered in the open air in a wildlands town. Normally the people tended to spend their days indoors, and when they did venture outside, they walked with a hurried pace as if their presence might tempt the skies to unleash their rage over the mere sight of a human. Like scurrying, insignificant insects hiding in their holes.
But the one thing that could always lure them out into the open was gossip, and he brought plenty of that. Still dressed in the dead Locke soldier’s uniform, he had stumbled into the town this morning, gasping and crying out for help. The people were wary at first—so superstitious the wildlanders were. But when they saw his uniform, they surged forward to help. After all, their town sat only a few days’ ride from Pavan, and everyone knew that the Locke prince had soldiers scouring the countryside searching for his bride.
With his voice shaking and blood smeared on his clothes, he told everyone who would listen of the fearsome Stormlord who was picking off companies of Locke soldiers one by one. He sowed tales of the Stormlord’s ability to call a storm from the sky with whim alone. He spoke the storms’ language; they followed his command. He even bore the image of one upon his chest, as if his very heart were a storm and it beat only for destruction, for carnage, for death.
No one is safe, he told them, feeding little morsels of gossip to different groups here and there. You must tell everyone to beware. Beware the Stormlord. The rumors say he was sent by the gods to cull the prideful plague of Stormlings. And he can do it. After all, he had already laid waste to Locke.
He had feigned distress. Oh no. I’m not supposed to say that. No one was supposed to know. You cannot tell.
Each time he accidentally let the truth spill to a new group, the villagers clamored for more, squealing like pigs before the slaughter. But he told them no more.
The King of Locke himself swore me to secrecy. I cannot. But … beware. He’s coming this way, demolishing every town he lays his eyes upon. He will not rest until he destroys Pavan, destroys the Lockes, and every Stormling thereafter.
He created the spark, and then sat back and watched the flames rise. He had done this in every town he passed since he walked from the wreckage of Locke, and every time it played out the same. The people were not stupid. They put together quickly enough why one of the Locke heirs wanted to wed into the royal family of Pavan, and the king had forbidden soldiers to talk of the destruction of Locke. Then, oh then, the fury came. These poor people, forsaken by the Stormlings, barred from their cities and protections, pushed to the very fringes of civilization and then forgotten—they were already disillusioned. The perfect kindling for his blaze.
He slipped into the shadows, content to watch the havoc he had created. The stories were told and retold with more anger and fear each time. And when the whole village was aflame with the news, he left, the soldier’s uniform tucked beneath his arm.
Then he called down a friend to play, a firestorm that seethed with hatred and hungered for slaughter. “Punish,” he whispered to the storm. “We’ll punish them all.”
And he let the town burn in truth.
Not all of it at first. He kept leashed his friend’s thirst for blood until a few dozen insects had escaped. Then he rained down fire and fury until nothing was left but a smoldering pile of ash and the remnants who would walk the wilds before him, carrying on his words.
*
Roar woke to a pounding on her door, and she jerked upright, her heart flying into her throat. She looked around, disoriented, trying to piece together why her body felt like she had taken a beating and her eyes were swollen. Even more confusing … the bed was on the opposite side of the room from what she remembered.