“Don’t you think I know that?” Locke snapped. “But … but how is any of this possible? There should have been a stone. But there wasn’t. There was nothing left of the storm that I could find except that.” He punctuated his words with gesture toward Roar’s chest.
Jinx didn’t reply. No one did. They only stared, as baffled and terrified as he was.
“Your welcome in Toleme is revoked. You all need to leave. Now.”
The hard voice came from the direction of the town, and the other hunters parted to reveal Minister Vareeth. His expression was curled into a sneer, and his eyes flashed with fear and loathing when they fell upon Roar.
“I want you out of my town. Now. We want nothing to do with her kind.”
“Her kind?” Locke asked.
“I did not believe. I heard the whispers. The rumors from scourged who tried to seek refuge here. I thought it fearmongering from the Stormlings. Thought they were trying to lure people from the wilds to seek shelter in the cities.”
“What rumors?” Locke demanded, launching to his feet and surging toward the man.
Ransom caught him, holding him back.
“The Stormlord. She is like him,” the minister said. “Varatempia.”
“Vara what?”
“It’s Vyhodin,” Sly said, stepping up to stand between Locke and the minister. “It means … ‘with a heart of storms.’ But I’ve only ever heard it as an exaggeration. For unruly children with bad tempers.”
“Go!” the minister yelled. “If I were not a man of faith, I’d have you all hanged for the peace of mind of my people. If you do not leave now, I might reconsider.”
“We can’t go without our things,” Bait snarled. “Our carriage. Our horses.”
“Then get them and go. But she stays here. She will not taint our Sacred town again.”
Locke broke free from Ransom and charged toward the minister. “Who is this Stormlord you speak of? Why do you fear him?” He took hold of the man’s shirt, dragging him up onto his toes, even as Ransom appeared again, trying to haul him back. “Who is he?” Locke growled.
“He is destruction. The very soul of death. He’s the worst perversion of magic, the prophesized end of days. And like her, storms beat beneath his chest.”
Ransom finally succeeded in pulling Locke away, and he went, snarling. “Superstitious garbage. We saved your pathetic town. And you would put us out in the night because of old religious texts that haven’t been relevant for centuries? What kind of coward are you? You would let your fear of the imaginary make you cruel to real people, flesh and blood!”
“It is not fiction. The Stormlord lives. He has already destroyed the city for which you are named.”
“Wh-what?” Locke stumbled, fatigue raking down his spine. “I don’t understand. Locke—”
“Swallowed up by the sea,” the minister growled. “Battered and drowned until not one brick lay upon another. Total destruction. And I’ll not have my home be next.”
Sometimes we must make answers where there are none.
—The Tale of Lord Finneus Wolfram
22
She’ll wake today, Locke told himself. She had to. He did not think he could survive another night with her unconscious. It was not abnormal for those who survived a skyfire strike to fall into an unrelenting sleep. But while Roar had not woken, she whimpered and gasped and moaned in pain, the skyfire flash in her chest speeding up when she did. He felt so helpless, so afraid—both emotions he had not felt since his childhood.
Two nights prior they had left Toleme in the dark and traveled through the night to reach Taraanar. And now as he and Jinx wove their way through a crowded market—this one selling fine silks and pottery and spices, he unconsciously reached for his supply harness for what must have been the dozenth time, only to come up empty. He had been forced to leave everything that could be considered dangerous magic back at their camp for this visit.
Stall owners shouted at them as they passed, shoving various wares in their faces, promising the best prices in the whole market. Jinx looked back at him, her normally distinctive hair covered by a scarf. “Remember,” she said, “be nice. We need her to help us. Do not lose your temper.”
Locke grunted in response. Perhaps he had been a little irritable over the last few days, but what was he expected to be when Roar still lay unconscious in the Rock? He’d had to leave her to come into the city. They’d not been able to bribe their way in on such short notice, and it was much easier to sneak two people inside than an entire crew and a hulking metal carriage.
They turned down the far row of the market, and took a hidden set of stairs down into an abandoned tunnel that used to be part of an aqueduct system and now was home to Taraanar’s storm market. They walked for a while in the dark, their footsteps echoing in the enclosed space. Then eventually, they began to pass stalls. The tunnel was not wide enough to have more than one lane of stalls and the walkway, so they wound their way through the market tunnel for nearly a bell. They passed old acquaintances and familiar bits of magic, but they did not stop to visit. They kept walking until they finally came upon an enclosed market stall curtained by beads and silk fabrics with a sign that read DIVINER.
Jinx said the woman inside was one of the oldest and wisest witches in existence, but it looked more like they had stumbled upon a cheap soothsayer scam. The woman had lived for a time in the Sahrain mountains near where Jinx grew up, and Jinx’s mother had brought her to the witch when she was young and her magic was out of control. Jinx would not say what the woman had divined, only that she could, and her ability was most definitely real.
His body tensed as Jinx rang a bell outside the curtained stall. No one answered. His heart began to sink, stinging as if it sank into acid. Jinx went to ring the bell again and the curtain parted. He could see nothing inside, but when Jinx ducked past the curtain, he did not hesitate to follow. The curtain dropped back into place, settling them all into darkness. A cold sensation ran over the back of his neck, and he shivered.
A candle lit out of nowhere in front of them, a small golden glow in the still, dark space. Then dozens more followed, blazing to life all at once. The witch sat at a table, watching them.
He had expected her to be old and decrepit. She was the former, but far from the latter. Her silvery hair hung long and straight like her posture. Her dark face was smooth, and the only wrinkles he spied were a few at her neck and across the backs of her hands. Her eyes were an eerie, washed-out blue.
“Jezamine,” the woman said. “It has been some time.”
Her voice crawled over his skin, and it felt as if it clung to him, learned him. He fought off a shiver. Jezamine. It had been a long time since he’d heard someone call Jinx that.
“Hello, Avira. It’s good to see you.”
The old woman laughed. “Is it? This one doesn’t look particularly happy about it,” she said, jerking a thumb in Locke’s direction. He straightened his posture and cleared his expression as best he could in his unsettled state.