She Who Rides the Storm (The Gods-Touched Duology)

Mateo woke with a wooden spoon lodged between his teeth.

He gagged, and suddenly air flowed into his lungs, as if they’d been empty for hours. Panic spooled tight around his chest when he tried to move his arms and found he couldn’t. The spoon disappeared for a moment, then returned to pour hot liquid down his throat. His throat clenched in protest, bile building up and threatening to vomit out.

The sound of a thick slurry bubbling in a pot close by turned Mateo’s panic to raging fury. He was broken again, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Thank the nameless god.” His father blew out a breath when Mateo’s eyes opened. A metallic medicinal taste coated Mateo’s mouth, and he shuddered, swallowing again and again to try to clear it away. “You used your power to look deeper into the tomb, didn’t you? You can only use a drop, a taste, Mateo, or the sickness—”

“I only looked a little. Nothing more than usual.” Mateo choked. He focused on his lungs, each breath wet and unwilling. His heart beat sluggishly. “I didn’t feel any different than normal down there, except maybe a little faint when we were talking to the director. I wish you would teach me the oaths so I could just try—”

“Don’t push yourself. Be calm. I wish I could look for you.…”

“But you can’t, I know,” Mateo finished. “You only do plants and healing and all that.” The nameless god didn’t hand all talents out to one person. He liked to spread them around.

“That tone of voice doesn’t solve anything, but it does make me worried you’ll bite me.” Tual sighed when Mateo rolled his eyes. “You know that oaths would only open you up further to the sickness. It would make this worse.”

Mateo pressed his eyelids shut, forcing himself to focus on the sounds Tual made as he stirred the pot, the compound squelching unpleasantly. If the nameless god had chosen Mateo as a vessel for power, why had he allowed Mateo to crack? He opened his lips for the spoon when it came, and warmth spread through him as the medicine went down despite its awful consistency.

“I’ve had a letter from the Warlord, by the way,” Tual murmured, balancing the spoon across the top of his pot. “She’s on her way. I guess her retinue is going to stay in the city to keep up the narrative that this is over the political upset.”

A cough tore through Mateo’s chest, bending him forward and leaving him with a mouthful of black tar. He spat it out over the side of his bed, his whole body shaking. “She’s not expecting us to be involved somehow, is she?” Mateo choked out. “I thought that was why we took a house outside the city. To keep high khonins from poking their noses into things.”

Tual once again presented the spoon and waited until Mateo had sipped the medicine before answering. “We can endure a little poking if it means we get what we came for.”

“You think so? Or is this some kind of weird checkup because she doesn’t trust us? And what will happen once you’ve cured all her Devoted and she doesn’t need fake-aukincer dirt witch trash—”

“None of that, Mateo.” Tual sat back, replacing the lid on the pot and carefully setting the spoon on top again. “Pretending I’m an aukincer is the only reason we’re still alive. And the shapeshifter kings weren’t good people. The reaction to them was warranted, if… misinformed. It’s not surprising that people still feel worried about people like us.”

“Warranted? Thousands of people were slaughtered. Both of us should be dead, according to the law.” Mateo allowed his father to pull him up, but he took it slow, the comfortable web of anger bright in his mind. “Why should I be held accountable for wrongs done over five hundred years ago? Anyone in the Commonwealth could decide to take their neighbor’s life. Last I checked, they don’t put people to death until they actually do it. Why is the standard different for us? Just because I could become a horrible monster that destroys society as we know it doesn’t mean I will.”

It was an old argument, one his father hadn’t bothered to engage with in a long time. “Fear does funny things to people.”

“Very funny. Mass murder is hilarious. If only you hadn’t shown up before my parents were able to finish slitting open my humors when I was a child. That would have been enough to laugh about for years.”

He couldn’t remember much more than that. A knife. Tual carrying him away. He’d learned enough about purging ceremonies at the university to put the rest of it together and hadn’t prodded any further. Not knowing was better than having to think of parents who would destroy their young child—little more than a baby—out of fear for themselves.

Tual settled back on his stool by the bed. “I am your father, Mateo. Blood doesn’t change that. Your parents didn’t want you and I did. I could see the potential in you, when all they could see was evil. It’s like trying to persuade the world there are two moons when they aren’t willing to look at the sky. The light is there on their faces, Jaxom and Castor are there for anyone to see, but you can’t force people to look up.” He shrugged. “Changing things will take time, but we’ve made a good start. A start that will be much more difficult to maintain if you don’t keep that temper in check.”

Heat in his cheeks, Mateo nodded, though it didn’t do much to stop the resentment built up inside. It was made from reed after reed, small things that had happened over his life, all bound together around his heart until they formed an unbreachable wall. The world would change. He would make it.

He just had to not die first.

“Like I said, I have a plan.” Tual stood up and went to the wardrobe in the corner. “Get dressed. We have a house call this morning.”

“You’re already healing people? We’ve only been here a few days.” Mateo let his feet swing down to touch the floor, his head pounding. Thankfully, his heart was pounding too. It was as if he were a windup toy, only needing a good twist to come back to life. His fingers wanted charcoal and vellum, Patenga’s distinctive figure in front of him to draw. “Why do I have to come? I just want to go back to the dig. Anything else will be torture.”

“You can’t go muddling around in a tomb when you’re still recovering from an episode.” The smile on his father’s face looked positively mischievous. “And I only arrange for the best kinds of torture for you, son. I’ll find you a fancy coat to make it more bearable. Something with lace.”

By the time Mateo and his father arrived at the house in question, Mateo was dripping with sweat and cross. Chaol was so inconvenient with the separate cays and the ferries and the skybridges and the tunnels—he couldn’t even imagine how difficult it had been to navigate between sections of the city before the trade bridge united most of the main cays. Mateo lowered himself onto the edge of the ostentatious fountain in the main courtyard in front of the house, the spray a moment of relief from the wet, heavy heat. Fanning himself, Mateo looked down at his coat. It was, perhaps, a bit too lacy for the weather. His boots, however, were perfect.

Tual crossed from the house’s main doors and sat next to him on the fountain’s lip. “Apparently, most people need appointments to see the valas of Chaol. Don’t worry, though, he won’t keep us long.”

“Didn’t you send word we were coming?” Mateo fanned himself even harder, wishing he could curse the blasted sun. If the grooms or the household were Calsta devotees, they probably wouldn’t appreciate it if he did.

“He knew we were coming.”

The main doors opened, and a man came storming out. A man with the sides of his head shaved and a sword belted at his hip. The Devoted stalked past them and out the compound gate without even looking in Mateo’s direction. A sad echo of aurasparks circled the man, as if to tease Mateo for his lackluster ability to sense them. Mateo turned to look at his father, alarm firing inside his chest. “What is this? You said we’re not getting involved in the political stuff.”

“Did I?” Tual smiled, but it was the smile that made Mateo want to check his pockets for bees or lizards or something else equally unexpected. “Well, hopefully, we won’t be. We should get you inside, though. You’re sweating.”

“I’m fine. It’s not like I’ll ever see these people again, so it doesn’t matter much if my copious sweating offends—” Mateo broke off as a guard emerged from the house, a second man close behind him.

“Valas Seystone, we are so pleased to meet you.” Tual stood, moving to greet the man. Mateo kept his seat, wondering what his father could want with the deputy governor of Chaol. Tual continued without introducing Mateo. “The moment I heard your wife was sick, I knew I had to come.”

The valas toyed with the top button of his coat. “Who told you my wife was sick? We’re honored, of course, by your visit, aukincer—and the Warlord’s visit is much anticipated, I assure you, but…” He floundered, pulling out a handkerchief to mop his brow. “I’m afraid this isn’t the best time.”

Mateo stood, knowing the part he was supposed to play. “Illness is especially uncomfortable in this weather. Could be water related? Lower humors?” He looked at his father, who nodded.

“It is quite serious, but…” The man swallowed uncomfortably. “I didn’t ask for you to come.”

Mateo’s father smiled. “And yet, here we are.” He gestured to Mateo. “There are important introductions to be made, but my son is recovering from his own illness, so I must request that we find a more comfortable spot to make them.”

The valas’s face blanched, and he looked this way and that as if there were some way out of inviting the Warlord’s personal aukincer into his home. When the valas glanced toward the sky, Mateo had to stifle a laugh, wondering if he was hoping Calsta would help him. No storm clouds rolled in and no lightning struck Mateo or his father down, so the man turned and led them toward the house.

A trickle of sweat wormed its way down Mateo’s temple as they stepped into the white marble entryway, but he stopped himself from wiping it away, trying to tamp down frustration at his father’s overly large grin. What was Tual up to? If Mateo couldn’t go to the dig, he would much rather have stayed back at the house to sneak his father’s copy of A Thousand Nights in Urilia than watch Tual make yet another high khonin squirm. Why had he needed to come?

Tual stopped to ask about the beautiful carvings set into the double staircase leading to an upper level. Mateo rolled his eyes over the valas’s jumbled account involving his great-grandfather and a very old salmon—until Tual caught his eye.

Mateo’s father looked purposefully at the floor, then looked back up at Mateo. Mateo glanced down, but there was nothing to see but boring black and white tiles. When he shrugged, Tual actually pointed at the floor and had to cover it up by swatting at an imaginary fly when the valas’s story stalled in confusion.

“I heard there have been some conflicts between you and the governor, Seystone.” Tual interrupted the valas’s story, giving Mateo one last meaningful look. “In fact, I heard the Warlord is coming partly to resolve them.…”

Great. A government official who needed political help. Mateo waited until the valas looked away from him to glare at the tile again, which was when he saw it. Mateo put a hand over his mouth, sweat dripping down his cheeks.

The valas stopped midreply. “Is… there something wrong?”

“No. Of course not.”

Yes. There was. Because under the tiles, probably on the floor below, Mateo could just make out the golden flecks of a Devoted’s aura. Mateo put a hand to his forehead, wondering if he’d done more damage to himself in the tomb than he’d thought. There was no way a Devoted could be hiding in Valas Seystone’s basement.

The aura didn’t go away, though. Mateo couldn’t see it, exactly. It was more like sunlight on rippling water, there and gone in one second. A famished, withered version of what he should have been able to see, unless it was a fledgling, untrained Devoted.

The thought sat in the back of his mind for a moment, not quite registering. But when it did…

Mateo looked back at his father, his eyes wide with alarm.

Tual’s grin put Mateo on high alert. The Devoted who had just stormed out of here should have been able to detect any sort of aura. He would have demanded the valas turn whoever it was over, in accordance with the Warlord’s mandate… but what was a Devoted to a valas when it came to power?

It was hard to tell. It depended on what the Devoted’s orders were.

The Warlord, however, wouldn’t take kindly to a rich valas hiding a fledgling Devoted. This—whatever it was—was an execution in the making.

But Tual’s grin made Mateo think his father saw it as an opportunity. A Devoted potentially separate from any seclusion, any loyalty to the Warlord. What was it Tual had said earlier? A caprenum sample is not the only reason I dragged you out here.

The Warlord was always a breath away from discovering what they really were. Devoted hunted Basists every day, so it was a mystery to Mateo how Tual and he had survived as long as they had. Like Tual had said, they had to find caprenum, then disappear. But where was there to go? A place far enough away, independent enough, that they could live without worrying who was watching. Mateo had always assumed that meant Lasei, where they prohibited magic but not the people who were capable of performing it. But now, with so many fewer Devoted to do the Warlord’s will, it was much less likely anyone would come looking for them if they stayed in the Commonwealth.

Maybe in a place where Devoted didn’t usually go. Like Chaol.

I only arrange for the best kinds of torture for you. We have to plan out your future.

Mateo could see the shape of what was about to happen, and a scowl wasn’t a serious enough response. Maybe if he opened his mind and shattered all of the windows or broke the stupid salmon carvings and the stairs with them, but even that wouldn’t be enough. Tual had been threatening for years. And now he’d found someone with power who was in trouble—someone they could manipulate into making space for them.

His father wouldn’t have called it torture unless it was Mateo who was going to be the bargaining chip on the table. Father had dragged him to this ridiculous house to meet a girl.

Tual caught his eye and smiled one last time before interrupting the valas’s blustering. “I get the distinct impression you’re hiding something from us.”

Lia huddled in the pantry, her back lodged uncomfortably against a sack of flour. Aria sat squished in front of her with an ear to the door. Ewan’s voice still seemed to weigh in the air, touching everything inside her house even after he’d left.

The Warlord must have told him Lia had family in Chaol—it wasn’t that hard to figure out, since she still carried their last name. But being smart enough to check at her family compound couldn’t give Ewan his aurasight back to find her hidden in the pantry.

Lia tried to feel jubilant, victorious. Mostly she felt shaken, as though if she made any sudden movements, she’d fall to a thousand pieces.

Aria crept over and wrapped her arms around Lia. “He’s gone,” her sister whispered against her hair. The feel of arms around her brought tears to Lia’s eyes, her sister so soft and good when all Lia remembered of her were naughty faces and play swords. “I would have climbed to your balcony a long time ago if I’d known you Devoted are always attacking each other like that. I’d have ridden straight to Rentara and sprung you right out.”

“No one has ever…” Lia’s teeth dug into her lip as she wondered whether Aria understood what had been happening when she’d raked her fingernails across Ewan’s face to help Lia get away. “It’s never happened before.”

“Didn’t they teach you to fight back? I thought that’s what Devoted were for. Fighting.”

There had been years of training. With Calsta’s power flowing through her, Lia had felt invincible with a sword in her hand. But the moment Ewan had touched her, she’d frozen. Like some new kind of magic, one that fed on her surprise, horror, and fear. “I should have fought back better, Aria. I should have been able to.”

“I don’t see how ‘shoulds’ have anything to do with it. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Footsteps tapped down the stairs toward them. Lia slipped a hand over Aria’s mouth. Aria squirmed against Lia’s arms as if she didn’t like being held quite so tightly, but Lia had a hard time loosening them, her muscles stuck in that one position. Maybe if she never moved, Ewan would never find her. Maybe no one would.

But that wasn’t what would happen. Ewan’s aurasight would return soon, and then he wouldn’t need eyes to see her. Calsta made repentant Devoted work to come back into her good graces, but he could be back to normal in two weeks if he did enough.

Lia wanted to believe there were some offenses the Sky Painter wouldn’t forgive. That what Ewan had done would mark him as unfit for Calsta’s sword. The memory of his body pressing her hard against the wall shuddered through Lia, and she put a hand up to cover her face. But abandoning the Warlord and hiding in her parents’ pantry was breaking an oath too, and it bothered her that she didn’t know which one Calsta would count worse.

The footsteps crossed the kitchen, closer and closer. Was it Ewan again?

Lia whispered a curse. She was blind. How long could she last?

They’d been sitting at the servants’ table only an hour before Ewan had gotten there. Lia’s father had sent all the servants away. Mother was sick, apparently, but the idea of seeing her soon had been enough for Lia to smile. Talk. Laugh, as if everything were all right. But that was a dream. This nightmare was real life. The Warlord would never let one of her prize spiriters disappear, wouldn’t stop hunting until Ewan found a body.

A thin line of light broke the darkness, the pantry door easing open so awfully slow. But then suddenly Lia’s father was on his knees beside her. He gathered Lia and Aria into his arms and squeezed them tight. “He’s gone.”

A hug. Lia began to cry.

“I didn’t know.” Father was crying too, tears dripping from his chin onto Lia’s head. “I didn’t know you wanted to escape. I would have come for you. I would have done anything—”

Feet padded down the stairs. Lia’s father lurched back from her and out of the closet, and slammed the door between them. The footsteps turned into the room and paused just outside the door. Lia held Aria close. “The Warlord’s aukincer is here to see you, sir.”

“The Warlord’s…?” Lia didn’t understand the stress in her father’s voice. His footsteps paced toward them and then away again.

“Sir, should I ask him to leave?”

“No.” Her father’s voice was stretched thin, about to crack. “He must have seen the Devoted coming from the house. He’ll know we’re here.” Swearing, he paced away and back again once more. “I… I’m coming.”

His footsteps clicked across the kitchen and up the stairs. Lia had known the Warlord had an aukincer hidden away somewhere and that he was involved somehow in treating wasting sickness, but it had always been a bit confusing to her. Why employ a man obsessed with the nameless god to help Devoted?

It sounded uncomfortable. Desperate.

Which, considering what the Warlord had wanted Lia to do, was probably accurate. But what hold could such a man have on the valas of Chaol?

“An aukincer?” Aria whispered. “I’ve always wanted to—”

“Shhh. The guard might still be down here.” Lia shifted to the side, holding her sister close as she pressed her ear to the door. Lia herself had come to Chaol to help the Warlord uncover some political plot, but no one had told her anything about an aukincer being a part of it.

“That was only Indran,” Aria hissed. “He’s not going to tell anyone you’re here. And he tells the best jokes—”

“We can’t let anyone know I’m here, Aria. Not even the servants,” Lia breathed.

“I want to see the aukincer. What if he has horns like one of the old kings!” Aria’s voice took on a certain whiny quality before Lia shushed her again. Maybe the aukincer could miraculously knit bones together the way the old stories hinted, but without the nameless god’s power, she doubted it.

And what if being able to reknit bones meant you could break them too? Lia pushed the thought away when it twisted together with the feel of Ewan’s teeth against her lip. What chance would she have had if he’d been a basist instead of Devoted? If he’d told the wooden floor to grow into a cage, cracked the walls open, and made them hold her? What if he’d broken the bones inside her, told her muscles themselves to still?

Everything she knew about banned magic seemed pointed and sharp.

“Want to go spy on them?” Aria’s voice broke into her thoughts

“Please be quiet, Aria.” Still Lia couldn’t let her go, as if Aria were an anchor to this reality and letting go would mean waking up in her bed in the governor’s house, Ewan pounding on the door.

He’d find her. Even if she ate animal flesh and drank malt and bought every dress in the Gold Cay, Ewan would look for the last broken bits of gold in her aura just the way he had for Knox, but worse, because he only wanted Knox dead.

Maybe if she went back and told the masters what had happened… Lia put her hands over her ears and clenched her eyes shut. It wouldn’t help. Master Helan might take her side, but the other masters wouldn’t push the Warlord’s favorite little warrior out of his place among the Devoted. Ewan would always be there. Angry. Watching her. Waiting.

She couldn’t go back. Wouldn’t. The lines were cut.

“What is wrong with you, Lia? Are you okay?” Aria asked.

Lia let the question slide off her, not even sure what it meant to be okay anymore. Knox had been the catalyst for this whole mess. She’d seen him there on the wall, but not any of the other times she’d looked. He’d been hiding somehow.

If he could do it, so could she.

The Warlord would be here in two weeks. That was about how long it would take for Ewan to recover his aurasight, too.

Two weeks to find Knox. He could show her how to hide.

“Lia?” Aria put a hand on her shoulder, her fingers soft. “You’re scaring me. You said I can’t call a servant… do you need to lie down? Mother’s healers are upstairs.…”

Footsteps sounded, and Aria trailed off to look toward the pantry door. It wasn’t just Father this time. There were at least three people approaching.

The pantry door suddenly wrenched open, blinding light assaulting Lia’s eyes. She let go of Aria, springing into a crouch, her fists clenched. Her hood blocked most of her sight, so all Lia could see was a pair of very fancy buckles on a pair of very fancy shoes.

“Oh, good.” A young man’s voice, peeved through and through. “I found her.”