Shattered sunlight book.., p.10
Shattered Sunlight (Book Five of the Storm Below), page 10
“What?” Heits said, his cheeks growing warmer. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She grunted again, her hand sliding over her board. “It has to be a low heat. See how much steam’s coming out of my plank. Try and match that. And don’t ruin another one. Use the fire in your brain, not your loins, for this job.”
“You sound like my mother,” Heits accused, his shoulders slumping.
“Boy, I’m old enough to be.” She then smiled at him. “She’ll devour you. I hope you’re ready for that.”
He grimaced. “Don’t talk about that.” He shuddered, his stomach twisting. He glanced at Charele. Does she really want to bed me? Me? I’m the skinniest youth in Metsak Hold.
But I also walked across the Murk and ended the Storm.
“Using the wrong fire,” Usreili said, her voice actually light, airy. Mocking.
Heits’s stomach soured. It was like his mother was here talking about . . . things that mothers shouldn’t talk about. He put his hand on the plank, focused on the wood, and tried not to feel Usreili’s gaze on him. It made his stomach squirm.
*
“Do you feel any reaction with this combination?” Estan asked, handing Yeiss the small piece of wood with the cut quartz gem he’d removed from his thunderbuss. The pair sat around a table in one of the tents set up on the opposite side of the Varele from the work site. Another tent was Charele’s quarters and a third housed Ary.
The spymaster and Estan had scoured the Varele for all the different types of wood and whatever crystal engines they could procure. They’d dissembled a pressure rifle, gaining them a rose quartz. For wood, they had the maple wood from its stock, apple wood from the thunderbuss, a piece of spruce, yellow cedar from the ship itself, and wood taken from the scraps of the cut lumber.
Yeiss took the piece of pine, the smoky quartz resting in it. His wrinkled, pale brow furrowed. Then the Wrackthar shook his head. “I don’t feel anything. But I’m not sure what I should feel.”
Estan was picking up the differences between Agerzese and Wracktharian the more he spoke with Yeiss. “It is a sensation you feel through your body. Your Gift reacts to the combination of the wood and gem.”
“Well, this combination doesn’t do anything.”
Estan wrote on his notes. “I doubt we will discover any combination that works on your two Gifts. Very few engines react to a Minor Gift in the first place, and there are so many variables.”
“We do not use many engines except the Eyes, and those do not use our Gift but a Song.”
“A Song?” Estan leaned forward. Learning, questioning, discovering was important. It focused his mind. “A Song of Creation? Something similar to what was sung when you received your Gift?”
Yeiss nodded.
“Well, that answers the question why Cyclones are Storm-based when your Gifts come from Riasruo. I had pondered that one several times. Do your people know many Songs?”
“You’d have to talk to a Lightweaver. They keep them.” Yeiss sighed. “Is this really helpful?”
“Your people do not use engines because of the scarcity of wood. That is changing. You will have access to lumber and gems. We have to discover what engines exist to channel your people’s Gifts into stronger weapons to fight the Dawn Empire.”
“And why haven’t we found one?” Yeiss frowned. “Why can’t I make something happen with the thunderbuss?”
Estan picked up the smoky quartz. “There are twenty known ways to shape gemstones. Some are quite complicated. Not every type of gemstone can be cut in the same fashion. There are thirty-three known gemstone varieties, and over nine hundred documented species of trees. The combination of wood, gem, and cut determines which Gift interacts with which one. So testing all the variables is . . . exhausting. And that’s just the first step. Once you’ve identified a combination, you then have to discover the effect, how to channel it. Some require massive gems, like the engine of a ship.”
“I . . . see,” frowned Yeiss. “How many combinations are there?”
“A conservative figure is five hundred thousand,” Estan said. “But many produce the same effect. There are ten known ways to build ship engines, a dozen for thunderbusses, thirteen for Weathertowers. New engines are being discovered all the time. Some are known, but no one has found a practical or useful way to use them. It’s a lot of work.”
Estan liked that. Work. Something to do, to occupy. Last night, staring up at the stars with no tasks, his thoughts had wandered down paths he didn’t wish to tread. Esty was gone. It was his fault.
Staying busy was better than brooding.
“So, let’s try the next one,” Estan said, plucking off the smoky quartz and replacing it with the rose quartz. “And—”
“Lena!”
The deep, rumbling voice struck Estan. His head snapped around, staring at the pale, canvas fabric of the tent as he heard a grunt, a groan. It sounded full of pain. But the voice was familiar. A voice Estan hadn’t heard in five days.
“Lena!”
“Ary,” Estan shouted, bolting to his foot.
He almost immediately fell over. In his haste, he’d forgotten about his missing leg. He stumbled, arms pinwheeling. Yeiss, moving around the table, caught Estan in a strong grip.
“Come on,” Yeiss said, excitement in his voice.
“Thanks,” Estan said, slipping his arm around the Wrackthar’s shoulder.
Together, they hobbled out of the tent. Ary’s shouts grew louder. He kept crying out his affectionate name for Chaylene. Estan hopped on his good foot, grunting as Yeiss helped him cross to the smaller tent.
“Does he know she’s dead?” Yeiss asked. “Is he mourning her?”
“Maybe. They are connected thanks to his Fleshknitting.”
“They are connected beyond what is normal,” Yeiss corrected, thrusting open the tent. “None of my people have ever experienced what they have. A Fleshknitter might have a vague notion of someone’s presence they’ve healed many times, but that is it.”
More information Estan filed away, his mind working on it as they stepped into the room. Ary sat on the cot, his eyes unfocused. His posture held the same relaxed tension as always. His lips moved, but no other part of him did.
“Lena,” he groaned and then mumbled.
“What is he saying?” Yeiss asked as he maneuvered Estan before Ary.
“I cannot tell,” Estan said. “It is all jumbled together.” He peered into Ary’s eyes. “Pupil dilation has returned. Ary, are you hearing me?”
He sat rigid, mumbling. Estan’s heart surged. Theories tumbled through his head. “I think his soul is struggling to return to his body.”
“That’s a good thing,” Yeiss said.
“Yes, yes.” Estan leaned close to Ary’s ear, shouting. “Come back, Ary! Come back to your body!”
“Dawnspire,” answered Ary. “Lena.”
Ary went still. Estan frowned. He broke from Yeiss, pivoting on his one good foot, and settled down on the bed beside Ary. He shook his friend, shouting his name.
No response.
Estan struck Ary on the face, a loud, stinging slap.
“What’s that for?” Yeiss asked.
“Testing if pain will cause a reaction,” answered Estan. “Hopefully, it will act as a beacon lighting the way back to his body. His soul may still be nearby.” Estan studied Ary, noting slack face and undilated pupils. “Your knife. May I borrow it?”
“You’re going to cut him?” Yeiss rumbled.
“He will heal. It will cause no lasting harm.”
Yeiss shook his head. “Do you know what he’s been through? What he had to swallow? The pain inflicted upon him?”
“I am aware.” Estan’s stomach twisted. He beat down his revulsion. He couldn’t fail Ary. “Please, the window of opportunity may be closing. Would Ary begrudge a little pain if it meant restoring him to his body?”
Yeiss worked his lips and ran his hand through his thick beard, wired with gray strands. His eyes flicked to Ary. “You claim you are his friend.”
“I am.” Irritation gusted through Estan. “We are wasting precious heartbeats. His soul could become further lost. Do you want him to stay like this for the rest of his life?”
Yeiss wrenched his dagger free with a blurring motion. It was a short knife, made entirely of silvery metal. Estan caught his distorted reflection flashing in the blade, dark face, bright-red hair. Yeiss flipped the weapon and handed it hilt first to Estan.
“Do not harm him more than necessary.”
“Of course,” Estan said, the hilt rough in his hand, red fibers wrapped over a metal handle.
Every Human knew the experience of bumping the divot in the elbow, the fuzzy pain rushing up and down the arm, the funny sensation verging on agony. Nerves, like vast roots, ran through the body. They were exposed and vulnerable in spots.
He jabbed in the knife’s tip.
Ary’s hand spasmed. Blood welled around the blade. Estan studied Ary’s eyes as he twisted the dagger. Ary’s fingers clenched and relaxed, the tendons in the wrist pressing against brown skin.
“Ary, come back.” Estan probed deeper, scraping against the bone. Agony had to be screaming up Ary’s arm. “It’s Estan. Follow the pain. I know this hurts. Embrace it. Pain means you are alive. It means your body is responding to stimuli. The dead do not. Come on, Ary, find your way back.”
“He’s not making a sound,” Yeiss said.
“No,” Estan said. The fingers went limp in Ary’s hand. “I severed the nerve. No pain is worse than nerve damage. He didn’t even scream.”
“Perhaps we were too late,” Yeiss said as Estan withdrew the knife.
“Perhaps.” Estan tried to keep the heat from his voice. “We must be vigilant. If he starts mumbling, pain must be induced to help guide him back.”
“And you’re sure it will work?” Yeiss asked, taking back his dagger.
“No, but I can think of no stimuli to the body more immediate than pain. Nothing makes us react with more alacrity.”
His heart ached more as Yeiss wiped off the blood from the tip of his dagger before sheathing it. Estan swallowed, his thoughts drifting.
Esty turned, her beaded braids clacking about her slender, ivory neck.
“Come, let’s get back to testing you,” Estan said.
“You don’t want to observe him longer?”
A fluttering panic crept into Estan’s heart. “No, no, it’s important we stay productive. Focus on things we know will bring results.”
Yeiss blew out a breath, rustling his beard. “Do you sleep?”
Estan rose. “Come along. We have more gem and wood combinations to test.”
Chapter Nine
Neiddoa 15th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Trepidation fluttered through Estan as he stood on the stern deck of the Varele, his hands gripping the port railing. He peered down at the patched hull. Half the planks down the middle of the ship had been swapped for the darker pine. They stood out against the pale-yellow cedar.
The amethyst engine channeled its power through the yellow cedar. It was connected by its frame directly to the hull and keel of the ship. In essence, the entire ship was the engine. It changed the density of the wood, raising or lowering the ship. A Windwarden merely had to touch any cedar plank, even the railing, to raise or lower it in its entirety or to change the pitch of the bow. But only if that wood was yellow cedar. To repair, they used local wood. Estan knew the ship could fly. He had seen her rise from the ground late yesterday afternoon when she’d hovered overnight.
The carpenter had pronounced the repairs sound.
They were ready to depart thanks to Usreili’s plan. Her and Heits, once they’d discovered the appropriate temperature to season the lumber faster, had cut their length of repairs from a month or longer to just over a week. The Wrackthar were anxious to sail to Romeich and help their people.
Still, Estan’s stomach squirmed as he stared at the lumber. If the patch failed and the ship ripped in half . . .
“Are you ready to fly, Heits?” Captain Charele purred.
Estan turned his head in time to observe the captain ruffle Heits’s black hair. His was finer than Wrackthar hair, which tended to be thick and curly. Heits scowled at her, his rich-brown cheeks darkening.
Charele, her other hand clutching the fringed, green parasol which matched her dress, smirked. “I bet you are. It’ll be an adventure.”
“I am,” he said, patting his mussed hair. “I’ve been looking forward to flying over the world.”
“Eager boy.” She caught his chin and planted a quick kiss on his lips.
Even Estan, embroiled in his research on new ideas for weapons, had noticed Charele and Heits’s relationship. She treated the youth as her toy, a possession to trot around. Of course, Heits put up with it because of the rewards. Their fires burning had interrupted Estan’s work on more than one late night.
Estan focused his research on weapons. He explored new concepts upon which to use Sbat Qakl’s discovery of flawed gems. He imagined flawed gems hurtled by ground batteries. He devised ways to attach iron to plate ships, and contemplated ideas for weapons to be made using Riasruo’s Blessings. He pondered integrated tactics of Stormriders and ships, launching them from vessels like the Bluefin Raiders had. A more effective aerial force than the scouts of modern navies. His head burst with ideas. The more he thought about them, the more they consumed his mind. He worked through his force calculations for the strength of materials in his ballista designs. He was keen to learn about Wracktharian metallurgy. Steel sabres were both strong and had an amount of flexibility that bone sabres lacked.
Could a metal arm of a ballista withstand more torque before failing and thus store more potential energy? If we can out-range the Dawn Empire’s weapons, it would be a decisive advantage.
“Well, Heits is ready,” Captain Charele said, her parasol twirling over her head, the white tassels dancing. “Windwarden, lift the ship.”
“All crew, prepare for liftoff!” shouted the bosun. “Carpenter, I want you and your mates inspecting the hull. I want to know if the repairs are about to fail.”
“Take us up!” Charele exclaimed, the only one who didn’t seem nervous.
Then the ship lurched. The Windwarden, standing at the stern, furrowed her wrinkled brow. She was a darkly-tanned woman, hair gone iron-gray, her face pinched, lips puckered like she’d bit into a lemon. The ship groaned. Estan’s stomach lurched as she rose into the air. Not fast, but a gentle rise that built up momentum. Nearby, Heits gawked at the trees rushing by. Then the ship crested the canopy. Mount Wraiucwii loomed over them. Estan fought the urge to gaze up her slope, to stare at the ruins at the summit. The stairs leading up the eastern face.
“We’re listing,” Captain Charele said. “Feels like two degrees port. Why don’t I have a balanced ship, Bosun?”
“More foreign lumber on the port side than starboard, Cap’n,” the bosun said, his voice strained. “Shift ballast! Give me a level ship! The Varele does not sail crooked.”
“Aye.”
“Make our course 315 degrees,” Captain Charele said, leaving the bosun to bark orders. “Ahead full sail.”
The helmsman turned the wheel. Pulleys rasped as the rigging changed, the sails angling. A wind came in from starboard to turn the ship. The Varele did not turn easily. She shuddered and wallowed like a fat whaler loaded with blubber. She was a lean ship. A fast ship.
Charele’s lips tightened. “Is that the best turn we can manage, Windwarden?”
“She’s got too much foreign wood,” the woman answered. “It makes her awkward. Especially in the middle. She’s not going to be fast. Too much wood I can’t lighten.”
“Wonderful,” Captain Charele muttered, her normally breathy tone gone. “Then we shall make the best of it.”
The ship completed its turn and the wind came directly from aft, sweeping over the deck. The sails on both masts billowed and snapped. The ship lurched forward, not a gentle start, but a stuttering stumble.
Heits was at the far railing, peering over with the other Wrackthar. They sailed over the forest covering the hills around the eastern side of the mountain. The scar of the skyrift had left a thick line, a mile or more across, the bedrock exposed. No life grew. Then it transitioned into something alien. Bogs covered in red or orange algae, strange, dried vines. A stench rose.
“Ah, the smell of home,” Usreili said.
“The vines look dead,” Yeiss said.
“Are the plants supposed to be red?” Estan asked. He studied the new landscape, glad to find another thing to investigate and occupy his mind. Mud cracked. Pools looked fuzzy with algae blooms. Strange herds of furred animals with long racks of sharp horns thrusting from their heads picked over the drying landscape.
Fascinating, Estan thought. Esty would love . . .
He swallowed his pain then hurried to his cabin for paper and pencil to record his observations.
*
The groggy weight on Chaylene grew lighter and lighter. Her world transformed from the deepest black to gray to white. Her eyes fluttered open. Light stabbed into her pupils. Thoughts swirled through the brackish morass of her mind. Someone sat beside her, a slim figure.
“Gretla . . .” she groaned, trying to lift her hand, reaching to save her sister-in-law. To protect her like Ary asked.
Chaylene couldn’t remember why Gretla and Jhevon needed protection. She tried to think, but her thoughts were like the brackish water beneath the Storm, covered in a film of thick, gunky algae. It dragged at her, slowing down comprehension. Something bad would happen. To Vesche. Something Theisseg would . . .
“Theisseg’s going to destroy the Dawnspire at Les. It holds up Vesche and so many other skylands. She’ll kill millions just to punish me for freeing Riasruo.”
“Save you . . . Gretla . . .”
Gretla snagged Chaylene’s hand. The back of Gretla’s hand was strange, covered in raised lines. Scars. She loomed over, but it wasn’t Gretla’s round face chubby with baby fat. This one was hideous, twisted, covered in scars that crisscrossed along her cheeks, nose, eyebrows, and chin. They gouged and puckered.
