Shattered sunlight book.., p.29
Shattered Sunlight (Book Five of the Storm Below), page 29
The last word of her thought came out of her mouth. Her real mouth. Zori blinked her real eyes, feeling the railing beneath her. She was in control of her body. No lightning bound her thoughts in the corner of her mind. Her heart raced, her mind whirled, struggling to understand what happened. She cast her gaze about, the crew singing. Theisseg perched on the prow, staring off towards the faint gleam of the Dawnspire.
She’s distracted? She’s focused on—
Her body stiffened. Lightning crackled around Zori’s thoughts, yanking her back into her mind. Xorale surged back into control, singing loudly as Theisseg turned her head, her gaze sweeping across the crew. She faced the crew, wings spread wide, exulting in her power. She had tricked them into committing the most monstrous act in the history of the skies, and doing it believing it was right.
That it was an act of love.
Zori wanted to vomit in the corner of her mind. But at the same moment, she had hope. Theisseg’s control had slipped for just a few heartbeats.
I have to be ready in case it happens again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Skyland of Vesche
Chaylene felt dazed on the way back to the Jayne family farm. They’d listened. People who’d one moment been glaring at her, muttering at her, even screaming for her execution now praised her as Riasruo’s messenger. For a quarter hour, she’d been trapped in the green, people touching her in awe, the Missionary kneeling at her feet, tongue flicking out in adoration.
The fickleness of her neighbors sickened Chaylene. The same people who had hated her all her life for being half-Vaarckthian now praised her as their savior. They’d hugged her. Goodwives had kissed her cheeks. Others had stammered apologies. It left her reeling as she walked with Jhevon and Esty. Her younger brother-in-law burst with energy while Esty marched with a satisfied smirk on her lips.
All it took was me lying to them to convince them I was their savior.
That irritated her the most. She’d worked hard growing up to fit in. She’d never once snapped at the goodwives for the snide comments they made. She hadn’t yanked braids and clawed faces when the other girls mocked her and called her a hussy or harlot. She’d never once flirted with any other boy beside Ary, letting the village know where her affections lay.
And they still thought her skin made her less than them.
Now their effervescent praise made her want to screech in fury. They should have believed her simply because she was Chaylene Jayne, wife of a good man, and a veteran who served their country. She should be the goodwives’ equal, their friend.
“I thought my heart would burst out of my chest it thumped so hard when you burst into flames,” Jhevon said for the tenth or twentieth time. The maturity he’d had at the farm had fled, transforming him into a gangly youth bursting with eager excitement. Only a year ago, she’d seen Ary act the same way.
It made Chaylene feel so old, and she was only eighteen, two years Jhevon’s senior. But a gulf of experience separated them.
“Gretla will be gnashing her teeth for a week or longer in envy,” Jhevon said again. “I can’t wait to tell Myrian.”
Chaylene grinned. The boy was in love. An honest smile crossed his lips. Ary’s smile. On the other side, Esty let out a giggle, covering her mouth as she laughed, her slanted eyes shining with mirth.
And then she sighed, her laughter dying.
“Estan’s alive,” Chaylene whispered. “With Ary. We’ll be heading to them next, okay?”
Esty nodded while Jhevon darted ahead and stopped, realizing they hadn’t hurried with him. His feet were bursting with energy. Chaylene smiled again. He was also acting like his little sister, brimming with the same eagerness that dominated the slim girl’s existence.
Others also hurried down the road, children running to farms, the word spreading from the village. Chaylene hoped there would be time. Though Isfe was a farming village, it was close enough to the edge that a few owned fishing vessels. With smaller engines than sailing ships, only Moderate Wind was required to control them. But it could take most of the day, maybe even into tomorrow, to ferry everyone down.
The pressure struck Chaylene as she passed the great oak tree guarding the entrance to the Jayne farmyard. They would have to hurry. Pack, then get to the ground. Time was running out. It itched between her shoulder blades not knowing if they had an hour or a week.
Gretla stood in the middle of the yard that stood before the farmhouse and the various barns and outbuildings, a pack of belongings at her feet. She lifted her head, her cheeks stained with tears, and then she broke into a run, racing across the yard to them.
“What’s wrong?” Chaylene asked as the young girl hurtled into her.
“M-Myrian left. A-and I was all alone and you were taking so long and I was so scared and . . .” She dissolved into tears, burying her face tight into Chaylene’s chest, arms crushing about her torso.
“Myrian left?” Jhevon said, his voice falling. “Why?”
“W-we started fighting a-about Chaylene. I called her a sow with ostrich down for brains, and she called me a horrid, disgusting, scrawny shark. Then she left.”
“Where?” Jhevon asked, swallowing.
“I don’t know! She’s a sow. She should’ve believed Chaylene.”
“It’s okay,” Chaylene told Gretla. “Jhevon hardly believed me.”
“He’s a sow, too,” the girl added, thrusting her tongue out at her brother.
Jhevon trembled. Esty put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. “Come on, we have to keep packing. The village is convinced. We have to get off of Vesche before it’s too late.”
Gretla looked up into Chaylene’s eyes. Fresh tears magnified them into red berries. “We’re really leaving?”
“We have to. This will all be gone soon.” Chaylene looked around, her heart beating with pain. She and Ary had shared their first kiss on a hill outside her hovel. She turned her neck, craning to see her house. It was impossible to see from here, but she tried.
Vesche was her home. And Theisseg would steal it away, too.
Gretla suddenly broke away from Chaylene, racing not for the house but towards the side. There, the ground sloped as it led behind the home.
“Gretla, get back here,” Jhevon shouted. “We have to pack.”
Chaylene watched her, frowning, then she realized where the girl was heading. “Keep packing,” she told Jhevon. “Show Esty where things are. We’ll need food and clothing and blankets.”
Chaylene ran. She hadn’t done that in a while. It shocked her how fast she became winded. She was sucking in breaths by the time she reached the house and was gasping as she rounded it, her face burning, pain pounding across her skull. Sweat drenched her forehead as she reached the small tunnel cut into the backside of the hill.
It led down into the Jayne family ashery.
Gretla’s sobs echoed from the narrow tunnel. It was hacked directly into the earth, roots hanging from the ceiling. Chaylene descended into its cool embrace. It smelled of rich loam tinged with a sour musk. Her shoulders almost brushed the side. She pushed roots out of her way. The only light spilled in from the entrance, splashing into the middle of a low, round room.
Gretla pulled an urn out of the small nooks cut into the hard-packed dirt. Two were already held in the crook of her left arm. She juggled them, trying not to drop any as she hugged the third to her chest.
“I can’t leave them,” Gretla said, more tears falling down her face.
For generations, the Jayne family had interred the ashes of their loved ones in here. The clay urns marched around the circular room, over half of the nooks already filled in. Each had a name painted in black, though the most ancient were so faded the names were illegible, forgotten entirely to history. The three clutched in Gretla’s arms were labeled Dhejon, Ionie, and Srias. Ary’s pa, ma, and sister. Ionie’s name was the freshest, painted only six months ago while Dhejon’s and Srias’s names had faded over the years.
“Please, we have to take them.”
Chaylene hesitated. They couldn’t afford the extra space the urns would take up in packs nor the extra weight burdening whoever carried it. Food was more important. The three were dead, their souls passed beyond. Maybe to a paradise on Riasruo’s sun. Maybe to somewhere else entirely. But as she looked into Gretla’s tearing eyes, Chaylene couldn’t refuse. The girl’s home was being stolen from her, and she clung to what she could save. Even it if was impractical. Even if it might make surviving the journey to Romeich a little harder.
Chaylene could not rob that from the girl.
“No, we can’t leave them,” Chaylene said, taking Srias’s urn from Gretla’s arms. Srias was seven when she’d died of the choking plague. She’d had a bright smile and an infectious laugh.
“Thank you,” Gretla said, trembling.
“Come on, let’s find a pack for them. You’ll have to carry it,” Chaylene said.
Gretla nodded, crying and smiling all at the same time. Then she darted up the stairs, holding the ashes of her parents to her chest. Chaylene hesitated. She glanced at the empty slots where Gretla had plucked the urns. Last time Chaylene had been in here was right after Ary’s ma had passed when the Dauntless had stopped at Vesche on the journey to the Fringe. She’d stood beside her husband as he grieved Ionie’s death. Then, she’d pictured Ary’s urn sitting next to an urn labeled Chaylene. More would follow, their children, their grandchildren.
Their future stolen.
Tears fell down her cheeks as she fled the ashes of Ary’s ancestors, the urn ice in her hands.
*
“I’ll be back soon,” Chaylene said.
Esty nodded, her stomach twisting as Chaylene sat astride Starfire, Gretla sitting in the saddle before her, the girl trembling. She clutched a pack tight to her chest stuffed with her clothes and three urns.
“Keep packing,” Chaylene said. “Every bag or sack. Let’s make every trip count. Jhevon, you’ll be next.”
“What about Myrian?” he muttered.
“Her family will see that she gets down,” Chaylene said. “Her father was there. He’ll be working to get her evacuated. Okay? I’ll even check on them once I get you and Esty down on the ground.”
“It’ll be fine,” Esty said, giving the youth an encouraging smile. “Plenty of time to evacuate.”
Esty wished she believed her own words. If the skyland collapsed before Chaylene returned, Esty would be dead. None of her powers would save her. If she had more than the weakest form of Skydancing, she could walk right off the skyland’s edge without a problem. Firedrinking wouldn’t help, and what illusion could she conjure to save herself as the skyland fell?
“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” Chaylene said as she heeled Starfire into a gallop.
“Jhevon,” Gretla screeched, “I love you!”
Starfire’s wings unfurled. They beat hard. A gray feather drifted off as the pegasus took to the air, flapping fast, gaining altitude as Chaylene flew him north.
“Did you hear her say that?” Jhevon said, his jaw dropping.
“You’ve never heard Gretla say that to you?” Esty asked.
He shook his head. “Always thought she hated me.”
“I never said it to my brother.” Esty sighed. “The last time I saw him, I shouted at him.”
“Going to say it next time you see him?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Jhevon shifted, his boot scraping at the ground, dust puffing up around him. The wind carried it to Esty. She wrinkled her nose.
“It’s fine. He was a pirate. He died fighting marines.” She paused. “Fighting your brother.”
Jhevon blinked wide eyes.
“Come on, we have to keep packing.” Esty shivered. She needed to keep busy. The ground felt so . . . ephemeral. She kept expecting it to fall out from beneath her.
“Yeah,” Jhevon said. “There are things in the barn. I’ll go pack them.”
“Okay,” Esty said. She glanced at Starfire dwindling in the sky. Her stomach twisted again. She rushed to the house, clutching one hand to her chest, her heart pounding far, far too fast.
*
Kampfen Bog
Starfire touched down on the small hill rising out of the muddy ground. A pool covered in bright-orange algae lay at the base. Drying vines wreathed the hill, the red leaves crunching beneath Starfire’s hooves. Vesche hung in the sky to the south. Even miles away, it dominated the horizon, the coral a fuzzy haze of red and yellow blending together to make orange in patches.
“You should be safe here just in case,” Chaylene said, undoing the straps holding Gretla to the saddle.
“Here?” Gretla asked, looking around. She shuddered. “It’s so hard to breathe. There’s so much air.”
“It gets heavier the lower you go,” Chaylene said. “You’ll get used to it.”
“And this is . . . the ground.” She glanced down at the red plants and the mud. Gretla wrinkled her nose. “It smells awful.”
“What happens to wet hay left in the dark?”
“It gets moldy.”
“Well, the ground’s been wet and dark for two thousand years beneath the Storm. It’s going to take time for it to air out.”
“It’s like this all over?” Gretla asked as she slipped off.
“Basically. There are also mighty rivers wider than a field and lakes the size of skylands.”
“Wow,” Gretla said as Chaylene began unfastening bags from the saddle. Gretla grasped them, each loaded with food and clothing. She set them down in the mud. Her hands trembled as she worked.
“You’ll be brave, right?” Chaylene asked. “Strong and brave while I go get your brother.”
“Would Ary be brave right now?”
“Your brother is the bravest man I know.” Chaylene smiled. “I’ve seen him fight wolves, and those are worse than sharks.”
Gretla’s eyes widened.
“Remember, you have the same blood in you. I’ve seen you attack Jhevon. You’re a shark, Gretla. Just like Ary.”
“And my teeth are sharp!” She gnashed them.
“That’s right. So you wait here, my brave shark, and I’ll be back with Jhevon as fast as I can.”
Gretla nodded and sat down on a bundle of clothing and bedding, her hands hugging her skirt-clad knees. She licked her lips, trying not to show any fear. Chaylene took a deep breath, flaring the Pressure as she signaled Starfire to take off vertically. The wind ruffled Gretla’s bonnet. She flinched, looking away as Starfire lifted off and began the slow climb back to Vesche.
Chaylene trembled. Her stomach twisted. She had saved one of them, but the other was still up there. She couldn’t waste any time.
*
The Skyland of Les
The Sunrise sailed over the grassland east of Shon and Camp Chubris, the wind rippling the green stalks in surging waves. The Dawnspire thrust out of the field, a massive tower rising hundreds of ropes into the air. It was made of crystal, sides smooth and faceted, forming a sharp point at the pinnacle. The color was impossible for Zori to judge. The base was the green of the surrounding fields, but the higher up it went, the grayer it became, reflecting the veil of clouds drifting slowly over Les.
Zori stood with the crew. Three times now, Theisseg’s attention had focused on the Dawnspire. Three times, Zori was ready. She moved swiftly while she had control of her body. On her first pardon, she’d managed to climb down to the mid deck before the chains seized her and Xorale took back control.
On her second bout of freedom, she’d crossed half of the well deck, her longest parole. The crew had stepped out of her way, murmuring the Vaarckthian word for Minister. She’d nodded back, mimicking singing as her hands clenched and relaxed, her Pressure ready to be used. She would have to kill the ballistae crew.
And die in the attempt.
She had to be close to sabotage the ballistae. She could kill the crew from here, her reach with Major Pressure long enough. But what good would it be to kill them before she was in position to destroy the actual weapons?
Her third moments of freedom were only that—moments. She’d just reached the bow deck, about to climb the stairs up when Xorale seized control. Zori squirmed in her mind, the spire looming overhead. A break in the clouds allowed a shaft of sunlight to glint off the tip.
Come on, Zori hissed, her thoughts trembling as Theisseg surveyed the crew again. She gave a short nod to Xorale then motioned with her wing.
To Zori’s shock, her body moved up onto the bow. She was so close to the two ballistae crew. They stood ready, the first shots loaded. Zori trembled. She just needed her next moment of freedom.
Theisseg doesn’t suspect a thing. Of course, Xorale would be here. She’s the Minister of Fire. She would want to be up close.
The ballistae crew all trembled. They weren’t singing, their junior officers making adjustments to the ballistae, the crews standing by to leap into action, their backs rigid with the discipline of their training. They were all combat veterans, proud to serve and they would do their duty.
Zori could see it in their eyes and—
She was free. The lightning fell away. The Dawnspire was so close. The officers moved with agitation, barking orders in Vaarckthian. Hands grasped the release lever, waiting for the command. Both officers raised their hands. It was about to happen.
Zori surged out her Pressure. She reached out to the air around the ballistae crew and—
Lightning crackled about her thoughts, compressing her back into her mind, wrenching control over her Pressure. The thickening air returned to normal.
Noooo! sobbed Zori while Xorale shouted in a clear, confident voice, “Fire!”
The officers’ hands knifed down. The ballista crews yanked the levers. The mighty thwunk shook the deck as both weapons fired. The bow-like tension arms snapped forward, hurtling the explosive shots at the Dawnspire.
No, no, no, Zori wailed, thrashing against the lightning binding her in her mind. She had been so close. Only another heartbeat and she could have defied Theisseg. It wouldn’t have saved the skylands, but it would have been something, proof that the skies were not wholly Theisseg’s.
