Shattered sunlight book.., p.38
Shattered Sunlight (Book Five of the Storm Below), page 38
“Yes. That my ship has been confiscated by the Wrackthar Alliance and handed over to you for modification!”
“Exactly,” Estan said. “We are turning your ship into the first metal warship.”
“My ship is needed to fly Ary and the raiders north to Ulanii,” Charele said.
“Has Ary gotten approval from the President for that?” asked Estan.
“Well, no.” Charele’s anger faltered. “He’s drilling guards today. But . . . He will. Ary’s talked to him. They just need to work out logistics.”
“Well, never fear, if you do fetch the Sun Lance, you’ll do it in an armored ship with flamethrowers.”
“Flame . . . throwers?”
“Wrackthar engines that can shoot flame two hundred ropes.” Estan grinned at her. “Imagine those in a fight with the Dawn Empire.”
“My ship isn’t a warship, Estan,” she said, hands on her hips as she marched beside him. “It’s the only ship on our side. It doesn’t matter how far it can throw flames. We’ll be destroyed.”
“Not with hundreds of Wrackthar cavalry galloping through the air and your ship plated in iron.”
“Iron?” She shook her head. “It barely flies. There’s too much foreign wood on it. Those plates will rip my ship in half.”
“We’re adding a second engine. And the iron plates will help support the shattered keel.” Estan took her hand. “Trust me, Charele, I know what I am doing.”
“You better,” she muttered, yanking her hand away. “That’s my ship.”
“And she’ll carry the weapon that will kill Theisseg,” Estan said. “They’re already building the ballistae to throw it.”
Her eyes widened. “The flawed gem engines the Zalg came up with. That detonation almost killed us during the test.”
“Hence the new ballista to throw it farther. Right into her face.” Estan clenched his fist. “We’ll kill her, Charele. Me and you. Now come on. Let’s gets started. No use dawdling when there is a war on. This will take time.”
“Why, oh, why did I ever agree to ferry you across the skies?” Charele muttered.
“For adventure, Captain.” Estan grinned at her. “You will have the first ever iron ship. It is progress, Charele. The future.”
“Fine,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes. “A metal ship, huh? And it’ll fly?”
“Once we have installed the second engine.” Estan limped ahead as her jaw dropped.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The Skyland of Nraezhn – Lsaapsu 14th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
The journey north was harrowing. Despite Zori’s eager fire to plan out Theisseg’s death, she had no opportunity for freedom. The Sunrise was just too small to be far enough away from Theisseg at any point. So she spent her days trapped in her mind, watching Xorale traipse around the ship as it sailed through the burning twilight.
The ash never stopped falling the entire nine-day journey north. For most of it, they were choked in the thick clouds rising from the ruins of Les, Vilthon, and Jhiarly. Then they sailed past the small burning mounds of Rhene and Istiar. Two days ago, daylight had returned.
Weak sunlight, stained red, bleeding with the skylands. The air was covered in high, thick clouds that boiled from the south, dumping ash like snow. Despite it being mid-spring, the days had a chill to them, a bite in the air that never quite left no matter how high the sun climbed into the sky.
Xorale kept the crew’s spirit up when Theisseg wasn’t around. She was full of fake cheer, reminding them that it was necessary to send a dozen skylands crashing to the ground. It sickened Zori every time she heard her mouth say those words.
It fanned the fires of her anger. In her dreams, she was bouncing with excitement, discussing endless variants of the plan with Guts, eager to finally reach Nraezhn. Zori was positive she’d have a chance to put distance between herself and Theisseg and experience freedom.
To figure out the perfect moment to assassinate the Storm Goddess.
“I’m going to kill Theisseg,” Zori would boast endlessly to Guts in the dream. “Boom! Dead. She’s not going to drop any more skylands.”
With Nraezhn in sight, she trembled with eagerness to test her bonds.
Xorale gazed at Nraezhn and its capital of Gkoorna. It occupied a vast, curving harbor that sprawled for miles in both directions. The eastern end had the frames of new warships laid out. The city held one of the Empire’s main shipyards, harvesting the forests of great balsa wood growing in the skyland’s interior. Green and red coral grew up to the bustling docks, their colors muted by ash.
Carts dumped ash off the side of the skyland, the powder crashing down the coral before being caught by the wind and dispersed before reaching the dark lake. The ground below was all gray with spots of red and brown peeking through where the wind had blown hills clean.
“Xorale,” Amiria said. “When we dock, take the marines and commandeer the governor’s palace for my residence.”
“I will,” Xorale said with joy. Zori gagged in her mind. She’s stained my tongue with boot polish.
But the prospect of venturing off ahead of Theisseg excited her. Zori had to be careful to pay attention, to wait for the moment she had control over her own body and see if her theory or hypothesis or whatever it was called was correct. She wasn’t Estan. She didn’t know the proper names of things.
The Sunrise attracted attention. People gathered on the docks, cheering Amiria as she shone from the bow. None here had seen the Golden Daughter, but they’d heard the stories. And I bet they’re all scared because of the darkness and fires to the south. They must think the world is burning.
Zori was right. Amiria launched herself from the Sunrise as it crept into the dock. She landed on the peak of a red roof along the harbor. The tiles were a bright shade of slate, the granite rocks of the buildings a dull blue in contrast.
As Amiria sang out her comforting song, deluding the people of Nraezhn, Xorale summoned the marines and was the first one off the gangplank. Zeirie marched beside Xorale, her red jacket smudged with ash. The other marines trooped behind them in silence. Zori trembled as they passed Amiria and the nearby building, her song ghosting over them.
Now let’s see how far we go.
It was three blocks away when Zori regained control of her body. They were passing a rectangular building with a round turret on the corner when the lightning no longer bound in her mind. She stumbled, gasping, reaching out for Zeirie’s jacket to catch herself.
“You okay, Xorale?” Zeirie asked, reaching out to help straighten Zori.
“Yeah,” Zori said, staring back at the street, her body trembling. Three blocks away. “What did I trip on?”
“Probably just a cobblestone.” Zeirie brushed the protruding corner of one. “They’re old. Need redoing.”
Zori, her stomach twisting, walked two steps back the way she’d come and—
Xorale was in control again. She whirled around. “Come on, let’s get to the governor’s mansion.”
“Uh, yes, Minister,” Zeirie said, her pale-tan face puzzled.
The moment Zori’s body crossed over that three-block boundary, she was in control again. An excited shiver raced through her body. She was free. She could do anything that she wanted. She could hug Zeirie, climb up the side of the turret, skip through the streets, laugh, cry, shout, rejoice. She could do one of a hundred different things.
But what she had to do was be Xorale. She had to make sure Theisseg didn’t realize there was a limit to Her control. She’s weaker than She thinks She should be. Something has changed about Her.
“Come, come,” Zori said, wanting badly to run all the way to the Governor’s Mansion just because she could. “Let’s see where we’ll be living for the next few weeks.”
*
Thugri Sound/Eissof Fen – Lsaapoa 16th, 399 VF (1960 SR)
Chaylene woke on the twelfth day from Vesche to the sounds of Shurle Dhejhil softly crying. The wan sunlight of dawn banished sleep from her as she groaned, her body sore, her stomach grumbling. She had been hungry every day since Vesche. To reach Romeich, they had to ration their food even with the occasional elk she’d killed while flying on Starfire.
They were eight days beyond the ash cloud. Despite it being mid-spring, it was another cold, shivering morning. Warmth did not want to come this year. She roused the others, ignoring the grumbling complaints and the crying children. The Missionary was already up, hissing out a prayer to Riasruo to protect them in her impossible to understand tongue.
The travel had been hard, especially the earlier days. The falling ash made breathing painful. Chaylene shuddered at the memory of hacking up thick, gray phlegm. She wheezed and gasped with the others as she struggled forward. The ash grew thicker and thicker, covering the ground in a powdery blanket they had to stumble through. For water, they had to uncover algae pools. Many were so choked with ash they’d become mud.
“Let’s get moving,” Chaylene said as she had the previous fifteen mornings. Half a month of trudging on foot. It was worse than walking to Mount Wraiucwii despite the darkness and rain. Then, she’d had Ary to lean on. She could afford to be weak. She hadn’t had his brother and sister, Esty, and the survivors of Vesche looking at her to lead them to safety. “Sun’s rising.”
“Come on, Shurle,” Gretla said, her backpack already on, containing the ashes of her family. “Let’s go.” Gretla’s gentle smile helped the grieving woman stand. She cradled the sealed bag to her chest.
Chaylene never wanted to cremate another child with her fire.
The Missionary, carrying Chelem, a boy of ten, on one shoulder and his younger sister, Amerene, on the other, fell in beside Chaylene. The Ethinski broodmother often marched beside “Riasruo’s disciple.” Chaylene hated the name.
As the drudgery of the days walking wore on Chaylene, her thoughts drifted, as they always did, into the past. Sometimes she thought of Ary, playing with him as children, kissing him behind his barn, their wedding night and the first time she’d burned with him, or the last time she’d seen him when he’d ended the Storm.
Other times, she thought about the journey.
“Why did you become a missionary?” Chaylene had asked the first day of travel beneath the falling ash, the flames burning on her shoulder to light the way. Every breath wheezed out of her.
“I felt it was my calling,” the Ethinski had answered with sibilant words. “My children had hatched. They did not need their broodmother any longer. I felt a desire to travel, to see the skies that Riasruo had given us.”
Chaylene had grunted which turned into a cough.
“You think Riasruo didn’t give us the skies?”
“I know She didn’t,” she’d answered when her cough finished, her throat raw. “Up until the Storm ended, she had been trapped. It was all Theisseg. Tricking us. Deceiving us. We worshiped Her thinking She was the true sun.”
The Missionary’s tongue had flicked out over and over as they walked in silence, the children cradled in her arms listless as they struggled to breathe in the foul air. Sometimes, their little, hacking coughs cut through the silence.
“That is a sad thing to learn,” the Missionary had said. “For it was quite beautiful above the Storm. But this . . .”
“We’re seeing Her true face.” Chaylene had kicked at the ash before her. “This was my home we’re walking through. Our friends. Our families. She destroyed it to get revenge on my husband.”
“That is a grandiose thing to say. If I hadn’t seen you shine with Riasruo’s light and predict the cataclysm we escaped, I would say arrogance had swelled your head. Why would She seek to get revenge on him?”
“He ended the Storm. He freed Riasruo. Last I saw my husband, he was in Riasruo’s embrace, held tight as the Sun Goddess battled with the Storm Goddess to hold Her back from doing this.”
“And She failed. Is our Goddess too weak?”
“I don’t know. I—” A loud cough had ripped out of her throat. Her vision had grown fuzzy as she’d bent over. Finally, she’d spat out a thick glob of gray phlegm, groaning, “Theisseg’s tail feathers.”
“This air is poisoned.” The Missionary had sighed, a sibilant hiss. “She seeks to kill us with Her new Storm. But we won’t let Her. We lived. You will lead us to safety.”
I hope I do.
Chaylene blinked out of her thoughts of the past, the sun in her eyes. She raised her hand against the glare until a passing cloud dimmed the radiance. They were nearing the end of Thugri Sound today. She hoped to lead them across the Great Empty to Romeich.
She didn’t want to lose another child.
The poisoned air had impacted the children the worst. They’d struggled to breathe. Shurle’s infant daughter, Shuchene, had grown listless by the end of the first day. The young mother, newly widowed, had been frantic. She only had her daughter. Chaylene had sat at the fire, watching with tear-filled eyes as Shurle struggled to get her daughter to nurse.
“I know you can do it,” Shurle had cooed, her voice soft, brittle, tears falling down her cheeks.
An ache had attacked Chaylene’s breasts. Her hand had rested on her stomach, watching the crying mother struggle to nurse her child. She’d sent all her thoughts to Riasruo that she could. Please, save her daughter. Please, please.
“You can do it, my little guppy,” Shurle had whispered. “You’re strong. Just like your pa.”
But Shuchene had never latched on. She’d lingered on over the second day, quiet. Her mother had tried to keep the infant’s face covered. The tiny child had been too weak to survive. She’d gone still by what passed for nightfall beneath the ash clouds.
“No, no,” Shurle had sobbed, clutching her dead child to her chest, rocking back and forth. “You can do it. You’re strong, my little guppy. So strong. Just like your pa.”
Tears had fallen from Chaylene’s eyes as she’d watched in silence with everyone else as the mother sobbed over her dead daughter. Finally, Chovene, the oldest survivor, had taken the dead child from her mother. The other women had helped Shurle lie down. She’d stared up at the falling ash, clutching her daughter’s swaddling blanket to her nose.
Chaylene hadn’t slept that night. Not after cremating the small bundle. They’d done their best to gather the infant’s ashes. Shurle would hold them to her breast. Sometimes, she’d coo and sing lullabies beneath her breath like her daughter still lived. Other times, she’d cry quietly, hugging the ashes tightly as she stumbled along with the others. She didn’t speak otherwise. She’d eat if food was put in her hands. It was all routine, an automatic chewing, her eyes staring far beyond the world.
On the third night, Chaylene had dreamed of Vesche, the field green with late spring, flowers opened wide to Riasruo’s sun. A young boy played in the field, his face broad like Ary’s, his hair a pale-blond, his skin a rich brown.
Chaylene had laughed as she watched her son race through the fields. Ary had been with her, chuckling, too, as their son played with the other children. They’d raced to the broken watchtower, sticks clacking together as they played Pirates and Marines. Their eyes had been all bright.
She’d woken up to darkness, ash covering her blanket, her throat burning. She’d rubbed at her stomach, imagining it growing more and more round. She would be showing by now, over halfway through her pregnancy. She’d conceived in Mehnetoa, so it had been nearly five months. She would have given birth sometime in mid-Aernoa. She might even have felt her child moving.
The thought had stayed with her as she walked over the next few days, her hand on her stomach, imaging herself growing bit by bit, wondering what it would be like to feel her son move inside of her. It was a son to her now.
Dhejon, for Ary’s dead pa.
The fantasy would beset her at the oddest times, like she was seeing into another reality, one where she and Ary never joined the military, where Theisseg never returned as Amiria, where Vesche still hovered in the air. She would imagine walking around their small home, a cottage Ary had built for her on the land he rented from Master Oatlon. Their own little farm. He would be in the field weeding the barley while she was in the house working hard on their supper between her own chores, her apron covered in flour and draped over her round stomach.
He would come in from the fields near sunset, his whole, left hand covering her belly to feel their son move as he kissed her. He would grouse about the weeds, and she would complain about the gossiping women in the marketplace as they settled down for supper. The Chaylene and Ary of her imagination were so young, so untouched by suffering. Ary’s red eyes didn’t look aged but bright. His laugh more ready.
“Dhejon’s really kicking today,” she would say as they ate, holding her belly as their son squirmed.
And then reality would crash back into Chaylene. She would step into a hidden divot and almost twist her ankle or trip over the remains of an ash-choked puddle. Or a child would scream out in pain.
It was on the seventh day of their journey when young Veldin Grech, walking alongside his father, had disturbed a snake half-buried by the ash. Before his father could react, the four-year-old had been bitten. Two deep puncture wounds swelled as the snake’s venom had eaten through the boy’s body.
Chaylene had struggled to remember what Keibzin had said about asps as they walked across the world. “They’re scared of us,” he’d told her, his beard matted with rainwater. “Most are harmless, but a few are deadly. Those have triangular heads. The venom takes time to kill. Especially in the limb. You have to put a tourniquet on the limb, keep the venom from spreading so you can get the person to a Fleshknitter.”
“They die if you don’t?”
He’d nodded, somber. “It’s not wolves I fear when I’m scavenging, but snakes. The wolves usually leave us alone, but you can stumble across a viper and . . .” He shook his head. “Well, it’s not pretty.”
It wasn’t.
Poor Veldin had screamed as his leg swelled double then triple its original size. The skin had cracked, blood leaking from the wound. Around the punctures, the flesh had grown putrid. Despite the tourniquet, the child had died by nightfall. Chaylene had to make another cremation fire. The dull-eyed father had accepted his son’s ashes while his wife, Xoshene, had wept uncontrollably. His other two children had clung to him, their faces pale, eyes wide.
