Chapter 45 #2
‘I know your father was a Rain Singer and your mother was a Mage. That you possess all four water gifts and the ability to turn invisible.’ I pause, suddenly curious.
River’s eyes sparkle with mirth. One moment he’s folding a blue handkerchief, the next he’s gone. Yet the handkerchief continues to move, tucking itself in neatly at the corners, smoothed by a pair of unseen hands. I gasp. Seconds later River reappears.
‘And the Rain Singers – do they know that you’re Demari?’ I ask.
River nods. ‘I travelled to Brava during the war. I refused to kill my mother’s people, so I sought refuge with my father’s. I couldn’t bear witness to such atrocities any longer.’
A vision slips into my mind – River riding away from the battlefield after begging Grandmother not to fight.
‘The Rain Singers could sense I was different,’ he continues.
‘But they accepted me. Given their history with the Aquatori, they would never seek to persecute another for their gifts. They embraced me, for many among them still remembered my father. He was one of the best dragonfly riders our people have ever known.’
‘Your father,’ I say. ‘Why … I mean, how did he meet your mother?’
‘Even before the Singers’ existence was a secret, they lived independently of the rest of Ostacre,’ River begins.
‘They were self-sufficient in every way. The Creek is home to a plentiful supply of fish. Many birds roost high on the cliffs, and a number of mountain goats provide both meat and milk. A few miles south of here is a small expanse of fertile land used to grow grain and crops. Only supplies like weapons, coal, fabrics, oil and medicine were necessary for survival and yet beyond their reach. After centuries of bad blood, pride prevented them from stooping to trade with the Aquatori. So every year a number of riders were selected to travel to distant lands and source what the Singers needed to sustain themselves here in Brava.’
‘And your father was one of them?’
River smiles. ‘He was a curious man. Though I suppose he was just a boy when he left for the Otherlands. He wanted to see more of the world than his own small corner of it – a wanderlust I believe you share.’
I rest my chin on my knees as I think about the years I’d spent dreaming of sailing across the Second Sea, of becoming someone new.
‘My father flew to Thresk, and it was there he met my mother,’ says River. ‘He would return year after year to see her. And then, one day, he never went back to Brava.’
‘Thresk,’ I say quietly.
The isle from which the Magi sisters hailed. A connection with Syla I never knew existed.
‘They built a life together. Only I knew from a very early age that I was not like the other children,’ River continues. ‘I always felt … out of step. When I was ten years old, a pox swept the land. It took my parents, along with countless others.’
‘But you survived,’ I say.
For a moment River looks regretful, even guilty. ‘Thanks to the strength of my blood, I was able to burn off the infection before it managed to spread.’
I swallow as I recall the snake bite and the way my body fought the venom. ‘And then you came here, to Ostacre.’
‘I conjured the portal accidentally, or perhaps subconsciously. With my parents gone, I knew I couldn’t stay in the Otherlands. My gifts made me powerful, but they made me different. I didn’t belong to the Magi, yet nor did I belong wholly to the Rain Singers.’
‘Both, and therefore neither,’ I murmur, remembering his words.
River nods. ‘Quite. And so I chose freedom and a fresh start. I chose to be Aquatori, and to leave my past behind. The rest is history.’
He snaps his fingers and the water in the teapot begins to boil. As he passes me a cup of honeyed tea, all I can think about is Queen Hydra and our lessons. A ragged lump forms in my throat. I clear it sharply, then ask, ‘What’s your anchor for simmering?’
‘Fear,’ River says simply.
I nod and tuck the information away for later use. That’s when I recall something else – a vision of a little boy sobbing over his parents’ bodies, rain streaming down overhead.
‘And your rain … it’s Melded to sadness, to grief, isn’t it? Just like mine.’
For a moment I regret asking such a deeply personal question. But River only nods. ‘Certain anchors run in families, just like gifts can sometimes skip a generation.’
I think about all those years of drizzle, how I didn’t let myself cry after my mother died.
I used to want to feel nothing. At least that way I wouldn’t feel all the bad things – the heartache and anger, misery and despair.
But Melding changed that. My anchors are an outlet, a means of channelling and processing emotion, of turning pain into power.
I take a scalding sip of tea, then murmur, ‘Did you really mean what you said? That I’m the most powerful Rain Singer who’s ever lived?’
‘Blaze, as a Demari, your gifts are exceptional,’ says River.
‘Mixing blood doesn’t dilute magic – it strengthens it.
But even among Demari your power is unparalleled.
You are a descendant of the Fire Goddess Vesta, hailing from a long line of pureblood Ignitia.
You descend from Rain Singers, the strongest of the Aquatori, possessed of the ability to manipulate water in all its forms. And you descend from Magi, magical beings as ancient as the earth itself.
You are the sum of your parts and of your past.’
His words send a shiver skittering along the notches of my spine.
‘It is because of the strength of your bloodline that you are the Storm Weaver, and it is because you are the Storm Weaver that you have been named Om Shikara.’
‘But I’m not a God,’ I protest. ‘I mean, look at me.’ I gesture to my tattered clothes and tangled hair.
‘They believe you are.’
I try very hard not to roll my eyes. I spent my life being told I was Gods-damned, for crying out loud.
‘This is ridiculous. My birth killed people, River. Thousands of them.’
‘The Singers consider your birth an act of vengeance – drowning the empire that conquered another.’
I clutch my cup so hard my palms blister. ‘So I’m … what? A punishment?’
‘A punishment and a gift.’
‘You’re telling me that the very reason I’m reviled by some is the same reason I’m revered by others?’
‘Om Shikara has long been a myth, a folktale,’ he says. ‘She who brings destruction, then peace.’
‘Well, I don’t believe in any of it,’ I reply stubbornly.
‘Then don’t,’ says River calmly. ‘But they do. They will pledge allegiance to you and you alone. No Aquatori sovereign has ever had the loyalty of the Rain Singers. And there may come a time when you need them.’
We talk for hours, until the tea has gone cold and the fire is reduced to embers.
‘You should rest,’ River tells me. ‘Quarters have been prepared for you.’
He leads me to a cave that overlooks the pearlescent surface of the lake.
In one corner sits an ovular tub carved from pale stone, the steaming water scented with jasmine and citrus.
In the centre lies a large bed fashioned from driftwood.
Lying atop the sheets is a swathe of fabric the colour of water and sky – the same garment worn by the Singers.
‘I’ll leave you now,’ says River, hovering by the door. ‘But we’ll talk again tomorrow.’
‘Wait!’ I call, struck by a sudden thought. ‘You said you came to Ostacre by accident. What place were you thinking of when you fell through the portal?’
River’s eyes burn as bright as sapphires. ‘Something I wished to find. Somewhere I could finally belong. Home.’ He smiles softly. ‘Though as it turned out, mine wasn’t a place.’
I feel a twinge of understanding. I see sun-bleached plains, a bubbling hot spring, a little girl in a red dress, extending her hand.
I’m Leda.
The moment the door shuts behind River, a single tear rolls down my cheek. I fall asleep to the sound of rain and awaken to a golden dawn.