Chapter 9
NINE
By the time Merik finished his pitiful but blessedly warm stew, he and Aurora had company.
The boy clung to the safety of the stairs, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. But there was also an air of awe around him as he took in the sight of Aurora, tail wagging and drool hanging like ribbons from her mouth.
“She won’t hurt you,” Merik assured, still using Marstoki. “Her name is Aurora. It means dawn. What’s your name?”
The boy didn’t answer—nor did he flee. So Merik shifted back to his cycling of languages, just in case he had judged the boy’s clothing wrong. Cartorran. Dalmotti. Arithuanian. Marstoki. It was in Merik’s third attempt at Marstoki that the boy finally reacted.
“Revan,” he said, his voice surprisingly strong. “My name is Revan. What … is she?”
“She’s a storm hound. Just a puppy though. I found her much like I found you. She needed someone to feed and help her, so I did.”
Aurora’s tail wagged faster. The boy risked a smile, though it died almost as soon as it arrived when a shiver rattled through him. He was better dressed than Merik for these elements, but he was still just a child. “Where are we?”
Merik inhaled at that question. A drawn-out, audible breath to steel him against what he was about to say: “Poznin. It’s very far from where I assume you must have come from. Which is where, exactly?”
“Tirla.”
Very far indeed. And the boy must be son to one of the powerful merchant families there; it would explain the fine clothes and rings. “Do you remember anything?” Merik asked. Aurora meanwhile rolled onto her back.
It made the boy smile again. And in turn, Merik’s own attempt at a smile widened. “Have you ever had a dog?”
Revan shook his head.
“Then come. I think she’d like her belly rubbed, but it’ll take two sets of hands.”
Revan didn’t move. Merik’s smile wanted to falter, but he kept it pasted on. “Like this.” He demonstrated, and the scratching sound of his palms on Aurora’s belly—as well as her contented grunts—filled the tower.
Revan still did not come in. “There used to be a lady here, didn’t there?”
Merik nodded. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
“She was bad. She brought me here. And my mother too. But I don’t see my mother out there. Just all those…” He hesitated. Then uttered a word Merik had never heard before: Kyrestiri.
“Kyrestiri?” Merik repeated, letting his ministrations to Aurora pause.
“Ahtset,” the boy replied, his eyes drifting to Merik for half a moment.
Then to the open window behind him. “The Kyrestiri. The ones that the mountain spits out. It is what we call them in Tirla. Sometimes, the mountain shakes and people change. So is my mother like that? Is that what happened to me?”
Merik was careful to keep his brow smooth. He knew he was prone to frowning, to letting dark thoughts play across his face. “I don’t know if your mother is Kyrestiri, Revan, but yes. You were. And I was too.”
“And … Rora.” Revan pointed at the storm hound, who had flopped back over to her side. She stretched one of her wings behind her and nudged it against Merik’s knee. “Rora was Kyrestiri too?”
“Yes,” Merik answered, even though this wasn’t true. Aurora had never been cleaved … yet she had been spit out by the mountain, just as Merik had.
“Would you like to come closer? I have stew—albeit not a very good one. But it’s warmer here by the stove, and then you can tell me everything you remember. Maybe we can find your mother.”
Revan inhaled, a furrow sinking across his forehead. Then, with a nod more for himself than for Merik, he finally stepped into the tower. “You never did tell me your name. Sir.” He added the title almost as a reflex.
Definitely the son of wealthy merchants. Tirla was certainly full of them.
“Merik.”
“Oh.” The boy’s eyebrows shot high. “Like the prince who died in Nubrevna?”
A soft laugh escaped Merik’s throat. It was a bitter sound that made his chest ache more than it had any right to. “Yes, just like the prince who died in Nubrevna. Luckily for both of us, though, I’m still alive.”
It was clear from Revan’s wincing that despite the hunger that must cramp inside his gut, he was accustomed to better fare than salted meat boiled in water.
“I’m sorry.” Merik offered a wince of his own as they sat before the hearth. He and Revan were alone now. Aurora had lumbered out of the tower once Merik had served the stew, and he’d felt her take flight in a combination of winds and wings.
He kept checking the window though. Looking for her in the gray skies. Would she be foolish enough to fly toward the raider encampments? Would she be foolish enough to go back toward the mountain and the hungry ice?
While Merik and Revan slurped the hot, salty water and gnawed at the slightly softened meats, Merik managed to pry more information from the boy. His family were wealthy merchants, and he actually spoke all of the languages Merik had tried on him.
“Why do you know so many?” the boy asked. He was pulling another face as he tipped back more “stew.” Or maybe the face was a commentary on Merik’s person, for the next thing he said was: “You don’t look like you’d know so many.”
Fair. Merik set down his empty bowl. “My clothes have seen better days. I was … what was the word? Kyrestiri? I was Kyrestiri for a very long time.”
This made Revan’s face fall. His shoulders slumped too, and he finished eating in silence. Merik left him that way while he moved around the tower and prepared sleeping mats for them both. He would need to get proper food—perhaps from the river to the east, where no raiders camped.
Or, he thought, as a memory struck, at one of the Nomatsi shrines.
As soon as he thought the word Nomatsi, though, he could hear Esme snarling, No’Amatsi.
Their shrines were all across the Windswept Plains, built for the ancient gods they still worshipped.
And at two of those shrines, Merik had found food.
It had been a different season then, the tail end of autumn, but maybe he could get lucky a third time.
He would go tomorrow night when he could fly without risk of being seen by the raiders. They must have lookouts; perhaps even this fire in the hearth was a risk …
A gunshot cracked through the city.
Merik lunged for the tower window to search outside. In the distance, a shadow trailed across the sky. It was Aurora, except her movements were ungainly.
“You have to help her,” Revan cried, coming to the window next to Merik. “That’s Rora!”
“Yes, but you—”
“I can hide if anyone comes, sir.”
Merik swallowed. There was no denying the white-hot fury sparking inside him. It made his winds come easily; it made him feel righteous and strong. But he’d spent too many years letting that temper be his guide. He was not that man anymore.
A second gunshot pierced the night. The shadow that was Aurora lurched downward.
“I’ll be back,” Merik said, and just like that, the decision was made. He took flight from the window in an eruption of magic and winds.
Revan barked surprise, and Merik had half a moment for regret. He should have warned the child of his magic. Should have made a point to show him the faded Witchmark on his hand.
Too late now, though, and Merik’s regret was quickly swamped by anger. His winds had always been fueled by that temper, and now was no exception. Someone wished to harm Aurora. It was Merik’s job to stop them.
He flew higher and faster. A third gunshot ripped out.
It missed Aurora, but only because Merik had already blasted her with his own winds, cocooning her as Kullen used to do with him.
His magic mixed with hers. It was like a spark to gunpowder.
A charge ignited; lightning crackled. She rocketed out of sight.
And now Merik was directly over the people who’d shot at her. Three dark shadows in the night-shrouded city. He dropped straight for them, his fury gathering more power for these raiders who would dare prey on a city filled with Cleaved innocents.
They spied Merik. The two with rifles tried to reload, but their weapons were not Firewitched.
It was a slow process—and Merik’s winds were so much faster.
He swatted the weapons from their hands.
He saw no reason to be cautious. No reason to quell his temper.
There was nothing between him and the violence he wanted to unleash against these raiders.
But then three faces came into focus. Young faces almost as haggard and hollowed as the Cleaved—and not much older than Revan.
Noden curse me. Merik yanked in his winds. It was like wrenching the lead on a large dog, and it required sheer force and full-body power to pull, pull, pull these winds that wanted to attack.
The three people gaped at him in horror. Their rifles had flung too far to grab, and other than a small knife in the hand of a scrawny young woman, they had nothing else to fight with.
She was just a kid, and like the other two with her, she wore Purist gray. They’re not even raiders, Merik realized, and the last of his winds deflated in an unquenched sigh that sent air roiling off his body.
Dead leaves rattled. Gray homespun flapped on the three teens’ hungry frames.
“You need food,” Merik said. He tried Cartorran, since most Purists seemed to be from that empire—and his guess was a good one.
“Witch,” the boy spat while the girl with the knife simply squeezed her hilt tighter.
The third teen, meanwhile, eyed Merik with a thoughtful look that reminded him very much of the way Ryber would gaze out at the world. With a wisdom that came from having seen too much.
“You got food, then?” she asked, and at once, the other teens looked to her. A subtle movement that showed right away she was their leader.
“No,” Merik admitted to her. “But I can get you some. You have to put down that knife first, though.” He addressed this to the other girl. Then to the boy: “And no more shooting at my storm hound.”
“Your storm hound?” the leader asked. She seemed impressed by this, instead of horrified, and it occurred to Merik that although she dressed like a Purist, she didn’t seem to possess the prejudices of one.
“Well, Aurora is my storm hound in so much as any storm hound can belong to someone.” He dipped his head toward the other girl. “Now about that knife…”
The leader nodded at her, and the girl finally lowered her blade.
“Sheathe it, please.” Merik motioned to the leather case at her belt.
Her lips wrinkled back to reveal a chipped tooth. “No.”
“You can’t expect us to totally trust you,” the leader said. She shrugged with her hands, a smooth movement from a girl who seemed used to getting her way. And in that moment, Merik felt the slightest tug inside his chest. A little nudge that said, Oh, she’s reasonable. Do as she says.
Merik did not do as she said. Instead, he felt himself smile. She was a Wordwitch, and he’d wager she had no idea. Or maybe she did know and it was why she was not so viciously spiteful toward Merik as her companions were. After all, a Purist with a witchery was a Purist with a death wish.
“Knife gets sheathed,” Merik countered, “or you don’t come with me for food.”
“Come on,” the boy urged. “Just do it, Ulga.” He was practically salivating.
“I don’t listen to you, Birdy.” Ulga glared. Then turned to the leader. “Sky? What do you think?”
The leader, Sky, laughed, and it was a surprisingly buoyant sound. One that said, Ah, he won’t fall for my tricks then, will he? “It’s fine,” Sky declared. “Sheathe the knife, Ulga, and let’s see where this fellow might lead.”