Chapter 19
After packing up camp, we traverse the remainder of the journey to Storm’s border. The crossing outpost is a stone-laid building with simple turrets at the top of its exterior.
Two guards with emerald uniforms, bearing their faction’s signet, appear from the mason-carved entrance as we approach.
“Crossing sanction and order of business, please,” the one to my left states, fighting a yawn resultant of an early morning shift change.
Jace retrieves a scroll stamped with House Raine’s seal and places it in the guard’s outstretched hand.
The other Storm soldier goes rigid when his gaze catches on Jace’s golden pinky ring.
“My King,” he gasps. His companion’s chestnut eyes widen as they, too, meet Jace. Neither glance at me.
“Official directives straight from Queen Raine,” Jace says, readjusting his pack.
“Shall…shall I call for an escort into the city, My King?” the first guard asks.
“That won’t be necessary. We have time sensitive business, I’m afraid.”
“Understood. You’re cleared for entry.” The guard cautiously returns the scroll. With a nod, we slip through the outpost entrance and the two men stiff-backed and whispering.
My father’s tomes didn’t nearly do Storm justice in their aged descriptions. What waits at the bottom of a rambling set of granite steps, embedded into the hillside, steals my breath and refuses to return it.
Thunderheads linger on the distant coastline, exciting the air with an electric hum.
Scattered throughout the lush forests are canopy homes constructed at varying heights, and at the center stands a massive Motherwood tree taller than the valley itself.
We cross a bridge and follow the curve of the street leading down toward Storm’s shipyard.
“If Isra’s directions are accurate, Nimbusport should be a few blocks down,” Jace says, turning over his shoulder. I nod and follow his lead.
The smaller homes bordering each city block are lively and bustling, a contrast to the outer districts in Smoke. Hollowed gourds hang from each sill, bristling in the gentle humid breeze, and autumn squash roasts on open air hearths.
Gods, this place feels peaceful…happy. Breathing is easy compared to the smog, ripe with brutality back in Smoke.
There are no armed guards at every corner street.
Nor are there decrepit homes or starving children, begging to passing strangers.
Storm is a soft-spoken promise of what blossoms without violence or war, and I pray to the gods I eventually will find my way back.
We pass a street performer drumming his fingertips on a flute. The melody is bittersweet but lively all at once, and one I hadn’t heard since childhood. I swallow the knot forming in my throat and trudge on, steeling myself against the crashing wave of memories.
Jace stops beside a merchant’s cart, examining the woman’s wares. Carved stone beads of every color line her shelves—pinks, jades, ambers, each shaped with masterful precision into various emblems.
“Would you like to browse my wares? A gift for your companion, perhaps?” the old merchant asks, wiping her hands down the sides of a stained apron frock.
“These are incredibly crafted.” I inspect a ruby pendant. Two twin tendrils of flames intertwine with one another, carved from the most brilliant of stones. “I’ve never seen dragonstones used in such a manner.”
“And you won’t anywhere but here, my dear. Storm’s stone carvers are the best in the continent.” She plucks another pendant from her cart. “Have a look at this one, it matches those eyes of yours—a gorgeous rarity these days.”
The woman offers me a small amethyst. The carved dragon is no larger than my thumb, but its intricate wings are spread wide and latticed.
“Oh, thank you…” I reply, staggered by the little token of understanding she’s offered. “Do you know where we might find Yaris Lightbrood? We have some updates regarding a recent theft he will be interested to hear.”
“No,” she states, taking a seat on the stool beside her cart. It’s damp and waterlogged from the recent rain. I return the amethyst to her cart and keep my expression friendly..
“Please, ma’am, it’s of the utmost importance that we speak with him. On my honor, we come as allies,” Jace says, placing a hand over his chest. She arches a thick brow at him, the crows of her eyes wrinkling.
“If I had seen him, I wouldn't simply offer two strangers that information.”
My fingers trail over the various polished stones until they land on one that sends my heart leaping. “But we aren’t strangers,” I offer, holding up a small opal pendant. “We’re customers.”
Jace bites his lip, clearly unamused by my interjection.
“How much is this one?” I place the pendant in her hand. She tucks a loose auburn curl over her ear and leans in to examine the stone. Her thumb slides over the swirls and curves of Sovereign’s remembrance token—a constellation of six points, bisected by crossing swords.
“Zero imperfections in the opal. Imported from the faction you hail from, I’d imagine.” She washes her gaze across Jace’s black tunic embroidered with House Ashborne’s signet. “4000 stipen.”
Jace’s jaw ticks, but he retrieves the amount from his pack.
“Now we are no longer strangers…” I say, smiling.
She pockets the stipennote with a smug grin.
“Yaris frequents the marketplace a few blocks down from here. With the storm blowing in, he’ll be helping the locals secure their wagons.
Big, silver-haired, burly man. You can’t miss him,” the merchant says, wrapping our purchase in cloth.
“And keep this safe, my dear. Storm’s a sanctuary state, but there’s always someone watching from the back alleys. ”
With a quick nod I tuck the pendant into my pack’s outer pocket. “Thank you.”
We leave the merchant to her wares and follow the street further into the shipping district. Roasted, nutty aromas wisp through the beeeze—plums, squash, and sea bass. My stomach grumbles in reminder of the measly traveler’s meal Jace and I shared this morning before our trek into the city.
“I believe that’s our man,” Jace says, interrupting my daydream of fish platters and cheese boards. He nods across the bustling street to a flash of silver hair in the overcast light. My heart flutters. The man, even with his back facing us, is familiar, like a memory I can no longer place.
We serpentine through passing vendors and merchant carts to approach him. He kneels against a cart, one hand securing a canvas tarp just below the wheel. Each finger of his palm is ringed in silver.
My stomach jumps.
There on his index is a thickly banded signet ring.
One I just barely recognize—House Ceti. Freedom is sweet on my tongue as we approach.
This is it. Only those of the noble blood wear the signet.
Rings such as those were rarely crafted, made only when a new noble babe came into this world. He has to be the guardian rider.
“Yaris?” Jace asks, interrupting the bustle of the merchants.
The man glances over his shoulder, and his eyes go wide.
Not when he looks upon Jace or the Ashborne signet stitched across his chest, but when his violet eyes land on mine.
He jumps to his feet, a grin spreading over his thick, greying beard.
“Gods be good, Nova!” Yaris Lightbrood throws his arms around me and tucks my chin into his collar. “You’re alive. Thank Astora, you’re alive.”