Riding Out the Storm
Taran sat out on a high cloud. He had often been warned that the high clouds were liable to disintegrate under him, but he often ignored those who told him such. He never sat on a high cloud unless there was a more solid cloud below it, and that was good enough for him.
He was the younger of Kepi I’s sons, but his father wanted him to inherit his place. Taran had heard him say so to his consort Temahre. Temahre was by far Taran’s favorite of his father’s consorts. He liked to think that she was his mother. And the fact that Kepi had told her that he wanted his younger son to take his place made him think so even more.
Taran sighed and stared up at the sky above him. He couldn’t imagine living with his feet on solid ground—in fact, he’d never once set foot on solid ground. The wind whipped his hair every which way. He knew Perun had heard that their father wanted him to be the next God of Storms, and he knew that Perun wanted that power more than he ever had. He had lived most of his life expecting his older brother to take their father’s place. Taran wasn’t sure if he was excited, worried, or frightened, and decided that he was angry with Perun for confusing his emotions so thoroughly.
***
The next thing he knew, he was falling. He expected to hit the cloud below him within a few seconds, but there was no landing. He was still falling, and Skyes was now above him. He tried to teleport himself back up to no avail, and then attempted a Feather Fall spell to the same result. He began to panic—he was falling from Skyes, completely unable to use his magic, and there was no one who could help him.
His vision went black when he hit a tree branch. And another, and another, and another after that. For a brief moment, he was simply falling again. Then--
Impact.
***
“Come on, Esen, we were supposed to be home an hour ago!”
“Besides, it’s starting to rain.”
“If you and Nasim hadn’t insisted upon swimming and making me keep watch, I wouldn’t have started this,” Esen returned, skillfully weaving reeds together. She had amused herself making a pillow while her sisters played in the lake. Her sisters tugged on her shoulder.
“Haizea is right! Let’s go before they come looking for us,” Nasim said. “If we go in, we can get in our rooms before they can see us.” She and Haizea giggled. Nasim’s wet shirt was plastered to her skin, revealing every curve, and Haizea’s white shirt had become see-through to the point where Esen couldn’t see why either of them was bothering to wear a shirt at all.
“Fine,” Esen grumbled, taking her woven pillow and shaking the leaves out of her hair. “Let’s go.”
As the three walked back through the forest with their baskets of berries and herbs and flowers (and Esen, with her baskets and her pillow), Nasim and Haizea giggled and gossiped. Esen ignored them, and thought about how different they were. They were triplets, and Nasim and Haizea were very alike. But Esen was different. She alone found no amusement in gossiping about boys, or playing in the water while wearing white and secretly hoping that one of the gossiped-about boys might see. She enjoyed being outside for reasons other than swimming, and—very, very much unlike her sisters—loved storms. Especially the wind. They complained, but Esen loved how tangled her hair got after she had been out in a storm.
Esen was the only one who noticed all the broken branches off to their left. It looked like something had crashed through them from above. She cautiously approached it.
“Esen?”
She ignored Haizea and continued closer, curious as to what had fallen. She stifled a gasp.
Laying amid the broken branches was a person. His hair was brown, streaked on one side with black. There were two jagged, purple-y stripes on each cheek. Black lightning bolt marks decorated his forearms. His clothes were unlike anything she had ever seen before. His hands were beautiful. Esen smiled a little. The smile fell away from her face when she realized something—he was hurt, and he was hurt badly. His left leg was twisted in a way that she had never seen a leg twist before. She swallowed hard and began to quietly pick her way through the fallen branches. It was storming now.
“Hello?” she asked quietly. He didn’t stir.
“Esen!” Nasim shouted. Esen jumped. They couldn’t see him from where they were standing. “What are you doing?”
“I was wondering what fell over here.”
“And?”
“There’s nothing,” she lied, quickly and carefully slipping the pillow under the boy’s head. “I’ll be back,” she whispered, before turning and quickly returning to her sisters.
No one questioned their long absence or the fact that they were drenched. Everyone assumed they had simply been caught in the storm. Esen fidgeted all the way through dinner. She wanted to go back to the forest. Storming or not, she had to see him again. He’d die if no one helped him.
Late that night, she took a basket, some food, and some medical supplies and slipped out the door. She was almost to the gate when a voice called out,
“Who goes there?”
“It’s me,” she stammered, holding up her lantern. She hadn’t expected to be stopped. “Who are you?”
A guard holding a lantern appeared. “Lady Esen, what are you doing out at this hour?”
“I think I dropped my comb somewhere,” she lied. “I was looking for it out here.”
“Look in the morning,” the guard said. “When you can actually see.”
“All right,” she said, returning to the house.
***
She had a very vivid dream. She was in an unfamiliar castle, and there were three men fussing. One of them was very old and sat on a regal throne, one of them was an adult, and one of them looked only a little older than the young man in the forest. They were all dressed in a similar style to the man in the forest.
“He’s nowhere in Skyes, Father, I looked everywhere,” the young one said.
“Perhaps he fell through a high cloud,” the middle one said sadly. “You know he loved to take risks.”
They continued like this, until the old one stood up and shouted,
“Where is my son?”
Esen awoke to a huge clap of thunder that shook the entire house. She heard her sisters scream, and covers flew as Nasim dove into Haizea’s bed, and then they began to giggle. Esen looked outside. Dawn was fast approaching, and despite the thunder, no rain fell. She quickly put on simple clothes, grabbed the basket she had prepared the night before, and waited until the lightning stopped flashing so close to the forest before she took off under the excuses of “looking for my comb” and “getting some fresh air.”
It was somewhat dark in the forest, and it took her a while before she found the spot with the fallen branches. The young man was exactly the way she had left him, albeit slightly wetter. She pushed up his pant leg—careful not to disturb his injury—and began to bind his leg against straight sticks to make a splint. His skin was cool and she found herself unsure if he was even alive. She leaned forward to listen for a heartbeat.
He suddenly snarled violently and twisted away from her, kneeling on his good leg with the other one awkwardly beside him. He was holding a small knife in one hand and bracing himself with the other. Esen fell backward in shock.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
“You’re hurt,” she stammered. “Your leg—please, lie down, I—”
He hissed dangerously. “Who are you?”
“My name is Esen,” she said. “What’s your name?”
Just as suddenly as he had gotten up, he collapsed to the ground, teeth clenched and clutching his leg. The look didn’t fit his elegant face at all. “Taran,” he said through his teeth.
“Won’t you lie down?” Esen pleaded. “You’re hurt badly!”
“I don’t need your help,” Taran snarled. “What could a mortal like you do anyways?”
“ “A mortal like”—what?” Esen asked. “You’re not—?”
“Do I look it?” he demanded. Esen shrugged.
“Would you like something to eat?” she offered, holding out a tangerine.
Before Taran could make some cold reply, he went limp with a soft moan. Esen—throwing caution to the wind—scooped him up and held him in one arm, and held a large, soft, dumpling-like item to his mouth. He did nothing. She tore off a small piece of the dumpling and placed it in his mouth. He stirred slightly and slowly began to eat it. He forced himself to swallow. They repeated this several more times, until Esen decided that by far a more effective way to get him to eat would simply be to feed him.
Once Taran had eaten, she laid him back on the pillow she had made the day before. She took the knife that he had dropped and slipped it back into the sheath hidden in his bracer. He looked peaceful again, the way he had when she first found him.
She came back every day, and Taran gradually got stronger. He still refused to tell her anything more about himself than his name. Esen sighed. He was not going to make this easy.
***
Taran reluctantly stayed still, biding his time until his leg healed. Violent storms raged every night—his father was looking for him, and he was not happy. But something else was wrong—something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t decide what it was, but something was going to go wrong, and it was going to go wrong spectacularly.
At first, he growled whenever Esen came near. But as time progressed, he began to allow her to dress his injury and even occasionally spoke with her. She wasn’t exactly chatty, but falling from the sky did tend to make one rather grumpy, and it felt like the entire world was babbling. There was a stream nearby, and for some reason, Taran couldn’t stand the constant sounds of it. The peepers, the birds, the water—all of it was so loud, and taunting. It sounded like the peepers were chirping “Weak! Weak! Weak!” and the birds singing “fall, fall, fall.” Taran shook his head and cursed.
As his body healed, his magic began to return. When it no longer hurt to lie still, he decided it was time to try to return home. Concentrating his energy, he was able to levitate a little. He smiled as he fell back onto the bed of reeds Esen had devised. By tomorrow, he would be able to return to Skyes. He looked at his bandaged leg. Esen had tied her blue hair ribbon around the end of the bandage to hold it in place. He was just reaching to untie it when Esen appeared from the forest.
“You want to know who I am?” he asked. She looked at him uncertainly.
“What brought about this sudden change?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow. I figured I’d give you a fair shot at asking me again.”
“Er, okay. Who are you?”
“My name is Taran Kepi, second son of Kepi I, the God of Storm.”
Esen looked at him incredulously. She couldn’t help thinking this scrawny teenage boy is the son of the storm god?
Taran noticed her expression and shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me. You’ll never see me again. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Just how do you plan to leave?”
“I plan to teleport, of course,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “How else does one get to Skyes?”
Esen mouthed wordlessly for a moment. “You can’t even walk! What do you plan to do once you get back to—er—Skyes?”
Taran shrugged. “They’ll find me. I can teleport to my doorstep. I think.”
“Are there many people in Skyes?” Esen asked.
Taran raised his eyebrows again. “My father, my brother, our servants, and me. Only permanent residents. Most people don’t tend to like the idea of living in a perpetual storm.”
Esen shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Taran regarded her for a moment. “I knew you were weird the minute I saw you.”
“Weird?” she asked indignantly.
“Different,” Taran corrected, rolling his eyes.
“How so?”
Taran sighed. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You’re stubborn about giving answers,” she shot back. He studied her closely.
“Fine,” he said after a minute. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”
“I suppose you should,” she said. The two glared at each other for a while, then Esen left. Taran sighed and resumed waiting. He had waited for two weeks, a few more hours wouldn’t kill him…
But by nine ‘o clock that night, he was bored out of his mind. Again. This had become a very normal occurrence in the past few weeks, but for the love of storm, he wanted to go home. He missed the clouds, and the constant thunder—and the clouds were much, much more comfortable than the solid ground he had been laying on for two weeks.
This is ridiculous. I’m going home.
With some difficulty, he untied Esen’s ribbon from his leg, and—with even greater difficulty—managed to Relocate himself to Skyes. But it was not on his doorstep as he had planned. He cursed loudly—he was actually quite far from the castle. His magic was weak, at best, and his leg again throbbing. But the clouds were much softer than the earth, and someone would find him up here. Eventually. He sighed. He was getting dizzy. Pushing the dizziness from his head, he sent up a shower of sparks into the sky above him. Then another. Someone must have seen that from the castle.
His head was getting cloudy. That was a lot of magic in a little time, and he was already fatigued to begin with…maybe if he just closed his eyes for a minute…
***
He awoke in his own bed, his father sitting in a chair beside him, watching closely.
“Taran?” he asked softly.
“Father?” Taran whispered. He looked around him. Yes. Home. His leg was no longer throbbing. His head no longer pounding. The entire episode of falling seemed almost like a dream.
Perun appeared in the doorway. “You’re back?” he asked.
“Clearly,” Taran said. His father patted him on the shoulder, took Perun by the arm, and left, closing the door behind him. Taran frowned. Perun had sounded somewhere between surprised and annoyed. Why? Obviously he wants to be the God of Storm, but…would he really have tried to kill me? Taran looked up the ceiling. It was a little odd to see a ceiling after staring at the underside of trees and sky for two weeks.
It wasn’t possible. Perun couldn’t dissolve even the high clouds, let alone the solid ones upon which Skyes was situated. Which meant either it really was an accident (which he doubted) or there was someone more powerful involved. His father wouldn’t kill him. Of that Taran was sure. But who else had power over the clouds?
As he contemplated, he heard voices in the corridor.
“He’s home? He’s alive? Impossible!”
“Miracles happen, Ocedon. And for that I am eternally grateful. Heaven knows that if he were still down there, with this sea storm raging, he’d be dead by now.”
Down there? Sea storm raging? Taran pulled himself to his feet with great difficulty. Bracing himself against anything he could reach—furniture, walls, windowsills—he stumbled to the wall full of shelves. He pulled a shallow ceramic dish from one of them and leaned out the window, catching rain and clouds within. He grabbed his kris—Dao, he called it—and stumbled to his writing table. He whispered an incantation, tapped the surface of the water with the tip of his knife, and waited for an image to appear in the water.
The little island that he had crashed to two weeks before was being barraged with storms. Waves beat down on the shores. Rain pounded unmercifully against the houses and fields. Branches fell from trees. Winds whipped violently, ripping roofs from buildings and throwing debris every which way.
“Show me where I fell,” he ordered. The water rippled, then showed him a dark forest. A huge tree had fallen over the very spot he had spent the past two weeks. If it hadn’t crushed his entire body, it certainly would have crushed his chest. His heartbeat quickened. Someone was trying to kill him. “Show me her. Esen.”
The water quivered, and showed him blackness. He felt a sensation akin to lead being dropped in his stomach. She was somewhere Unscryable. Dead, most likely. He wasn’t entirely sure why this hit him so hard—she was just another human girl.
Sea storm raging. Ocedon. His father’s brother, God of the Sea. He had power to call upon powerful storms, as long as there had been storms in the recent past. Taran collapsed into a chair as realization dawned.
“He must have used the energy from my father’s storms to summon up this one,” Taran said slowly, staring at the scrying dish. “Ocedon is trying to kill me so Perun can take my father’s place.”
As if in answer, someone tapped at the door. “Master Taran? Your presence is requested in the Main Hall as soon as you can.”
“Fine,” he called back, startled. He glared at the crutches he was expected to use. There was nothing wrong with them, of course. Just the fact that they existed and he needed them. He rolled his eyes and started limping slowly toward the Main Hall.
***
“Where are your crutches?” Perun asked as Taran limped into the room. The mocking tone was not lost on him.
“Not using them,” Taran growled. His father was situated in his regal throne, and Perun stood beside him. Ocedon was leaning against a chair that Taran supposed was for him. He had no intention of sitting in it—especially not between two people conspiring to kill him. Despite the protesting of his broken leg, he remained standing where he was.
“It is good to see you are well, Taran,” Ocedon said pleasantly. “Or, as well as someone who fell from the sky can be. Lucky that you got off of that island before the storm hit…”
“Lucky,” Taran repeated, trying to keep sarcasm out of his voice. “Yes. Very.”
“I’ve brought you a little something to keep you amused. Last remnant of the island, I’d say.” He waved his hand and a young woman was brought forth, wrists and ankles in chains. Her eyes were flashing furiously, and her light blue hair was windswept and tangled.
“I see,” Taran said after a moment. “With thanks, then, uncle.” He turned, snapped his fingers and gestured for the girl to follow him. He cursed quietly as he limped back to his room.
“Not even a hello?” Esen asked coldly as soon as he had shut the door.
“Hello,” Taran said automatically, seizing Dao from the table and escorting her to the window.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t hurt yourself trying.”
Taran put Esen’s hands on the windowsill. “Hold still.”
“Please.”
“Hold still please.”
The knife made contact with the chains between Esen’s wrists. Sparks flew as the blade made contact with the metal and stone. She gasped, but held still.
“So, what kind of knife did they give you?” Taran asked nonchalantly.
Esen mouthed wordlessly for a moment. “How did you know?”
“Because they’re trying to kill me,” he said. “That’s why I fell, you know.”
Esen pulled a tiny knife from the folds of her dress. “This little thing. If falling from the sky didn’t kill you, I don’t know what makes them think this would.”
Taran rolled his eyes. “If you notice, their “foolproof plans” often have gaping holes in them.”
“Why are you walking?” Esen asked, sounding less angry and more concerned this time.
Taran raised his eyebrows. “To get from point A to point B.”
Esen set the little knife on the table. “You should sit down,” she said.
“I should,” he agreed. “But I need to get those chains off of your ankles too. You can’t honestly tell me that you’re comfortable.”
Esen shrugged. “It can wait.”
Taran was quiet for a moment, then he fell into a chair. “All right, fine. Now on that shelf, there’s a small lacquer box with a bird inlaid on the top.
Esen rifled through the shelves and found a small, shiny black box. She held it up. “This one?”
“Yes, that one. Bring it over here, and get a chair.” Esen did as she was told. “Put your ankles on the table.”
“What?”
“Sit in the chair and put your ankles on the table so I can reach them,” Taran said impatiently. Esen raised her eyebrows. “Do you want the chains off or not?” Esen rolled her eyes and put her feet on the table. Taran opened the little box and took out several lock-picks and keys. As he worked on opening the lock, Esen looked at the dish on the table.
“What is that?”
“Scrying dish,” Taran said, not looking up. “Enables me to see what’s going on in places that I’m not.”
“What were you looking at?” she asked.
There was a click and the chains fell away from her ankles. Taran relaxed a bit and tapped the tip of his blade against the water. It now reflected the ceiling, as any bowl of water would. “What do you think I was looking at?”
“Something that was somewhere you weren’t,” Esen said.
“Correct,” he said, swirling the water with his fingertip.
“What in particular?”
Taran stopped and stared at the bowl for a moment, then looked up at Esen. His yellow eyes weren’t flashing dangerously as they usually did. In fact, he looked almost sympathetic. “Where you found me. Where you lived.”
“Why?” Esen asked. “You can’t mean that you actually care about me?”
Taran raised his eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t I? You saved my life.”
Esen was quiet. This immortal, moody teenager really cared?
“Hard to believe?” he asked quietly. She stayed still and silent. Taran looked over at the window. “You never needed my approval to speak your mind before now—what’s changed?”
“You…care?” she stuttered.
“If not for you, I’d be dead, Esen. If you hadn’t been…if you hadn’t been stupid enough to approach me…”
“See? That’s exactly why I’m surprised!” she burst. “You call me stupid in the same breath as thanking me! I can’t read you. I never know what you’re thinking!”
“It’s my nature,” Taran said. “My father and my brother are my only family—and my father rarely had time for either of us as we grew up. My brother is a scheming bastard. I cannot trust him. I haven’t ever been able to. I told you, they want me dead.”
“Your father and brother?” Esen asked.
“No. My father wants me to be the next God of Storm. My brother, obviously, doesn’t find that amusing. So—as far as I can tell, he and my uncle, the God of the Sea, are trying to get rid of me so my brother can inherit our father’s place.”
Esen was quiet. Her mind was racing. She had foiled an assassination plot on the son of the God of Storms by being stupid? Was that what she just heard? “So I saved you three times in one shot?”
“Guess so,” Taran said. He glared at the door for a moment, then pointed Dao at it and whispered “Scathchruth.”
“What was that?”
“A spell so they can’t hear us,” he said. “Now, listen to me. You must keep helping me heal. The sooner I can move again, the better. Being in Skyes will make it easier.”
“But I don’t have any herbs,” Esen said slowly. “And it’s not like I can go out and get them.”
Taran tapped Dao on the surface of the scrying dish and a woman’s face appeared. “See this woman? This is Temahre. She can find you what you need. Just make sure that my uncle and brother neither see nor hear you.”
“So, then what?”
“When?”
“Once your leg is healed. Then what?”
“Then,” Taran growled. “Then I give them what they deserve.”
***
Several days passed uneventfully. Esen received the herbs she needed from Temahre, and Taran’s leg healed at what Esen considered a somewhat alarming pace. Taran seemed to find this completely natural. After a week of this, Taran was walking almost normally again—still with a slight limp, but with much less pain. He had taken to pacing back and forth, muttering to himself in a language Esen didn’t understand. Then, one night at dinner, Taran’s father stood up.
“As fortune has smiled upon me and Taran was returned to Skyes,” he began, “It is with great joy that I inform you all that I have chosen a successor.” He looked at Taran. Esen could feel her heart pounding—what would he do? “Taran, although you are the younger of my treasured sons, it would honor me greatly if you would take my place when the time comes.”
“An honor too great for such a young boy!” one of the other consorts snapped. Taran had long suspected that she was Perun’s mother.
“He is nearly two hundred, Cyra,” Temahre said gently. “Perun is only twenty years older…” Esen tried to hide her surprise at these numbers—nearly two hundred? Only twenty years older?
Taran stood up. “I would be honored, father,” he said, bowing his head respectfully.
Perun and his mother glowered at Taran while Temahre beamed at him. Taran turned to leave, waving Esen to follow him. Esen noticed he was making a point of not limping. If it hurt, he didn’t show it.
“This is it,” he said as soon as he had shut the door and blocked it from anyone trying to listen. “It’s just a matter of time now.”
“What is?”
“His next attempt on my life,” Taran said, pacing back and forth and fidgeting the hilt of his knife. “This gives him an excuse. Esen, you should stay out of his way.”
Esen bit down on her lip. It sounded like there wasn’t any changing his mind. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Taran said, snapping and sending a small lightning bolt into the black glass goblet on the table. Esen jumped, expecting it to shatter. “We call it glione tintreach in our language,” Taran said, seeming relieved to have something else to think about. “Glass made by the lightning. Only kind of glass that can survive up here,” he said. “Occasionally you’ll find it in the mortal world—when lightning strikes sand, this is what forms. A lot of places build shrines around it so we won’t strike the village with lightning.”
“I think we had a shrine like that,” Esen said, a lump jumping into her throat. “A boy named Taemin tended it.”
Taran looked up at her. “You fear he’s dead,” he said simply. Esen nodded.
“He was so sweet,” she choked. “He was one of my friends.”
Taran filled the scrying dish and whispered to it. He stared into it, then waved Esen over. “Is this him?”
“Yes,” she said, determined to be strong and not fall to pieces. Reflected in the scrying dish was a slender, attractive young man with brown hair and a long black markingson his face. Esen tried to ignore the fact that the lovely brown eyes were closed and he appeared to be drowning, suspended limp in blue-green water with his wrists, ankles and waist in chains.
Taran’s yellow-gold eyes lingered on Esen for a moment. She was a strong girl. She didn’t deserve any of this. “He’s alive,” he said abruptly.
“What?” Esen asked, wiping her welling eyes with the back of her hand. “If he’s been drowning for a week—”
Taran shook his head. “You underestimate the power of my uncle’s kingdom. He is breathing. He’s alive.”
Esen stared at the scrying dish. Taemin’s hair—normally tied in a ponytail—floated around him like snakes. “Is he…does it hurt him?”
“I don’t know,” he said after a minute. “But I may be able to save him.”
Esen snapped her head up to look at him. “Even though you’re expecting to be assassinated?”
Taran shrugged. “He’ll have a hard time assassinating me if I’m not here to be assassinated.” He waved his hand over the dish. “Ahir rian Kiliara!”
The water rippled for a moment, then reflected the ceiling. Taran took Esen by the arm and pulled her back from the dish.
There was a flash of purple light and a woman now stood amid falling feathers beside the table. She had milky-white skin, long, silky black hair, and wore black and purple robes made of elegant fabric Esen had no name for. Her belt and cloak clasp were silver, and she had huge purple wings with red-tipped feathers. There was no mistaking her—Kiliara, the Goddess of Death.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” Taran said by way of greeting. Kiliara smirked.
“I haven’t met your companion yet,” she said, turning to Esen. Her eyes were crimson and purple, flecked with gold. “I figured I would drop by.”
“I…I’m Esen,” she said.
“Pleasure,” Kiliara nodded. “Now, what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, her purple eyes turning to Taran.
“The storm,” Taran said. “The storm that destroyed the Isle of—whatever isle it was.”
Kiliara frowned. “Yes. That. I was wondering about it myself.”
“You took no one,” Taran half-asked.
“Correct,” Kiliara said. “Ocedon has not released any of the victims.”
“Then perhaps you can save a life for me tonight.”
Kiliara raised her eyebrows and waved her hand over the scrying dish. The image of Esen’s friend reappeared. “Ah. This boy.”
“You know him?” Esen asked, surprised.
“Ocedon claimed his family when he was young—their ship was lost at sea, and eventually was destroyed. I don’t fully know how the child survived—but he was taken in by your village, believed to be a miracle. This image was reinforced when he was out in a storm, and found unconscious but alive the next morning beside the lightning glass that Taran was telling you about.” Kiliara looked at him. “I was always fond of him—beating the odds with his back to the wall.”
“He danced for the Gods,” Esen said, looking at the two divine figures with her. “Every day, he would sing and dance for you. For the God of the Sea, for the Goddess of the Harvest…the God of Healing when someone was sick…the God of Storm when it wouldn’t rain…there were four others besides…but none of them tended a specific shrine, or tended the Shrine of Storms…”
Kiliara waved her and over the dish, and four other young men appeared in turn. Esen named each of them. They were all in a similar state of captivity as Taemin.
“I will speak with Ocedon,” Kiliara said. “I will take those who want to be taken, and these five besides.”
“But—” Esen began to protest. Kiliara taking them hadn’t been quite what she had in mind, given that “Kiliara take” tended to mean “kill.”
“Calm down,” Kiliara said with a knowing smile. “I didn’t say I would send them to Rashnu.” With that, she vanished in a similar manner as she appeared.
Esen was speechless for a moment. “She’s going to kill them?” she whispered.
Taran grinned. “No—she’s going to save them. Rashnu is the Judge of the Souls, right? So by not sending them to Rashnu, she’s not sending them to heaven or hell. Thus, she’s saving them.”
Esen looked at the scrying dish. “Why did he kidnap them?” she asked.
Taran shrugged. “Because he can. Display of power. I get the feeling that you aren’t the only one in Skyes, either.”
“I’m not?” Esen asked, surprised. “Who—”
“Think,” Taran said. “Who is my dramatic opposite? Who is yours?”
“Perun?” she guessed. Taran nodded slightly. “And…I don’t know…”
“Your sisters?”
“My sisters are up here?” Esen nearly shouted.
Taran shrugged. “Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. My uncle has a bizarre sense of humor.”
Esen’s mind was spinning—Taran expected to be assassinated any day now, while Kiliara was saving five shrine boys and her sisters were also in Skyes, probably attending to Perun in ways she didn’t want to imagine.
“Taran?” she asked quietly. He turned and looked at her steadily. She took that as a sign to continue. “Do you think Perun can kill you?”
Taran looked out the window. “I…” his voice trailed off. “No.”
“You’re just saying that,” Esen accused.
Taran shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you just leave?”
“And leave my power-hungry, heartless brother as the God of Storms? I’d sooner die,” he said. “You don’t know Perun. You don’t know the things he’d do. I can’t imagine…” Taran took a deep breath. “I remember your friend Taemin. I remember how he danced. Did he do it because he wanted to, or because he wanted the Gods to be happy, or because the Gods would smite him if he didn’t?”
“Aren’t those the same thing?” Esen asked. “Doing it to make the Gods happy so they wouldn’t smite him?”
“Ah,” Taran said, nodding. “But now that you’ve met Kiliara—can you think of any God or Goddess who would destroy if they were not praised?”
Esen was quiet for a moment. “…no.”
“Perun would be such a ruler. And I can’t abide by a God who demands praise all the time. Why do you think Kiliara overthrew the last God of Death?”
“Honestly, I didn’t know that there was a “last God of Death,” ” Esen said. “You’ve lived two hundred years to my eighteen.”
“Case and point, I will do what I can because I must.”
The conversation was dropped when the scrying dish began to glow purple. Taran took Esen by the arm, and without a word, Relocated both of them to Kiliara’s Castle.
Esen had been amazed by Skyes, in all its majesty, and Kiliara’s Castle garnered a very similar reaction. It was just as magnificent as Skyes—only with a cozier air (woman’s touch, Esen figured) and very purple. The rugs, the curtains, the furniture, and even the flames in the braziers had purple in them.
“Welcome,” Kiliara said from where she stood near the center of the room. Esen was startled to see the five shrine boys they’d spoken about earlier on the floor. “Taran, I’ll need you for this.”
Taran nodded and dropped into a crouch. He crept along the circle the bodies formed and touched the tip of his kris to each of their chests. He then knelt in the middle of the circle, the tip of the dagger on the floor.
“Are they dead?” Esen whispered.
“No,” Kiliara said. “They’ve been breathing water for the past week. They need to be reminded that air is more pleasant to breathe. And please—don’t panic.”
“Don’t—?” Esen began to ask.
Taran apparently said or did something, as there was a loud “crack” and lightning jumped from the tip of the knife to the chest of each of the unconscious young men. Four of them sat up with a gasp, but Taemin reminded still.
“Ah,” Taran said, mostly to no one. “I see.” With that, he set the kris on the floor and began to work the air much like Esen had once seen a potter work clay. As he did so, a dim light formed between his palms. The more he worked the air, the brighter the light became. He cupped his hands under the light, then flattened it between his palms. His hands were glowing when he brought them apart. He slipped them under Taemin’s vest and lightly touched his chest.
Esen couldn’t muffle a scream when bolts of lightning began to snap between Taran and Taemin. After nearly thirty seconds of bright flashes and loud cracking, it again grew quiet and peaceful. Esen and the other four young men watched, all of them certain that the last one was dead.
Remarkably, his eyes began to flutter.
“You gave Esen quite a scare,” Taran said, looking from Taemin to the other four and back. “Welcome back.”
“Lord Taran?” Taemin said softly. Taran looked down at him. “I…I was able to save this,” he said, pulling an oddly-shaped, semi-transparent black lump from his pocket.
“That explains why you didn’t wake up the first time,” Taran said. “I figured as much. That piece of glass gives a mortal resistance to lightning.” He offered his hand to the dancer and pulled him to his feet, trembling a bit.
“Why do you tremble, Taemin?” Kiliara asked. “You’re safe now.”
“I…I am surprised that the Gods care,” he said. He looked at Esen. “How…?”
Esen heaved a sigh. “It’s a long story.”
“You five should get on to Aire, and Taran, you and Esen should return to Skyes,” Kiliara said suddenly, looking rather like she’d seen a ghost. “You will each be needed in your own right tonight.
“Aire?” the five young men repeated in confusion before anyone could question anything about Kiliara’s odd divination.
“You have all proven your loyalty to the Gods,” she said. “Your home is destroyed—I see no better place for you. You may choose to wander the Isles, but you will call Aire your home now.”
First Taemin, then his companions bowed deeply to Kiliara. One by one, they faded from the room—presumably to the Shrine of Aeire, on the Western Isle. Taran took Esen’s arm.
“Thank you,” Esen said. “Both of you.”
“My pleasure,” Kiliara said. “Taran—good luck.”
Taran nodded, and he Relocated them back to Skyes. Esen hadn’t hardly gotten her bearings when she heard a loud scream—it sounded like it might have been one of her sisters. Taran tossed the water in the scrying dish out the window and rushed to the door. He turned to Esen.
“Stay here,” he ordered as he vanished into the hallway as quickly as his aching leg would allow.
He found his father and brother in the throne room, as he’d expected. What he hadn’t expected was to see Perun pulling a ring off their father’s hand.
Off their father’s dead hand.
Taran’s head was spinning. The blue carpet and silk of the throne were soaked in dark blood. The head of Perun’s spear was shone a gaudy crimson. Taran felt his hand go to the hilt of his kris—his magic would be useless against Perun if he had the ring…ninety percent of his magic was lightning-based, and that ring not only granted control over the weather, but offered complete protection to lightning.
“How does it feel?” Perun was asking, pacing around the body. “Don’t worry, old man, you’ll soon see Little Taran again…”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Taran snarled, lunging from the shadows with his knife drawn. The light from the candles glinted off of the curved, gold blade. Perun whirled with his spear in hand, catching Taran’s blade on the shaft. No mortal weapon could’ve done that—even if it had made contact with the flat edge of the kris.
“Care to play with me, little brother?” Perun taunted, spinning the spear with great agility. Taran grabbed the shaft and kicked hard with his good leg. Perun swung the weapon, and Taran went flying. He landed hard on his side, cursing as pain shot through his injured leg. He rolled with the damage, using years of training to push the pain from his mind and channel it into anger—and, in turn, channel the anger into power.
“We were always told to play nicely as children,” Taran growled as he prepared to lunge again. “I’m glad to see those days are finally over.”
Perun suddenly turned to the hallway from which Taran had come. “Ah—behold,” he said, raising his hand toward it. “Little Taran, someone has come to visit you.”
Lightning began crackling around the ring on his hand. In the dimly illuminated hallway, Taran saw Esen turn to run. She’d never be able to get out of the range of that lightning bolt in time. Taran quickly began chanting a Haste spell, and put all his strength into a short sprint to Esen. The Haste spell doubled his speed, and he was able to throw himself in front of her just before Perun’s lightning could make contact.
Taran had been hit by lightning before, but never anything like this. Normally the sensation tickled—pins and needles at worst. But this—this was searing, mind-numbing pain. His blood felt like it was on fire. Every bone in his body felt like it was breaking into a thousand pieces.
“I thought—I told you—to--stay—put!” Taran hissed through clenched teeth. “Get out of here while he’s distracted!”
Esen whimpered in fright and scrambled down the hallway. Taran forced himself to his feet--
Too late.
A single, thick bolt of lightning struck Esen directly in the back. No mortal could withstand that. It would destroy her. Utterly destroy her.
“I don’t think so,” Kiliara’s voice said. Esen was laying face-down on the ground, but she was still intact. “I figured you’d try that, Perun.”
“So you side with the child, Kiliara,” Perun sneered. Taran stumbled as he tried to advance toward his half-brother.
“There is only one child among us, Perun,” he hissed. “A child who delights in burning ants with lenses, or mortals with lightning. A child who will go to any unpleasant lengths to get what he wants.”
“I side with who is right,” she corrected. Perun laughed coldly.
“No—you side with who is dead.” Another powerful shock ripped through Taran’s body. It hurt too much to scream—had he wanted to scream. Perun turned to Kiliara with lightning crackling between his fingers.
“Oh—really?” she asked with a cool smile. “Go on then. I think you’ll find it’s not as easy to kill a God as you think.”
Perun pointed at the body on the floor. “It’s quite easy.”
“A healthy, young Goddess? Waiting for you to strike? The Goddess of Death?” Kiliara laughed. “You miscalculate, Perun.”
“No woman mocks me!” Perun snarled, throwing his strongest bolt of lightning at Kiliara.
Perun’s orange lightning was met halfway by purple lightning, stemming from Kiliara’s outstretched hand. “Taran! Get Esen!”
Taran didn’t waste his energy acknowledging this command—he simply dragged himself across the floor as fast as he could toward Esen. Her arm was hot from the lightning that had hit her. Kiliara began to shape the air, much like Taran had earlier. Then, without warning, she thrust her hands forward, throwing the lightning at Perun. He recoiled from the blow—a blow is a blow, immunity to lightning or not. And Kiliara’s lightning-like magic was far from the type of lightning he was immune to. Her lightning was based on Duality—the balance of light and dark that she insisted upon.
There was no time to dwell on this, though—for Kiliara grabbed Taran by the arm as Temahre ran down the hall and took Esen’s other hand and Kiliara Relocated all of them to the safety of her castle—far out of Perun’s reach.
He was the younger of Kepi I’s sons, but his father wanted him to inherit his place. Taran had heard him say so to his consort Temahre. Temahre was by far Taran’s favorite of his father’s consorts. He liked to think that she was his mother. And the fact that Kepi had told her that he wanted his younger son to take his place made him think so even more.
Taran sighed and stared up at the sky above him. He couldn’t imagine living with his feet on solid ground—in fact, he’d never once set foot on solid ground. The wind whipped his hair every which way. He knew Perun had heard that their father wanted him to be the next God of Storms, and he knew that Perun wanted that power more than he ever had. He had lived most of his life expecting his older brother to take their father’s place. Taran wasn’t sure if he was excited, worried, or frightened, and decided that he was angry with Perun for confusing his emotions so thoroughly.
***
The next thing he knew, he was falling. He expected to hit the cloud below him within a few seconds, but there was no landing. He was still falling, and Skyes was now above him. He tried to teleport himself back up to no avail, and then attempted a Feather Fall spell to the same result. He began to panic—he was falling from Skyes, completely unable to use his magic, and there was no one who could help him.
His vision went black when he hit a tree branch. And another, and another, and another after that. For a brief moment, he was simply falling again. Then--
Impact.
***
“Come on, Esen, we were supposed to be home an hour ago!”
“Besides, it’s starting to rain.”
“If you and Nasim hadn’t insisted upon swimming and making me keep watch, I wouldn’t have started this,” Esen returned, skillfully weaving reeds together. She had amused herself making a pillow while her sisters played in the lake. Her sisters tugged on her shoulder.
“Haizea is right! Let’s go before they come looking for us,” Nasim said. “If we go in, we can get in our rooms before they can see us.” She and Haizea giggled. Nasim’s wet shirt was plastered to her skin, revealing every curve, and Haizea’s white shirt had become see-through to the point where Esen couldn’t see why either of them was bothering to wear a shirt at all.
“Fine,” Esen grumbled, taking her woven pillow and shaking the leaves out of her hair. “Let’s go.”
As the three walked back through the forest with their baskets of berries and herbs and flowers (and Esen, with her baskets and her pillow), Nasim and Haizea giggled and gossiped. Esen ignored them, and thought about how different they were. They were triplets, and Nasim and Haizea were very alike. But Esen was different. She alone found no amusement in gossiping about boys, or playing in the water while wearing white and secretly hoping that one of the gossiped-about boys might see. She enjoyed being outside for reasons other than swimming, and—very, very much unlike her sisters—loved storms. Especially the wind. They complained, but Esen loved how tangled her hair got after she had been out in a storm.
Esen was the only one who noticed all the broken branches off to their left. It looked like something had crashed through them from above. She cautiously approached it.
“Esen?”
She ignored Haizea and continued closer, curious as to what had fallen. She stifled a gasp.
Laying amid the broken branches was a person. His hair was brown, streaked on one side with black. There were two jagged, purple-y stripes on each cheek. Black lightning bolt marks decorated his forearms. His clothes were unlike anything she had ever seen before. His hands were beautiful. Esen smiled a little. The smile fell away from her face when she realized something—he was hurt, and he was hurt badly. His left leg was twisted in a way that she had never seen a leg twist before. She swallowed hard and began to quietly pick her way through the fallen branches. It was storming now.
“Hello?” she asked quietly. He didn’t stir.
“Esen!” Nasim shouted. Esen jumped. They couldn’t see him from where they were standing. “What are you doing?”
“I was wondering what fell over here.”
“And?”
“There’s nothing,” she lied, quickly and carefully slipping the pillow under the boy’s head. “I’ll be back,” she whispered, before turning and quickly returning to her sisters.
No one questioned their long absence or the fact that they were drenched. Everyone assumed they had simply been caught in the storm. Esen fidgeted all the way through dinner. She wanted to go back to the forest. Storming or not, she had to see him again. He’d die if no one helped him.
Late that night, she took a basket, some food, and some medical supplies and slipped out the door. She was almost to the gate when a voice called out,
“Who goes there?”
“It’s me,” she stammered, holding up her lantern. She hadn’t expected to be stopped. “Who are you?”
A guard holding a lantern appeared. “Lady Esen, what are you doing out at this hour?”
“I think I dropped my comb somewhere,” she lied. “I was looking for it out here.”
“Look in the morning,” the guard said. “When you can actually see.”
“All right,” she said, returning to the house.
***
She had a very vivid dream. She was in an unfamiliar castle, and there were three men fussing. One of them was very old and sat on a regal throne, one of them was an adult, and one of them looked only a little older than the young man in the forest. They were all dressed in a similar style to the man in the forest.
“He’s nowhere in Skyes, Father, I looked everywhere,” the young one said.
“Perhaps he fell through a high cloud,” the middle one said sadly. “You know he loved to take risks.”
They continued like this, until the old one stood up and shouted,
“Where is my son?”
Esen awoke to a huge clap of thunder that shook the entire house. She heard her sisters scream, and covers flew as Nasim dove into Haizea’s bed, and then they began to giggle. Esen looked outside. Dawn was fast approaching, and despite the thunder, no rain fell. She quickly put on simple clothes, grabbed the basket she had prepared the night before, and waited until the lightning stopped flashing so close to the forest before she took off under the excuses of “looking for my comb” and “getting some fresh air.”
It was somewhat dark in the forest, and it took her a while before she found the spot with the fallen branches. The young man was exactly the way she had left him, albeit slightly wetter. She pushed up his pant leg—careful not to disturb his injury—and began to bind his leg against straight sticks to make a splint. His skin was cool and she found herself unsure if he was even alive. She leaned forward to listen for a heartbeat.
He suddenly snarled violently and twisted away from her, kneeling on his good leg with the other one awkwardly beside him. He was holding a small knife in one hand and bracing himself with the other. Esen fell backward in shock.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
“You’re hurt,” she stammered. “Your leg—please, lie down, I—”
He hissed dangerously. “Who are you?”
“My name is Esen,” she said. “What’s your name?”
Just as suddenly as he had gotten up, he collapsed to the ground, teeth clenched and clutching his leg. The look didn’t fit his elegant face at all. “Taran,” he said through his teeth.
“Won’t you lie down?” Esen pleaded. “You’re hurt badly!”
“I don’t need your help,” Taran snarled. “What could a mortal like you do anyways?”
“ “A mortal like”—what?” Esen asked. “You’re not—?”
“Do I look it?” he demanded. Esen shrugged.
“Would you like something to eat?” she offered, holding out a tangerine.
Before Taran could make some cold reply, he went limp with a soft moan. Esen—throwing caution to the wind—scooped him up and held him in one arm, and held a large, soft, dumpling-like item to his mouth. He did nothing. She tore off a small piece of the dumpling and placed it in his mouth. He stirred slightly and slowly began to eat it. He forced himself to swallow. They repeated this several more times, until Esen decided that by far a more effective way to get him to eat would simply be to feed him.
Once Taran had eaten, she laid him back on the pillow she had made the day before. She took the knife that he had dropped and slipped it back into the sheath hidden in his bracer. He looked peaceful again, the way he had when she first found him.
She came back every day, and Taran gradually got stronger. He still refused to tell her anything more about himself than his name. Esen sighed. He was not going to make this easy.
***
Taran reluctantly stayed still, biding his time until his leg healed. Violent storms raged every night—his father was looking for him, and he was not happy. But something else was wrong—something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t decide what it was, but something was going to go wrong, and it was going to go wrong spectacularly.
At first, he growled whenever Esen came near. But as time progressed, he began to allow her to dress his injury and even occasionally spoke with her. She wasn’t exactly chatty, but falling from the sky did tend to make one rather grumpy, and it felt like the entire world was babbling. There was a stream nearby, and for some reason, Taran couldn’t stand the constant sounds of it. The peepers, the birds, the water—all of it was so loud, and taunting. It sounded like the peepers were chirping “Weak! Weak! Weak!” and the birds singing “fall, fall, fall.” Taran shook his head and cursed.
As his body healed, his magic began to return. When it no longer hurt to lie still, he decided it was time to try to return home. Concentrating his energy, he was able to levitate a little. He smiled as he fell back onto the bed of reeds Esen had devised. By tomorrow, he would be able to return to Skyes. He looked at his bandaged leg. Esen had tied her blue hair ribbon around the end of the bandage to hold it in place. He was just reaching to untie it when Esen appeared from the forest.
“You want to know who I am?” he asked. She looked at him uncertainly.
“What brought about this sudden change?”
“I’m leaving tomorrow. I figured I’d give you a fair shot at asking me again.”
“Er, okay. Who are you?”
“My name is Taran Kepi, second son of Kepi I, the God of Storm.”
Esen looked at him incredulously. She couldn’t help thinking this scrawny teenage boy is the son of the storm god?
Taran noticed her expression and shrugged. “You don’t have to believe me. You’ll never see me again. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Just how do you plan to leave?”
“I plan to teleport, of course,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “How else does one get to Skyes?”
Esen mouthed wordlessly for a moment. “You can’t even walk! What do you plan to do once you get back to—er—Skyes?”
Taran shrugged. “They’ll find me. I can teleport to my doorstep. I think.”
“Are there many people in Skyes?” Esen asked.
Taran raised his eyebrows again. “My father, my brother, our servants, and me. Only permanent residents. Most people don’t tend to like the idea of living in a perpetual storm.”
Esen shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Taran regarded her for a moment. “I knew you were weird the minute I saw you.”
“Weird?” she asked indignantly.
“Different,” Taran corrected, rolling his eyes.
“How so?”
Taran sighed. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“You’re stubborn about giving answers,” she shot back. He studied her closely.
“Fine,” he said after a minute. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.”
“I suppose you should,” she said. The two glared at each other for a while, then Esen left. Taran sighed and resumed waiting. He had waited for two weeks, a few more hours wouldn’t kill him…
But by nine ‘o clock that night, he was bored out of his mind. Again. This had become a very normal occurrence in the past few weeks, but for the love of storm, he wanted to go home. He missed the clouds, and the constant thunder—and the clouds were much, much more comfortable than the solid ground he had been laying on for two weeks.
This is ridiculous. I’m going home.
With some difficulty, he untied Esen’s ribbon from his leg, and—with even greater difficulty—managed to Relocate himself to Skyes. But it was not on his doorstep as he had planned. He cursed loudly—he was actually quite far from the castle. His magic was weak, at best, and his leg again throbbing. But the clouds were much softer than the earth, and someone would find him up here. Eventually. He sighed. He was getting dizzy. Pushing the dizziness from his head, he sent up a shower of sparks into the sky above him. Then another. Someone must have seen that from the castle.
His head was getting cloudy. That was a lot of magic in a little time, and he was already fatigued to begin with…maybe if he just closed his eyes for a minute…
***
He awoke in his own bed, his father sitting in a chair beside him, watching closely.
“Taran?” he asked softly.
“Father?” Taran whispered. He looked around him. Yes. Home. His leg was no longer throbbing. His head no longer pounding. The entire episode of falling seemed almost like a dream.
Perun appeared in the doorway. “You’re back?” he asked.
“Clearly,” Taran said. His father patted him on the shoulder, took Perun by the arm, and left, closing the door behind him. Taran frowned. Perun had sounded somewhere between surprised and annoyed. Why? Obviously he wants to be the God of Storm, but…would he really have tried to kill me? Taran looked up the ceiling. It was a little odd to see a ceiling after staring at the underside of trees and sky for two weeks.
It wasn’t possible. Perun couldn’t dissolve even the high clouds, let alone the solid ones upon which Skyes was situated. Which meant either it really was an accident (which he doubted) or there was someone more powerful involved. His father wouldn’t kill him. Of that Taran was sure. But who else had power over the clouds?
As he contemplated, he heard voices in the corridor.
“He’s home? He’s alive? Impossible!”
“Miracles happen, Ocedon. And for that I am eternally grateful. Heaven knows that if he were still down there, with this sea storm raging, he’d be dead by now.”
Down there? Sea storm raging? Taran pulled himself to his feet with great difficulty. Bracing himself against anything he could reach—furniture, walls, windowsills—he stumbled to the wall full of shelves. He pulled a shallow ceramic dish from one of them and leaned out the window, catching rain and clouds within. He grabbed his kris—Dao, he called it—and stumbled to his writing table. He whispered an incantation, tapped the surface of the water with the tip of his knife, and waited for an image to appear in the water.
The little island that he had crashed to two weeks before was being barraged with storms. Waves beat down on the shores. Rain pounded unmercifully against the houses and fields. Branches fell from trees. Winds whipped violently, ripping roofs from buildings and throwing debris every which way.
“Show me where I fell,” he ordered. The water rippled, then showed him a dark forest. A huge tree had fallen over the very spot he had spent the past two weeks. If it hadn’t crushed his entire body, it certainly would have crushed his chest. His heartbeat quickened. Someone was trying to kill him. “Show me her. Esen.”
The water quivered, and showed him blackness. He felt a sensation akin to lead being dropped in his stomach. She was somewhere Unscryable. Dead, most likely. He wasn’t entirely sure why this hit him so hard—she was just another human girl.
Sea storm raging. Ocedon. His father’s brother, God of the Sea. He had power to call upon powerful storms, as long as there had been storms in the recent past. Taran collapsed into a chair as realization dawned.
“He must have used the energy from my father’s storms to summon up this one,” Taran said slowly, staring at the scrying dish. “Ocedon is trying to kill me so Perun can take my father’s place.”
As if in answer, someone tapped at the door. “Master Taran? Your presence is requested in the Main Hall as soon as you can.”
“Fine,” he called back, startled. He glared at the crutches he was expected to use. There was nothing wrong with them, of course. Just the fact that they existed and he needed them. He rolled his eyes and started limping slowly toward the Main Hall.
***
“Where are your crutches?” Perun asked as Taran limped into the room. The mocking tone was not lost on him.
“Not using them,” Taran growled. His father was situated in his regal throne, and Perun stood beside him. Ocedon was leaning against a chair that Taran supposed was for him. He had no intention of sitting in it—especially not between two people conspiring to kill him. Despite the protesting of his broken leg, he remained standing where he was.
“It is good to see you are well, Taran,” Ocedon said pleasantly. “Or, as well as someone who fell from the sky can be. Lucky that you got off of that island before the storm hit…”
“Lucky,” Taran repeated, trying to keep sarcasm out of his voice. “Yes. Very.”
“I’ve brought you a little something to keep you amused. Last remnant of the island, I’d say.” He waved his hand and a young woman was brought forth, wrists and ankles in chains. Her eyes were flashing furiously, and her light blue hair was windswept and tangled.
“I see,” Taran said after a moment. “With thanks, then, uncle.” He turned, snapped his fingers and gestured for the girl to follow him. He cursed quietly as he limped back to his room.
“Not even a hello?” Esen asked coldly as soon as he had shut the door.
“Hello,” Taran said automatically, seizing Dao from the table and escorting her to the window.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t hurt yourself trying.”
Taran put Esen’s hands on the windowsill. “Hold still.”
“Please.”
“Hold still please.”
The knife made contact with the chains between Esen’s wrists. Sparks flew as the blade made contact with the metal and stone. She gasped, but held still.
“So, what kind of knife did they give you?” Taran asked nonchalantly.
Esen mouthed wordlessly for a moment. “How did you know?”
“Because they’re trying to kill me,” he said. “That’s why I fell, you know.”
Esen pulled a tiny knife from the folds of her dress. “This little thing. If falling from the sky didn’t kill you, I don’t know what makes them think this would.”
Taran rolled his eyes. “If you notice, their “foolproof plans” often have gaping holes in them.”
“Why are you walking?” Esen asked, sounding less angry and more concerned this time.
Taran raised his eyebrows. “To get from point A to point B.”
Esen set the little knife on the table. “You should sit down,” she said.
“I should,” he agreed. “But I need to get those chains off of your ankles too. You can’t honestly tell me that you’re comfortable.”
Esen shrugged. “It can wait.”
Taran was quiet for a moment, then he fell into a chair. “All right, fine. Now on that shelf, there’s a small lacquer box with a bird inlaid on the top.
Esen rifled through the shelves and found a small, shiny black box. She held it up. “This one?”
“Yes, that one. Bring it over here, and get a chair.” Esen did as she was told. “Put your ankles on the table.”
“What?”
“Sit in the chair and put your ankles on the table so I can reach them,” Taran said impatiently. Esen raised her eyebrows. “Do you want the chains off or not?” Esen rolled her eyes and put her feet on the table. Taran opened the little box and took out several lock-picks and keys. As he worked on opening the lock, Esen looked at the dish on the table.
“What is that?”
“Scrying dish,” Taran said, not looking up. “Enables me to see what’s going on in places that I’m not.”
“What were you looking at?” she asked.
There was a click and the chains fell away from her ankles. Taran relaxed a bit and tapped the tip of his blade against the water. It now reflected the ceiling, as any bowl of water would. “What do you think I was looking at?”
“Something that was somewhere you weren’t,” Esen said.
“Correct,” he said, swirling the water with his fingertip.
“What in particular?”
Taran stopped and stared at the bowl for a moment, then looked up at Esen. His yellow eyes weren’t flashing dangerously as they usually did. In fact, he looked almost sympathetic. “Where you found me. Where you lived.”
“Why?” Esen asked. “You can’t mean that you actually care about me?”
Taran raised his eyebrows. “Why wouldn’t I? You saved my life.”
Esen was quiet. This immortal, moody teenager really cared?
“Hard to believe?” he asked quietly. She stayed still and silent. Taran looked over at the window. “You never needed my approval to speak your mind before now—what’s changed?”
“You…care?” she stuttered.
“If not for you, I’d be dead, Esen. If you hadn’t been…if you hadn’t been stupid enough to approach me…”
“See? That’s exactly why I’m surprised!” she burst. “You call me stupid in the same breath as thanking me! I can’t read you. I never know what you’re thinking!”
“It’s my nature,” Taran said. “My father and my brother are my only family—and my father rarely had time for either of us as we grew up. My brother is a scheming bastard. I cannot trust him. I haven’t ever been able to. I told you, they want me dead.”
“Your father and brother?” Esen asked.
“No. My father wants me to be the next God of Storm. My brother, obviously, doesn’t find that amusing. So—as far as I can tell, he and my uncle, the God of the Sea, are trying to get rid of me so my brother can inherit our father’s place.”
Esen was quiet. Her mind was racing. She had foiled an assassination plot on the son of the God of Storms by being stupid? Was that what she just heard? “So I saved you three times in one shot?”
“Guess so,” Taran said. He glared at the door for a moment, then pointed Dao at it and whispered “Scathchruth.”
“What was that?”
“A spell so they can’t hear us,” he said. “Now, listen to me. You must keep helping me heal. The sooner I can move again, the better. Being in Skyes will make it easier.”
“But I don’t have any herbs,” Esen said slowly. “And it’s not like I can go out and get them.”
Taran tapped Dao on the surface of the scrying dish and a woman’s face appeared. “See this woman? This is Temahre. She can find you what you need. Just make sure that my uncle and brother neither see nor hear you.”
“So, then what?”
“When?”
“Once your leg is healed. Then what?”
“Then,” Taran growled. “Then I give them what they deserve.”
***
Several days passed uneventfully. Esen received the herbs she needed from Temahre, and Taran’s leg healed at what Esen considered a somewhat alarming pace. Taran seemed to find this completely natural. After a week of this, Taran was walking almost normally again—still with a slight limp, but with much less pain. He had taken to pacing back and forth, muttering to himself in a language Esen didn’t understand. Then, one night at dinner, Taran’s father stood up.
“As fortune has smiled upon me and Taran was returned to Skyes,” he began, “It is with great joy that I inform you all that I have chosen a successor.” He looked at Taran. Esen could feel her heart pounding—what would he do? “Taran, although you are the younger of my treasured sons, it would honor me greatly if you would take my place when the time comes.”
“An honor too great for such a young boy!” one of the other consorts snapped. Taran had long suspected that she was Perun’s mother.
“He is nearly two hundred, Cyra,” Temahre said gently. “Perun is only twenty years older…” Esen tried to hide her surprise at these numbers—nearly two hundred? Only twenty years older?
Taran stood up. “I would be honored, father,” he said, bowing his head respectfully.
Perun and his mother glowered at Taran while Temahre beamed at him. Taran turned to leave, waving Esen to follow him. Esen noticed he was making a point of not limping. If it hurt, he didn’t show it.
“This is it,” he said as soon as he had shut the door and blocked it from anyone trying to listen. “It’s just a matter of time now.”
“What is?”
“His next attempt on my life,” Taran said, pacing back and forth and fidgeting the hilt of his knife. “This gives him an excuse. Esen, you should stay out of his way.”
Esen bit down on her lip. It sounded like there wasn’t any changing his mind. “You’re sure?”
“Yes,” Taran said, snapping and sending a small lightning bolt into the black glass goblet on the table. Esen jumped, expecting it to shatter. “We call it glione tintreach in our language,” Taran said, seeming relieved to have something else to think about. “Glass made by the lightning. Only kind of glass that can survive up here,” he said. “Occasionally you’ll find it in the mortal world—when lightning strikes sand, this is what forms. A lot of places build shrines around it so we won’t strike the village with lightning.”
“I think we had a shrine like that,” Esen said, a lump jumping into her throat. “A boy named Taemin tended it.”
Taran looked up at her. “You fear he’s dead,” he said simply. Esen nodded.
“He was so sweet,” she choked. “He was one of my friends.”
Taran filled the scrying dish and whispered to it. He stared into it, then waved Esen over. “Is this him?”
“Yes,” she said, determined to be strong and not fall to pieces. Reflected in the scrying dish was a slender, attractive young man with brown hair and a long black markingson his face. Esen tried to ignore the fact that the lovely brown eyes were closed and he appeared to be drowning, suspended limp in blue-green water with his wrists, ankles and waist in chains.
Taran’s yellow-gold eyes lingered on Esen for a moment. She was a strong girl. She didn’t deserve any of this. “He’s alive,” he said abruptly.
“What?” Esen asked, wiping her welling eyes with the back of her hand. “If he’s been drowning for a week—”
Taran shook his head. “You underestimate the power of my uncle’s kingdom. He is breathing. He’s alive.”
Esen stared at the scrying dish. Taemin’s hair—normally tied in a ponytail—floated around him like snakes. “Is he…does it hurt him?”
“I don’t know,” he said after a minute. “But I may be able to save him.”
Esen snapped her head up to look at him. “Even though you’re expecting to be assassinated?”
Taran shrugged. “He’ll have a hard time assassinating me if I’m not here to be assassinated.” He waved his hand over the dish. “Ahir rian Kiliara!”
The water rippled for a moment, then reflected the ceiling. Taran took Esen by the arm and pulled her back from the dish.
There was a flash of purple light and a woman now stood amid falling feathers beside the table. She had milky-white skin, long, silky black hair, and wore black and purple robes made of elegant fabric Esen had no name for. Her belt and cloak clasp were silver, and she had huge purple wings with red-tipped feathers. There was no mistaking her—Kiliara, the Goddess of Death.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” Taran said by way of greeting. Kiliara smirked.
“I haven’t met your companion yet,” she said, turning to Esen. Her eyes were crimson and purple, flecked with gold. “I figured I would drop by.”
“I…I’m Esen,” she said.
“Pleasure,” Kiliara nodded. “Now, what did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, her purple eyes turning to Taran.
“The storm,” Taran said. “The storm that destroyed the Isle of—whatever isle it was.”
Kiliara frowned. “Yes. That. I was wondering about it myself.”
“You took no one,” Taran half-asked.
“Correct,” Kiliara said. “Ocedon has not released any of the victims.”
“Then perhaps you can save a life for me tonight.”
Kiliara raised her eyebrows and waved her hand over the scrying dish. The image of Esen’s friend reappeared. “Ah. This boy.”
“You know him?” Esen asked, surprised.
“Ocedon claimed his family when he was young—their ship was lost at sea, and eventually was destroyed. I don’t fully know how the child survived—but he was taken in by your village, believed to be a miracle. This image was reinforced when he was out in a storm, and found unconscious but alive the next morning beside the lightning glass that Taran was telling you about.” Kiliara looked at him. “I was always fond of him—beating the odds with his back to the wall.”
“He danced for the Gods,” Esen said, looking at the two divine figures with her. “Every day, he would sing and dance for you. For the God of the Sea, for the Goddess of the Harvest…the God of Healing when someone was sick…the God of Storm when it wouldn’t rain…there were four others besides…but none of them tended a specific shrine, or tended the Shrine of Storms…”
Kiliara waved her and over the dish, and four other young men appeared in turn. Esen named each of them. They were all in a similar state of captivity as Taemin.
“I will speak with Ocedon,” Kiliara said. “I will take those who want to be taken, and these five besides.”
“But—” Esen began to protest. Kiliara taking them hadn’t been quite what she had in mind, given that “Kiliara take” tended to mean “kill.”
“Calm down,” Kiliara said with a knowing smile. “I didn’t say I would send them to Rashnu.” With that, she vanished in a similar manner as she appeared.
Esen was speechless for a moment. “She’s going to kill them?” she whispered.
Taran grinned. “No—she’s going to save them. Rashnu is the Judge of the Souls, right? So by not sending them to Rashnu, she’s not sending them to heaven or hell. Thus, she’s saving them.”
Esen looked at the scrying dish. “Why did he kidnap them?” she asked.
Taran shrugged. “Because he can. Display of power. I get the feeling that you aren’t the only one in Skyes, either.”
“I’m not?” Esen asked, surprised. “Who—”
“Think,” Taran said. “Who is my dramatic opposite? Who is yours?”
“Perun?” she guessed. Taran nodded slightly. “And…I don’t know…”
“Your sisters?”
“My sisters are up here?” Esen nearly shouted.
Taran shrugged. “Wouldn’t entirely surprise me. My uncle has a bizarre sense of humor.”
Esen’s mind was spinning—Taran expected to be assassinated any day now, while Kiliara was saving five shrine boys and her sisters were also in Skyes, probably attending to Perun in ways she didn’t want to imagine.
“Taran?” she asked quietly. He turned and looked at her steadily. She took that as a sign to continue. “Do you think Perun can kill you?”
Taran looked out the window. “I…” his voice trailed off. “No.”
“You’re just saying that,” Esen accused.
Taran shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you just leave?”
“And leave my power-hungry, heartless brother as the God of Storms? I’d sooner die,” he said. “You don’t know Perun. You don’t know the things he’d do. I can’t imagine…” Taran took a deep breath. “I remember your friend Taemin. I remember how he danced. Did he do it because he wanted to, or because he wanted the Gods to be happy, or because the Gods would smite him if he didn’t?”
“Aren’t those the same thing?” Esen asked. “Doing it to make the Gods happy so they wouldn’t smite him?”
“Ah,” Taran said, nodding. “But now that you’ve met Kiliara—can you think of any God or Goddess who would destroy if they were not praised?”
Esen was quiet for a moment. “…no.”
“Perun would be such a ruler. And I can’t abide by a God who demands praise all the time. Why do you think Kiliara overthrew the last God of Death?”
“Honestly, I didn’t know that there was a “last God of Death,” ” Esen said. “You’ve lived two hundred years to my eighteen.”
“Case and point, I will do what I can because I must.”
The conversation was dropped when the scrying dish began to glow purple. Taran took Esen by the arm, and without a word, Relocated both of them to Kiliara’s Castle.
Esen had been amazed by Skyes, in all its majesty, and Kiliara’s Castle garnered a very similar reaction. It was just as magnificent as Skyes—only with a cozier air (woman’s touch, Esen figured) and very purple. The rugs, the curtains, the furniture, and even the flames in the braziers had purple in them.
“Welcome,” Kiliara said from where she stood near the center of the room. Esen was startled to see the five shrine boys they’d spoken about earlier on the floor. “Taran, I’ll need you for this.”
Taran nodded and dropped into a crouch. He crept along the circle the bodies formed and touched the tip of his kris to each of their chests. He then knelt in the middle of the circle, the tip of the dagger on the floor.
“Are they dead?” Esen whispered.
“No,” Kiliara said. “They’ve been breathing water for the past week. They need to be reminded that air is more pleasant to breathe. And please—don’t panic.”
“Don’t—?” Esen began to ask.
Taran apparently said or did something, as there was a loud “crack” and lightning jumped from the tip of the knife to the chest of each of the unconscious young men. Four of them sat up with a gasp, but Taemin reminded still.
“Ah,” Taran said, mostly to no one. “I see.” With that, he set the kris on the floor and began to work the air much like Esen had once seen a potter work clay. As he did so, a dim light formed between his palms. The more he worked the air, the brighter the light became. He cupped his hands under the light, then flattened it between his palms. His hands were glowing when he brought them apart. He slipped them under Taemin’s vest and lightly touched his chest.
Esen couldn’t muffle a scream when bolts of lightning began to snap between Taran and Taemin. After nearly thirty seconds of bright flashes and loud cracking, it again grew quiet and peaceful. Esen and the other four young men watched, all of them certain that the last one was dead.
Remarkably, his eyes began to flutter.
“You gave Esen quite a scare,” Taran said, looking from Taemin to the other four and back. “Welcome back.”
“Lord Taran?” Taemin said softly. Taran looked down at him. “I…I was able to save this,” he said, pulling an oddly-shaped, semi-transparent black lump from his pocket.
“That explains why you didn’t wake up the first time,” Taran said. “I figured as much. That piece of glass gives a mortal resistance to lightning.” He offered his hand to the dancer and pulled him to his feet, trembling a bit.
“Why do you tremble, Taemin?” Kiliara asked. “You’re safe now.”
“I…I am surprised that the Gods care,” he said. He looked at Esen. “How…?”
Esen heaved a sigh. “It’s a long story.”
“You five should get on to Aire, and Taran, you and Esen should return to Skyes,” Kiliara said suddenly, looking rather like she’d seen a ghost. “You will each be needed in your own right tonight.
“Aire?” the five young men repeated in confusion before anyone could question anything about Kiliara’s odd divination.
“You have all proven your loyalty to the Gods,” she said. “Your home is destroyed—I see no better place for you. You may choose to wander the Isles, but you will call Aire your home now.”
First Taemin, then his companions bowed deeply to Kiliara. One by one, they faded from the room—presumably to the Shrine of Aeire, on the Western Isle. Taran took Esen’s arm.
“Thank you,” Esen said. “Both of you.”
“My pleasure,” Kiliara said. “Taran—good luck.”
Taran nodded, and he Relocated them back to Skyes. Esen hadn’t hardly gotten her bearings when she heard a loud scream—it sounded like it might have been one of her sisters. Taran tossed the water in the scrying dish out the window and rushed to the door. He turned to Esen.
“Stay here,” he ordered as he vanished into the hallway as quickly as his aching leg would allow.
He found his father and brother in the throne room, as he’d expected. What he hadn’t expected was to see Perun pulling a ring off their father’s hand.
Off their father’s dead hand.
Taran’s head was spinning. The blue carpet and silk of the throne were soaked in dark blood. The head of Perun’s spear was shone a gaudy crimson. Taran felt his hand go to the hilt of his kris—his magic would be useless against Perun if he had the ring…ninety percent of his magic was lightning-based, and that ring not only granted control over the weather, but offered complete protection to lightning.
“How does it feel?” Perun was asking, pacing around the body. “Don’t worry, old man, you’ll soon see Little Taran again…”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Taran snarled, lunging from the shadows with his knife drawn. The light from the candles glinted off of the curved, gold blade. Perun whirled with his spear in hand, catching Taran’s blade on the shaft. No mortal weapon could’ve done that—even if it had made contact with the flat edge of the kris.
“Care to play with me, little brother?” Perun taunted, spinning the spear with great agility. Taran grabbed the shaft and kicked hard with his good leg. Perun swung the weapon, and Taran went flying. He landed hard on his side, cursing as pain shot through his injured leg. He rolled with the damage, using years of training to push the pain from his mind and channel it into anger—and, in turn, channel the anger into power.
“We were always told to play nicely as children,” Taran growled as he prepared to lunge again. “I’m glad to see those days are finally over.”
Perun suddenly turned to the hallway from which Taran had come. “Ah—behold,” he said, raising his hand toward it. “Little Taran, someone has come to visit you.”
Lightning began crackling around the ring on his hand. In the dimly illuminated hallway, Taran saw Esen turn to run. She’d never be able to get out of the range of that lightning bolt in time. Taran quickly began chanting a Haste spell, and put all his strength into a short sprint to Esen. The Haste spell doubled his speed, and he was able to throw himself in front of her just before Perun’s lightning could make contact.
Taran had been hit by lightning before, but never anything like this. Normally the sensation tickled—pins and needles at worst. But this—this was searing, mind-numbing pain. His blood felt like it was on fire. Every bone in his body felt like it was breaking into a thousand pieces.
“I thought—I told you—to--stay—put!” Taran hissed through clenched teeth. “Get out of here while he’s distracted!”
Esen whimpered in fright and scrambled down the hallway. Taran forced himself to his feet--
Too late.
A single, thick bolt of lightning struck Esen directly in the back. No mortal could withstand that. It would destroy her. Utterly destroy her.
“I don’t think so,” Kiliara’s voice said. Esen was laying face-down on the ground, but she was still intact. “I figured you’d try that, Perun.”
“So you side with the child, Kiliara,” Perun sneered. Taran stumbled as he tried to advance toward his half-brother.
“There is only one child among us, Perun,” he hissed. “A child who delights in burning ants with lenses, or mortals with lightning. A child who will go to any unpleasant lengths to get what he wants.”
“I side with who is right,” she corrected. Perun laughed coldly.
“No—you side with who is dead.” Another powerful shock ripped through Taran’s body. It hurt too much to scream—had he wanted to scream. Perun turned to Kiliara with lightning crackling between his fingers.
“Oh—really?” she asked with a cool smile. “Go on then. I think you’ll find it’s not as easy to kill a God as you think.”
Perun pointed at the body on the floor. “It’s quite easy.”
“A healthy, young Goddess? Waiting for you to strike? The Goddess of Death?” Kiliara laughed. “You miscalculate, Perun.”
“No woman mocks me!” Perun snarled, throwing his strongest bolt of lightning at Kiliara.
Perun’s orange lightning was met halfway by purple lightning, stemming from Kiliara’s outstretched hand. “Taran! Get Esen!”
Taran didn’t waste his energy acknowledging this command—he simply dragged himself across the floor as fast as he could toward Esen. Her arm was hot from the lightning that had hit her. Kiliara began to shape the air, much like Taran had earlier. Then, without warning, she thrust her hands forward, throwing the lightning at Perun. He recoiled from the blow—a blow is a blow, immunity to lightning or not. And Kiliara’s lightning-like magic was far from the type of lightning he was immune to. Her lightning was based on Duality—the balance of light and dark that she insisted upon.
There was no time to dwell on this, though—for Kiliara grabbed Taran by the arm as Temahre ran down the hall and took Esen’s other hand and Kiliara Relocated all of them to the safety of her castle—far out of Perun’s reach.