Stormrise

The rain had tapered off during supper, and we now sat in the mud around our campfires celebrating the completion of six days of training. Tomorrow was Oradon, the Day of Resting. There would never truly be complete rest for us—our morning warm-ups would go on as scheduled, for one thing. But everything else would be deferred until the next day.

Jasper hadn’t addressed the twelve of us again, and I imagined he was waiting until morning to tell us what was next. I wrapped my hands around the mug of ale I’d been holding for at least half an hour. Forest bumped my leg with his foot, which sent a strange thrill through me.

“Are you going to drink that, or are you just catching bugs in it?”

I smiled. “A few.”

Dalen sat on my other side. “I’ll drink it if you don’t want it.”

“Oh, no,” Forest said. “Storm said he’d give the ale a try tonight. I’m waiting for him to make good on his word.”

It still felt odd being referred to as “he.” I raised the mug. “I’m always true to my word.”

I touched my lips to the rim of the mug and held my breath. Perhaps I could take a swallow without actually tasting it. I tipped the mug, and the warm, tangy ale filled my mouth.

The warmth remained after I’d swallowed, and a rich, nutty flavor lingered on my tongue. I took another mouthful.

Forest and the others nearby raised their own mugs and cheered. I wanted to exclaim about the surprising nuttiness and pleasant fizz of the ale, but I reminded myself that fewer words were preferable to more.

“Better than I expected.”

“Guess you’re a real man now,” River said.

If only he knew.

“Here’s to Storm, for not giving up until he made it up the rope—in the rain,” Forest said.

Shouts of my name were interspersed with laughter, and I raised my mug again and felt the warmth of their praise.

“I’ve been drinking ale since I’ve worn a son’s cap,” Dalen said. “I was going to call you ‘Grandmother’ if you didn’t like it.”

“Why?”

“My grandmother tried it once,” Dalen said. “Spat it out and called it dragon’s piss.”

“She knows what that tastes like, does she?”

“Apparently.” Dalen took a long swig from his own mug. “She once bought something from that little shop in Nandel—the one I mentioned before. Some sort of tincture to smear on a sore inside her mouth. The woman told her it was made from dragon’s piss.”

I raised an eyebrow and tried to act as though my heart weren’t pattering relentlessly against my ribs. “Did your grandmother believe her?”

Dalen hesitated, furtively eyeing the others. They seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. “We’re from Springton Village in Ytel. Of course she believed her.”

I tightened my fingers around my mug and tried not to sound too eager. “So, you believe it, too?”

“What, dragon piss?”

“All of it.”

Dalen took a long swig of ale and lowered his voice. “If you’re asking me if I believe in the dragons, then … yes. I do. And I believe they’ll return. But that’s not something I like to talk about outside of Ytel.”

“So, you believe T’Gonnen was real.”

“Yes,” Dalen said. “Always have.”

“But what do you base that belief on?”

“You’ve never read The Lament of Nuaga?” He sounded a bit incredulous.

“Probably in school, I did.” Not that I had any idea what school was like, since my tutoring in reading and household skills had happened at home, like it did for all girls. And of course my brother had never seen the inside of a school, either. “But it was just a story. Something to scare children with.”

“There’s nothing frightening about the Lament,” Dalen said. “It’s the story of T’Gonnen’s sacrifice and the promise of the dragons’ return.”

“The stories I grew up with were about flesh-searing dragons rampaging through the land. Dark fairy tales.”

Dalen smirked. “Then you didn’t grow up with the truth.”

A little over a week ago, I would have had to hold back laughter. Now I wanted to ask a dozen questions. I’d never known anyone from Ytel, though I had heard of their beliefs. Even the names they gave their children displayed a connection with an ancient, forgotten world that was so long gone that fact and myth seemed inextricably woven together.

“If the people of Ytel believe in dragon magic, why did your grandmother come all the way to Nandel to buy a tincture?” I asked.

“Selling dragon magic is a family business,” Dalen said, “and the families who sell it don’t share what they have. It’s all very … proprietary. Handed down from father to son, mother to daughter.”

“Like secret recipes?”

“It’s the actual content,” Dalen said, “depending on which desiccated dragon parts belong to their family.”

Desiccated dragon parts? I must have looked dumbfounded, because Dalen went on to explain.

“Let’s say your family owns three teeth and a thigh bone. You can’t produce the same things as the family who owns the stomach. And you’re not going to share your secrets once you find out the best way to extract the magic from the teeth, or to stretch the thigh bone into several generations’ worth of powder mixed with other things.”

“S’da…”

“Well, T’Gonnen had a lot of teeth, for instance, so some of these sellers went to other provinces to sell their wares, because the demand in Ytel wasn’t great enough. But the shop in Nandel? It’s known in Ytel for selling things made from relics no one else has.”

“Such as…?”

“T’Gonnen’s heart. And his manhood, so to speak.”

“His—” I almost gagged, thinking about what I’d been swallowing every night. “And these teas and tinctures work because they’re made with … bits of dragon?”

“Yes. Or extracts. No one in my family is in the business, so I don’t know much about how it all works.” Dalen rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “That’s probably more than you wanted to know.”

“No,” I said. “It’s interesting. Thank you.”

“You’re the first person from outside Ytel I’ve met who actually listened.”

I had so much more to ask, but Mandrake chose that moment to throw an empty mug at Dalen. Laughter erupted as he retrieved it.

“You owe me a fill-up,” Mandrake called.

Dalen rose good-naturedly, obviously willing to fulfill whatever promise he’d made. No matter—I’d corner him some other time, preferably when no one else was around. If my dreams were related to the powder I swallowed every night, Dalen might know.

My mug was empty by the time the horn sounded, and my bladder was full. I knew I’d need to hurry in order to relieve myself and get back to my tent, so I ran off before anyone could slow me with conversation.

I made it to my secret spot without being seen. By now, I had become proficient at not peeing on myself, and I finished quickly. The clouds were still thick, hiding the moon, and I focused on the thin light from the lanterns at the edge of the camp as I made my way back.

Rain.

I froze, every inch of my skin tingling. Not since the first time I’d heard the voice, when I was bathing in the lake, had I heard it outside my dreams. I only had about a minute before being late for evening curfew, but I didn’t want to lose this opportunity.

“Who are you?” I whispered.

I am Nuaga.

My bones, my breath, my very heart tightened. “What do you want?”

Silence.

Then: Release me.

The words were urgent—they vibrated deep in my breastbone. The dryness in my mouth made my own words feel sticky.

“From what?”

I waited, but no answer came.

I closed my eyes, willing the voice to speak again. But the final good-night calls and sounds of settling in the camp tugged at my concentration. I opened my eyes and moved quickly across the dark field as the lanterns winked out one by one.

The morning was cool, as though yesterday’s rain had washed away the last hold of summer’s heat. It made warm-ups slightly less exhausting, which left me with more of an appetite for breakfast. I had made a habit by now of tearing my dried fruit into bits and stirring it into my porridge; I smiled as I watched Forest pulling a prune apart, his strong hands making easy work of it.

He caught my gaze and shrugged. “It makes it more edible.”

“I’m a genius,” I said. “Admit it.”

“Sounds like you swallowed a frog, though,” Forest said. “Maybe it was the ale?”

“What do you mean?” And then I heard it. My voice sounded lower, like I’d caught a cold. Except, I wasn’t sick.

“You sound a bit rough, that’s all.”

I wanted to dance on the table and shout at the top of my new voice. Instead, I popped a bit of prune into my mouth. “Tired, I guess.”

Since the day I’d met Forest on the road, I’d trained myself to force my voice slightly lower. If the powder had lowered my voice, as Madam S’dora said it might, maybe I would be able to speak normally now, without forcing it. The contents of the powder were disgusting—but discovery meant death, so I had no choice.

Sedge slapped his bowl onto the table on the other side of Forest. I frowned and averted my eyes, closing myself off. Since being singled out, the twelve of us had been eating meals together, at the table nearest the front of the tent. Sitting as far from Sedge as possible had become a habit.

“I’ll admit it,” he said, pulling apart a prune. “This really works. Whoever came up with it deserves second helpings.”

“It was Storm’s idea,” Forest said.

“Is that right?” Sedge sucked a bit of prune from his thumb.

“That’s right.”

“How about that.” Sedge looked at me. “I hear Commander Jasper gave you another chance to climb the rope.”

I sucked on my cheeks and met his gaze. “Commander Jasper didn’t give me another chance. I stayed out there until I climbed it.”

“That’s it? You try again and it makes you good enough?”

“It’s called stamina,” Forest said.

“It’s called not fair,” Sedge said. “What’s Jasper going to do when Storm’s aim is so bad he throws a knife into someone’s neck instead of into a target? Give him another chance?”

I plucked a prune from my bowl and flicked it at Sedge’s face, hitting him squarely in the forehead and drawing immediate laughter around the table. “What were you saying about my aim?”

Sedge rose to his knees and leaned on the table, his face ruddy with anger. “You won’t be laughing when Jasper throws you out of this group because you’re such a girl.”

“Twenty laps around the meal tent, soldier.” Jasper stood, bowl in hand, at the head of our table, his expression a thundercloud. “Not one of you is to speak ill of the other eleven. Ever.”

Sedge’s face fell. “Sir. I—”

“Now,” Jasper said. “Or I’ll make it thirty.”

Sedge rose slowly, squaring his shoulders as though it were an honor to be called out by the commander. “Yes, sir.”

Everyone at our table was silent. Jasper watched Sedge make his way out of the tent and begin running. Then his gaze fell on me.

“Perseverance like yours will go a long way,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

Jasper raised his eyes to the entire table. “As soon as you’ve finished breakfast, meet me on the opposite side of the meal tent.” He turned and walked away.

“Sedge was only kidding,” River said. “He’s like that.”

I rolled my eyes. “Tell that to Commander Jasper.”

After we’d eaten, we waited for Jasper while the rest of the camp dispersed to go about whatever business they meant to accomplish on this Day of Rest. When he appeared around the corner of the tent, I straightened my shoulders, determined to always appear strong and ready.

“It’s time to strike your tents. We’ll be moving to a camp three miles north of here, where we’ll prepare to carry out our mission.”

A three-mile march didn’t seem like a restful way to spend Oradon. But what restfulness would there truly be anymore, for any of us?

“We need to become hardened without the convenience of a military town,” Jasper continued. “We’ll be in the wilderness, which will be home from now on. And I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you’re not soft. Once we’ve set up camp, I’ll reveal our mission.”

“Sir,” Mandrake cut in. “What about our tentmates?”

“They’ll be reassigned,” Jasper said. “Be ready to march in twenty minutes.”

He stepped away without waiting for further questions. Not that any would come—we knew by now to accept orders and to obey at all times. I caught Forest’s glance and raised an eyebrow. Then we quietly made our way to our tent.

A new camp meant creating privacy for myself all over again. I didn’t even want to think about how difficult that might be.

We were ready before the twenty minutes were up. Everything was muddy—especially my shirt from yesterday, as well as the pants I was still wearing today, since they were my only pair. Forest offered to carry our rolled tent for the first half of the march, and I didn’t object. We lined up in three rows of four—a tiny army—and waited for Jasper’s signal to march.

The sun fought its way through thin clouds as we headed north. The trees thinned almost immediately, giving way to a rock-strewn expanse of wild grass gone to seed. For about an hour, Jasper marched in front of us, never once looking back or calling a single command. Then, unexpectedly, he broke stride and moved back to march beside me.

“There’s contention between you and Sedge,” Jasper said.

“Yes, sir.”

“See that it stops.”

I opened my mouth, the force of the protest within me almost too strong to squelch. But I gathered myself and swallowed words that would have condemned Sedge and made me look small. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Jasper said. He marched for a while longer by my side before returning to his position at the front.

We marched in silence for a time. Forest stretched his neck to the left and right, working out a kink.

“Let me take the tent,” I said.

He shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ve found my stride.”

“I wish I were riding Sweetpea right now.”

Forest looked at me sideways. “This from the soldier who climbed a rope in the rain?”

“It was cooler.”

Forest laughed—loud, rich laughter that came straight from his heart. I found myself drowning in its warmth, in the way I had made him laugh. Heat fluttered through my stomach and I forced my gaze away from his.

In moments like this, I felt too much like a girl. And it was the last thing I needed to feel like.

Commander Jasper called a halt just over a ridge that opened into an expanse of flat, rocky ground. A supply wagon already sat there, having been sent ahead. My heart sank when I saw that the nearest tree line was quite a distance to the east. Privacy would be even harder to find here.

The weight of worry slid from my shoulders when Jasper directed us to a flat expanse closer to the line of trees. It was still more than an easy distance away, but I was sure I could make it there and back quickly if I needed to. Forest dropped the tent and motioned to me.

“Let’s get it up,” he said.

It was easy enough to find a large stone to knock our tent stakes into the ground, and not so easy to clear out enough stones so that we could properly secure the tent. Others were having similar trouble.

“Can I borrow that when you’re finished?” Commander Jasper gestured to the stone in Forest’s hands.

Forest offered the stone. “Take it now, Commander. We’re still digging out rocks.”

“No, thank you—just finish what you’re doing,” Commander Jasper said. “I’ve got to clear some rocks, too.”

I stared as he turned and walked to a pile of tents and belongings beside ours. I’d expected him to pitch his tent apart from the rest of us, the way he had marched. He went onto his hands and knees, dug a rock from the dirt, and tossed it. His eyes caught mine, and I felt my face burn hot.

“We’re equals,” he said. “No special treatment.”

I opened my mouth to point out the obvious—that he was our commander. But I funneled the words back into my mouth before they spilled out. “Yes, sir.”

Face still burning, I turned back to Forest and the tent, wishing I hadn’t let Commander Jasper catch me staring. Standing in amazement of him wasn’t going to help me gain his approval or rise to his level of competence.

Next time, I would regard him as the equal he’d named himself.

There was no meal tent, no tables to sit at or shade for eating beneath. The only convenience was a makeshift latrine, which was set up a comfortable distance from the tents. Commander Jasper worked alongside us, digging holes, unpacking supplies, creating order. I watched the easy way he interacted with everyone—the way he commanded respect with a mere gesture or a well-timed word. It was obvious I wasn’t the only one who admired him. Even Sedge, who seemed not to respect anyone, held him in the regard his rank deserved. Especially since having to run laps around the meal tent.

It was late afternoon by the time the camp was set up. My stomach was rolling in on itself with hunger; we hadn’t had any lunch. To my relief, Jasper assigned Cedar and Coast, our best swordsmen, to prepare an early supper, while the rest of us lined up to retrieve practice swords from the wagon, which we were instructed to store inside our tents.

“Eat,” Jasper said, “and then we’ll talk.”

Supper was simple—cold salted pork and ale. We took our food and sat around a fire that had yet to be lit. Some lay on their sides, their mugs sitting beside them in the trampled grass. Others sat back-to-back, leaning on each other while they ate their pork. I took advantage of what might have been my only opportunity to sneak away to the latrine.

“Hold these,” I said, handing Forest my slabs of pork.

Then I jogged lightly toward the latrine, afraid of what I’d find when I got there.

It was worse than I’d expected—three holes in the ground in a row, a haphazard tent strung above them to offer some protection from wind or rain. Unlike the latrine in the first camp, there was nothing to divide the spaces or create any sense of privacy. It was all men together.

Relieving myself was going to be one of my worst challenges. I practiced squatting in such a way that nothing showed, and prayed to the Great God that no one else would show up.

I was going to have to spend more time scheduling my private business than anything else. But at least my monthly bleed hadn’t come. It was still too early to know whether the dragon powder had worked, or if the bleeding was a few days late. Mama had once explained to me that anxiousness might do that to a girl.

But in my heart, I knew. The words, my name, the warmth and tingling—and now the lower voice. It was hard to look at everything and say that it was merely coincidence. I was certain that the powder was working, and that my monthly bleed was one thing I would not have to worry about. Not as long as the dragon powder lasted.

I had taken no more than a dozen steps across the field when, from everywhere and nowhere, words so warm and clear I could almost feel them sounded in my ears:

Release me, Rain L’nahn.

My head swam and I closed my eyes. When I opened them, everything around me had shifted, so that nothing felt real—a waking dream. The air seemed shadowed and misty.

Then, from the tangled branches of the trees, a creature emerged, its sleek form murky in the fading light. It drew itself forward on six leathery legs, twice as high and five times as long as a horse, majestic and terrifying.

A dragon. Looking directly at me.