Chapter Fifty-Five: Clouds on the Horizon

“A white cloud is an adornment. A grey cloud is a boon. A black cloud is a curse.”

—Farmer’s saying

Ein remembered little of what happened after. As he dreamed, all he saw was the dark-haired Lady of the Storm, singing on her rock in the middle of the sea.

Reyalin stopped and turned as he walked across the churning waters towards her, as naturally as if he were walking on land. Her ragged dress was gone, replaced by a form-fitting tunic that a ranger of the forest might wear. He noticed for the first time a sword strapped across her back.

“Well met, Ein Thoren. It has been a while since we’ve spoken, has it not?”

He stepped off the storming waters and joined her on the rock. She spun the lock of white hair on her forehead about her fingers, turning it this way and that.

“Lady Reyalin,” he said. “I—”

I what? I wanted to ignore you, pretend you never existed, pretend I wasn’t a Fateweaver? His words caught in his throat. He’d done it now; there was no going back. Memories of the massacre flashed through his mind. It didn’t feel real. It was like he was watching a puppeteer wield his body, use it to kill and kill and kill.

“It is all right, child,” she said. “It took you time, but you made the right decision. You will only grow stronger from here, until the blue skies darken at the very mention of your name.”

“How do I control it?” he asked. “How do I… control myself if this happens again?”

“Practice,” Reyalin replied. “It differs with everyone. Remember the reason you summoned my power in the first place, and always keep it in your mind. Every storm has an eye. You must simply place that which you cherish most inside it, so that it may guide the gales of fury.”

She waited before him, smiling the way a mother would at her child. Suddenly he saw Rhea in her place, and a feeling of homesickness overwhelmed him.

“I tried so hard,” he muttered. “I tried so hard not to use it.” Deep down, he’d known that calling upon his Wyrd would pull him further and further away from home, from the beach that contained everything he’d known.

“It is the way of the world,” she replied. “Not all people are born equal. Some are born to lead, and others are born to be led. You were born to be a hero, and I was born to aid you.” She thought for a moment. “Or perhaps, it is the other way around. Time loses meaning in the Hall of Heroes.”

“I’ll be more careful next time,” Ein said. “I won’t let it consume me.” The memories were so vivid, so frightening. Had that person really been him? Had he really killed relicts with his bare hands, even his teeth? Could such a demon of war really be looked up to as a hero?

“It will come in time,” the Lady said kindly. “Always remember where you came from. Remember the eye of your storm. Do not be afraid.”

“I am afraid.” Of the Soulsong, of his Wyrd, of himself. He would be singing for the children, for his family and his village, for Faengard. He was alone in an endless sea, with nothing but water in all directions. Could he really do it? Could he really accept his destiny as a Fateweaver and become a Hero of Faengard?

“Do not be, Ein. I will always be here to guide you.” She took him in her arms and embraced him. He breathed deeply, remembering the smell of the forge. The smell of home.

He didn’t think he would be returning for a long time.

Tushar was next to him when he woke, as were Garax, Rhinne and Aeos. He was in a single-room hut, a fireplace crackling merrily in the corner, burning sticks of incense clouding the air.

“And our hero awakens,” the storyteller said. “No worse for wear, either.”

Ein frowned, sitting up. A wet cloth fell off his forehead and onto his lap. He examined his body, looking for the scratches and bruises, the scrapes and the burns. He found nothing. Lightning had struck him, and he was unscathed. Had it all been a dream, after all?

“The relicts,” he began. “Are they…?”

“They’re dead. You killed them all.” Aeos answered him, looking like he’d skipped a night’s worth of rest. “Drained me dry as well.”

“Sorry.”

The Prince scowled. “I’ll forgive you this time, Ein, but only because I saw it for myself. You really are something else.” He looked at Garax and Rhinne. “I suppose you two are innocent, after all. If something like that didn’t kill you, then by Kalador’s First Tenet, you’re all innocent… and that means my father has made a grave mistake.”

Kalador. Ein remembered the Way of the Wind, the various sword techniques he’d used to fight his way through the camp. He didn’t think he’d be able to replicate it. Perhaps the god of war had been watching over him after all.

“What about the children?” he asked. “And the adults? Did they escape?”

“We got them home,” Garax explained. “Almost lost a few along the way, but we managed it. They revere us, now. We’re the heroes of the legend, the Talam. Those who will break Mandara and free them from the wrath of the Ninety.”

“Mandara?”

“Faenrir. The demigod that resides at the Summit of the World.”

At once Ein rolled out of the mattress, looking frantically for his sword. He found it next to the door, alongside the Rhinegold pauldron of the Thorens. “Faenrir!” he cried. “How long has it been? We need to save her!” We have to return to Aldoran, before the relicts attack!

“It’s been two days,” Garax said. “You’ve been Soulsick for two days, muttering fever-dreams beneath your breath, thrashing about in your sleep. Be thankful it wasn’t more.”

“By the Flame, what are you made of?” Rhinne muttered.

Ein drew a deep breath, calming himself. He spotted his furs and his armour on the floor and went to don them.

“The relicts were under the command of a Bloodmane,” he explained, slipping on the jerkin over his shirt. “It rides to Aldoran as we speak, to spark the attack that will bring the city to its knees.” He turned to Tushar. “We have to get to the top of the mountain, as quickly as possible. If we don’t make it in time… there will be bigger things to worry about than Mandara becoming angry and raining destruction on your village.”

“I have explained to them already, Talam,” Tushar said. “I have told them about the not-girl who pacifies the mountain god.”

“Then why haven’t we left already?” He pulled the leather straps tight, trying to ignore the slashes that crisscrossed his armour. If we don’t save her, we’ll fail the quest and then Alend will be executed. It wasn’t just Aedrasil at stake, but his father as well. Ein bent down and pulled on his boots, wincing as his shoulder moved in its socket.

“We will make it in time,” Tushar said. “I know Mandara like the back of my hand. There are shortcuts up the mountain, shortcuts the Knight cannot possibly know. We can save time taking these shortcuts.”

“Tushar is the only person who can take us up there,” Garax said. “And he refused to leave until you were recovered. I’m beginning to see why, especially after what you did to those relicts. We may actually have a chance at snatching the girl from beneath the World-Eater’s jaws with you there.”

“I… I wasn’t myself back then,” Ein said.

“Yet you are yourself now,” Rhinne smiled. “What is that, if not strength? The strength to accept the darker sides of yourself and move forward.”

Ein stood up, looking at the four in turn. Aeos and Rhinne, who’d joined him along the way. Garax, whose stories he’d listened to as a young boy back in Felhaven. Tushar, who would guide them to the top of the world.

“Where’s Talberon?” he asked.

Garax averted his eyes. “He was injured in Mor’Gravar. The villagers are looking after him now, nursing his body to health, but his mind remains asleep. There is nothing we can do for him.”

“Anturia watch over him,” Ein muttered, and then cleared his throat. “Are we packed and ready to go?”

“We’re packed,” Aeos replied. “Our things are in the mayor’s hut across the road. But have you rested enough?” He gave a wan smile. “I won’t have you falling behind on the mountain. The end of this cursed ordeal is close, and I fully intend on returning home alive to my bastard father. You swore on your life to protect me, remember.”

How differently he speaks, Ein thought, recalling the first encounter he’d had with the Prince. He’d always sensed a prideful arrogance from the young man, but now it was more like a sense of grudging respect. As if he’d accepted that Ein was worthy to be a Kingsblade in service of the Uldans.

“I’m ready,” he replied. “It’ll be a relief to be rid of your company.” He smiled in jest. Rhinne frowned at them, murmuring something under her breath. Garax whispered a reply in her ear, and she shook her head.

“Men are strange creatures,” she muttered.

Ein adjusted his sword on his belt and then strode towards the door. As he opened it, a cool breeze struck him in the face, followed by a warm cheer from the crowd. They were gathered on every corner of the street, mothers with their hands on their sons and daughters, fathers smiling in gratitude, brothers and sisters with fists clenched over their breasts. Ein recognized some of the children in the cages; they came up to him individually, kissing his hand, bowing, embracing him before moving on. They looked livelier already, their cheeks fleshed out, their eyes brighter. “Mandi se’bhava,” they said. Mountain bless you.

“I feel a bit left out that I wasn’t part of this prophecy of theirs,” said Rhinne as they walked past.

“I daresay you will be soon enough,” Garax smiled, waving at a group of children. “These things tend to change with time and perspective.”

They reached the mayor’s hut, where a trio of villagers waited—the mayor, his wife and his son.

“We will be taking our leave soon,” the storyteller said, taking the lead as Ein continued to be showered with thanks and blessings. “Do you still have our belongings?”

“Of course,” the man nodded. “I wish you best of fortune with journey. Tushar is crazy, but he is capable man.”

Tushar smirked at that. “You do me honour, Rakan.”

Rakan dipped his head and disappeared into the hut. His wife and son bowed low.

“Than… thank… you,” the boy said, struggling to form his lips around the syllables. Rhinne bent on one knee and patted him on the head.

“We will be back,” she said, “and we will free Darmouth from the mountain gods.”

The boy beamed as his father emerged from with their travelpacks.

“Mandi se’bhava,” he said once again.

“Mandi se’bhava,” Garax took the packs and bowed. The villagers let out one last cheer, a cheer that was cut short as the ground trembled once more. Ein looked at the peak of Raginrok in apprehension—but as soon as the tremor passed, the exuberance resumed.

They were Talam. Godbreakers. Fateweavers. Somewhere atop the mountain was a girl waiting to be saved and a giant wolf that needed to be slain. Somewhere in Aldoran, Alend was waiting to be freed, and Merrill and Evaine waited for his return. Somewhere in Felhaven, his mother and Cinnamin were working in the fields, doing all they could to get by the Great Winter.

The flame inside his chest brightened, and around it stormclouds began to gather. He held his resolve tightly within. It was the the eye of his storm.

The raven came to visit Merrill during one of his shifts, standing persistently on the branch next to where he was nested. It was night, the most dangerous time to be on sentry duty, but the moon was bright and he could see the relicts all the way to the horizon.

“Hello there,” he said, reaching a hand to the bird. It didn’t shy away but instead allowed him to stroke its head, rubbing its glossy feathers along his fingers. It was a big bird, so big that Merrill wondered how many corpses it had fed on to reach its size.

“Hello,” it echoed. “Hello!”

Merrill shifted towards the thicker end of the branch, sending a dusting of leaves down to the ground. He was quite high up, maybe two thirds of the way to the top. He’d always been good at climbing trees, better than Ein and Evaine, and besides, the trees in the Sleeping Twins were much taller. From his vantage point he could see the entire relict camp as they moved around atop the Blight.

“Cold,” the raven cawed. “Cold.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

There were clouds on the horizon, large, black stormclouds that towered into the air. They were a ways off yet, but when they hit the city, everyone would know. Merrill had settled into his life at the war camp now, taking sentry duty when he was told to, performing his runner boy tasks when he wasn’t.

Since the attack about a week ago, the relicts had hung back and continued to amass their forces. Aedon had stopped sending them reinforcements. If they were attacked now, they would lose no matter how many they had. The camp was a slightly glorified sentry party, nothing more.

The raven flapped its wings and tapped at Merrill’s hand. “Come,” it cried. “Come.”

Merrill sighed. He’d always been good with animals, but when they started talking to him it probably meant he’d been sitting still for too long.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll come.”

He packed away his spyglass and strapped his bow to his back, taking care not to lose his footing. Then, with practiced movements, he shimmied down the tree until his feet were on the grass once more. Evaine would be proud of him.

I wonder what she’s doing now, he thought. And the rest of the runner boys, too. He hadn’t seen them ever since, when both the Songweavers and the cleanup crew had arrived to tend to the injured.

The raven flapped its wings and took off into the sky. Merrill followed it, sticking to the shadows of the trees, remaining behind cover. He had the higher ground and the relicts were far away, but it was night, and relicts had almost perfect night-vision. It was one of the reasons the night watch was so dangerous, not only for the sentry but the entire camp. On a clouded night or a night with no moon, the relicts could move unseen and be upon them before they knew it.

A night with no moon will be upon us soon, he thought, spying the stormclouds.

The raven took him around the treeline to a spot several hundred paces away and landed at the top of a tree, croaking at him. “Come! Come!”

Merrill ran his hands along the trunk and found his handholds. “I’m coming,” he muttered.

His body had grown slimmer and more lithe since he’d joined the Legion, a result of hard labour and poor food. He was lighter than before and quicker on his feet, though he wished he had more muscle. Women always preferred a man with muscle—at least, the ones in Felhaven did. He’d seen the way Evaine looked at Aren.

When he reached the top, he took a moment to secure his bag before taking a long drink of water. The view was worse here—he could no longer see the fires of his own camp, though in return he could see into some corners of the Blight he couldn’t before. Celadons waited in their pens, grazing on bales of pillaged hay. Slazaads lay tethered to the ground, thick chains muzzling their snouts. Faceless forged weapons in quiet fires. Fires were a rarity; the only ones Merrill had ever seen in the camp were those of the Oathbreaker’s human servants.

“What am I looking for?” he asked.

“Look!” the raven replied. “Look!”

It took off again, soaring into the open sky above the blight. Merrill watched it glide through the darkness, casting a much darker shadow across the ground. Crows and ravens were intelligent creatures. They were always there at the end of a battle, watching over the bodies of the dead. Some even went as far as to say they caused death, that they were ill omens. Morene herself had chosen the crow as her animal form, only adding to their reputation.

The raven became a black dot in the distance, coming to a smooth halt atop a tent next to one of the portals. It was a large one, a tear in the fabric of the realm like a violet scar rising from the earth. A ring of Siphoners fed power to it, six hooded men and one shape larger than the rest—a Bloodmane in cloth robes instead of armour. Merrill brought the spyglass to his eye and watched them sing, their lips moving in tune with the pulsing of the portal. He couldn’t hear their words, yet they sent a chill down his spine anyway.

All of a sudden a great snout poked its way through the tear, heavy and square like the head of a hammer. Chains bound its jaw shut. Two yellow eyes sat on either side of its face, followed by squat torso and a muscular tail that ended like a morningstar.

The creature had triangular scales overlapping its body, a dull grey-blue beneath the moonlight. It resembled a battering ram with legs; a lizard with a head like a tree trunk. A land dragon—a Slazaad.

The Worgals led the relict all the way out of the portal and to the centre of the camp. Merrill realized he’d been holding his breath. Before he could release it however, another snout poked its way through the portal.

There were five in total to join the three that were already in the camp. Each of them were muzzled, grunting at each other in muffled bursts. He felt the tree shake beneath them as they walked, each of them as large as a house. The city walls would not hold against the might of these creatures.

The raven cawed again. It had to be his imagination, but Merrill heard it all the way from where he was watching.

“Urudain,” it cried. “Urudain.” Apocalypse Knight.

The portal rippled and another figure emerged. It was small and slim, slightly shorter than the average man, wearing loose-fitting robes tied at the waist by a scarlet cord, a short tail poking out from behind. Moon-silver hair hung in snake-like braids from its scalp, a stark contrast to its obsidian skin, and it had pointed ears atop its head—black and sharp like a hound’s. On its hip was a curved blade, long and thin like a leaf. And on its face was a mask in the semblance of a crescent moon, a scarlet eye peeking out from the single hole.

It walked like nothing Merrill had ever seen, prowling like a wolf on the hunt. The Worgals kept their distance from it, remaining quiet with their heads bowed as the Knight passed. It looked like a wolfman as well, but closer to a man. The Worgals were wolves that walked like men. The Knight was a man that walked like a wolf, with a wolf’s ears and tail and nothing else. A manwolf.

Merrill followed the manwolf with his spyglass as it moved between the tents, making its way to the command post. Worgals spilled out of its way like newborn pups. Even Bloodmanes bowed their heads in respect.

The other Apocalypse Knight was waiting; the giant of a man with the manacles around its wrists. They exchanged a few words before entering the giant tent. Merrill removed the spyglass from his eye. His throat was dry.

Five Slazaads and an Apocalypse Knight. Something was about to happen, soon. The raven returned to the branch above Merrill and stared at him with its beady eyes.

“Storm,” it moaned. “Storm.”

“Yes,” Merrill agreed. There was more than one cloud on the horizon.

Evaine was making blades of water in her room when Kedryn entered, carrying a wooden case beneath a burly arm. Behind the Minstrel was an aged woman with sun-browned skin, dressed also in the robes of the Legion. The musical quaver on her shoulder indicated the rank of Songstress, so Evaine immediately curtseyed.

“Good morning, Songstress,” she said. “Please excuse me.” She gave the puddle of water at her feet a sharp command and channeled it back into the basin. Kedryn nodded in approval.

“You’ve gotten better at controlling your Wyrd,” she said. “And you remembered your manners, too. We’ll make a Songweaver of you yet.”

Since the day they’d operated on the injured down by the war camp, Evaine had spent every waking moment honing her technique. She’d taken Kedryn’s counselling without complaint, practicing the seemingly pointless exercises until her throat was hoarse, and when the day’s lessons were over, she went down to the infirmary to watch the healers at work. Sometimes she helped them, cleaning and purifying wounds, staunching bleeding, boiling buckets of water. When there was nothing else to do—if there was nothing else to do,—she would experiment in her room, creating blades of ice, jets of hot steam, drawing water from the air and cooling it to create unseeable mists. She held the spirit of the Brackenburg River inside her, and she was determined to wield his power to its fullest.

“I have a gift for you today,” Kedryn continued. “One that has been long in the making. It should give you something else to focus on, during the times when you lose your voice and cannot sing.” She handed the case to Evaine, who opened it.

It was a flute, made of a deep red rosewood polished to a sheen. Evaine’s breath caught in her throat—she’d never seen a work of such beauty, such elegance before in her entire life. She wasn’t so knowledgeable about flutes as to recognize its exact qualities, but like the way a good horse always stood stronger than a bad one, or the way a sharp sword always shone brighter than a dull one, she knew it to be the best of its kind.

“For me?” she asked, forgetting her words for a heartbeat.

“For you,” Kedryn nodded. “I may have had my doubts when I first saw you, but I was a fool to dismiss Milena’s insight. You have come far over the past two weeks, farther than an ordinary Songweaver should, and for that I am proud. Though I will still continue to teach you, you are fast approaching a place I cannot follow.” She gestured to the brown-skinned woman beside her. “This is Songstress Illanthi, a fellow water-wielder like yourself. She hails from the east, across the desert where water is a precious commodity and the flutists can charm snakes from baskets. She will teach you instrumental Songweaving.”

“Good day to you, Journeyman Evaine,” Illanthi greeted. Her hair was a dusty-grey bound into a braid, her eyes a deep blue. “You are young for one of such prowess. Kedryn has told me good things about you.”

“Has she?” Evaine reluctantly pried her eyes away from the flute. In hindsight, maybe the Minstrel hadn’t been so bad after all.

“No more than you deserved,” Kedryn said. “Now I will take my leave. Do not forget afternoon practice with Unit Three, at the usual spot.” She nodded stiffly and was gone.

“She is a dishonest one,” Illanthi said, staring at the door. “She was like that, even when I taught her.” The Songstress turned her gaze back to Evaine and looked deep into her eyes. Evaine shifted uncomfortably; Illanthi’s eyes were like crystal pools of water. “Kedryn has been watching you, Evaine, ever since she took you out to the battlefield as a healer, and she has been impressed by your efforts—as well as their results.”

Evaine blanched. No wonder the Minstrel had been softer on her ever since. The thought of her watching each mistake she’d made set a flush to her cheeks.

“I am not like Kedryn,” Illanthi continued. “Kedryn will shout at you until you follow her word, and find ways to punish you if you do not. To children, this method is effective. But as a Journeyman aspiring to become an Adept, you must rely on your own will more than the will of others.” She took out a flute from her robe. “I will teach you to create music without your voice, Journeyman. You may find it much easier to control and direct your Spirit using an instrument, or you may find that it muddles your perception of sound. From what Milena has told me, you are of the former, and that is a rare type indeed. Instrumentalists are always valued in the Legion.” She gestured for Evaine to take up her flute, so she did.

“Do instrumentalists fight in battles as well?”

Illanthi laughed. “All Songweavers fight in battle, Journeyman. But much like the way a strategist commands his armies from a table and a chair, we instrumentalists remain in our perches where we can watch the battle without fear. Make no mistake, though. When the earth splits and swallows our enemies, or the rivers flood into battle beneath our command, you will understand what true strength is.”

Illanthi blew a note, and the water in the basin behind Evaine sprung into the air. She blew a second and a third, stringing them together so quickly they sounded like a chain of bells. The water obeyed, lengthening and stretching into a viperous shape, a river that coiled in the space above them. The daylight caught it and split, shattering into all the colours of the rainbow.

“Now show me what you can do with your Soulsong.”