Roar (Stormheart #1)(63)
She was relieved the next day when they finally packed up to move out. She knew the ride would be brutal on her tired body, but she was desperate to feel like they were getting somewhere, like she was getting somewhere.
Jinx and Locke found her as everyone was loading the last few supplies on the horses. Locke hung back, his arms crossed over his chest as Jinx stepped forward with some kind of vine-like plant in her hands. “I have something for you,” the witch said. “A temporary precaution until we learn more about your reactions to storms. Hold out your arm.”
Roar’s eyes flicked to Locke, but his expression told her nothing. Tentatively, she did as Jinx asked. The vine was coiled into a small wreath, and Jinx slipped it on Roar’s wrist. A tingle passed over her skin as the branches twisted, tightening to fit better. The leaves rustled and then lay flat against her skin.
“This plant is called Rezna’s rest. It’s a natural sedative that I have preserved with magic so that it does not die even though it has been cut. The next time you are in the presence of a storm, try to pinpoint how it’s getting past your defenses. Do your best to shut it out. But if you are unable, if you’re in pain or become a danger to yourself or others, tear a few leaves from this bracelet and chew them up. One leaf should relax you. Chew three or four and you’ll fall unconscious within moments. The bracelet will replenish itself, so don’t worry about running out.”
Roar eyed the plant warily. “I guess this is preferable to being knocked out anytime a storm appears.”
Locke finally spoke behind Jinx, growling, “That’s not happening again. Not even if you ask. So don’t.”
Roar ran her fingers over the leaves, her mouth dry. Maybe the twister was a bizarre fluke. But she knew deep in her gut that it wasn’t. She had always known she was different, she just hadn’t understood how much.
She tried not to look at Locke as they set out again, but she was often unsuccessful. He wore a linen shirt with more than half the buttons undone so that he could easily check his bandages. He had forgone his full leather vest to wear only a supply belt around his hips, no doubt to ease the strain on his shoulder. On his orders, they spent most of the first day at a gallop until they passed out of range of Sorrow’s Maw. And Locke galloping on horseback with his half-open shirt billowing in the breeze was a sight that tested her resolve not to look again and again.
He still pushed her relentlessly in training, and he began running with her again on their second morning back on the road. They still argued, often over trivial things, but she could tell he was at least trying to be more careful with his words.
Roar was beginning to find a pattern in this new life. Each day, more of the world was revealed to her—plants she had never seen, animals she had read about only in books. The crew had all laughed at her when she thought she saw a dust storm to the south, only to learn it was a distant mountain range, the first she had ever seen with her own eyes. Her life in Pavan had always felt stifling and constricting, but she had come to realize that the world was so much bigger even than her imaginings.
But each time she began to feel comfortable or confident, the wildlands seemed to rise to crush her hopes. She had to use the leaves three times over five days, and each incident stole a little more of her determination to see this through. Not only was she not any nearer to having magic, she had not even had the chance to see the other hunters work since she always ended up unconscious a few moments after a storm manifested.
A little over a week after the twister, Roar noticed something peculiar as they stopped for the night. Taraanar was due east of Pavan. Based on the constellations she saw as the sun set and the stars came out, they had begun turning south, having left the road behind several days prior.
She abandoned the tent with which she’d been wrestling. How after all these days did that thing still vex her beyond the limit of her patience? Glad to focus on something else, she marched her way up to Duke and Locke, hands on her hips, and declared, “We’re moving south.”
The old man did not look up from the spoonful of stew he lifted to his mouth. She caught a glimpse of what appeared to be an old tattoo on his forearm. It was faded and made even more illegible by his extensive scars, but was shaped vaguely like an anchor. Perhaps Duke had been a sailor in his early life; maybe the seas had called to him before the skies.
“We are,” he answered, lowering the bowl to his lap.
“I thought we were heading to Taraanar.”
Locke cut in. “Not for two days, we haven’t been.”
Bristling, she fixed her eyes on Locke, rather than the old man. He was a much easier target for her anger. “Why did no one tell me?”
Locke said, “I wasn’t aware you cared about the destination so much as the journey.”
She wouldn’t have normally. Roar didn’t particularly care where they went as long as there were storms involved. But there was a chance Pavan soldiers would still be searching for her and her abductors in the south.
“Are you trying to avoid storms because of me? I told you not to do that.”
“Yes, but the last time we encountered a storm, you looked like you wanted to rip my jugular out with your teeth. And I’m rather partial to it.”
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, as if that could pull back in the words, undo this entire conversation. She made herself meet his eyes. “Whatever is happening to me, I will find a way to control it. I’m lasting longer every time before I have to take Rezna’s rest. You don’t need to coddle me.”