Roar (Stormheart #1)(103)

“What else?” Duke snapped, feeling for her pulse, touching her forehead, lifting her closed eyelids. Jinx held up a skyfire lantern to cast light over them. For the first time, Locke’s eyes fixed on something besides Roar’s anguished face and the bizarre phenomenon of her heart.

Her hair … it was white. Pale, bright white. Like the light in her chest.

“What else, Locke? Think. Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

Locke felt numb. His body was cold and shaking, and he was fairly certain he was going into shock. “Called it,” he mumbled. “She—she said she called it.”

“That’s not possible,” Jinx said. “Not even the strongest Stormlings can summon a storm. Only control those that already exist.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Locke snapped. “But … but how is any of this possible? There should have been a stone. But there wasn’t. There was nothing left of the storm that I could find except that.” He punctuated his words with gesture toward Roar’s chest.

Jinx didn’t reply. No one did. They only stared, as baffled and terrified as he was.

“Your welcome in Toleme is revoked. You all need to leave. Now.”

The hard voice came from the direction of the town, and the other hunters parted to reveal Minister Vareeth. His expression was curled into a sneer, and his eyes flashed with fear and loathing when they fell upon Roar.

“I want you out of my town. Now. We want nothing to do with her kind.”

“Her kind?” Locke asked.

“I did not believe. I heard the whispers. The rumors from scourged who tried to seek refuge here. I thought it fearmongering from the Stormlings. Thought they were trying to lure people from the wilds to seek shelter in the cities.”

“What rumors?” Locke demanded, launching to his feet and surging toward the man.

Ransom caught him, holding him back.

“The Stormlord. She is like him,” the minister said. “Varatempia.”

“Vara what?”

“It’s Vyhodin,” Sly said, stepping up to stand between Locke and the minister. “It means … ‘with a heart of storms.’ But I’ve only ever heard it as an exaggeration. For unruly children with bad tempers.”

“Go!” the minister yelled. “If I were not a man of faith, I’d have you all hanged for the peace of mind of my people. If you do not leave now, I might reconsider.”

“We can’t go without our things,” Bait snarled. “Our carriage. Our horses.”

“Then get them and go. But she stays here. She will not taint our Sacred town again.”

Locke broke free from Ransom and charged toward the minister. “Who is this Stormlord you speak of? Why do you fear him?” He took hold of the man’s shirt, dragging him up onto his toes, even as Ransom appeared again, trying to haul him back. “Who is he?” Locke growled.

“He is destruction. The very soul of death. He’s the worst perversion of magic, the prophesized end of days. And like her, storms beat beneath his chest.”

Ransom finally succeeded in pulling Locke away, and he went, snarling. “Superstitious garbage. We saved your pathetic town. And you would put us out in the night because of old religious texts that haven’t been relevant for centuries? What kind of coward are you? You would let your fear of the imaginary make you cruel to real people, flesh and blood!”

“It is not fiction. The Stormlord lives. He has already destroyed the city for which you are named.”

“Wh-what?” Locke stumbled, fatigue raking down his spine. “I don’t understand. Locke—”

“Swallowed up by the sea,” the minister growled. “Battered and drowned until not one brick lay upon another. Total destruction. And I’ll not have my home be next.”





Sometimes we must make answers where there are none.

—The Tale of Lord Finneus Wolfram





22

She’ll wake today, Locke told himself. She had to. He did not think he could survive another night with her unconscious. It was not abnormal for those who survived a skyfire strike to fall into an unrelenting sleep. But while Roar had not woken, she whimpered and gasped and moaned in pain, the skyfire flash in her chest speeding up when she did. He felt so helpless, so afraid—both emotions he had not felt since his childhood.

Two nights prior they had left Toleme in the dark and traveled through the night to reach Taraanar. And now as he and Jinx wove their way through a crowded market—this one selling fine silks and pottery and spices, he unconsciously reached for his supply harness for what must have been the dozenth time, only to come up empty. He had been forced to leave everything that could be considered dangerous magic back at their camp for this visit.

Stall owners shouted at them as they passed, shoving various wares in their faces, promising the best prices in the whole market. Jinx looked back at him, her normally distinctive hair covered by a scarf. “Remember,” she said, “be nice. We need her to help us. Do not lose your temper.”

Locke grunted in response. Perhaps he had been a little irritable over the last few days, but what was he expected to be when Roar still lay unconscious in the Rock? He’d had to leave her to come into the city. They’d not been able to bribe their way in on such short notice, and it was much easier to sneak two people inside than an entire crew and a hulking metal carriage.