Roar (Stormheart #1)(77)

She wished she had taken the time to find a token, but the only true belongings of worth she had were the twister ring about her neck and the Finneus Wolfram book that she brought along for comfort and inspiration. Both meant far too much to sacrifice, but something about the notion of dropping her blood on that altar did not sit well with her.

The minister began to speak, and Locke steadied her hands. She would worry about the vulnerability she was showing him later when her heart did not feel like it was about to burst from her chest. She squeezed his fingers, pressing them into the knife he held, and she dared not look at him. “Easy,” he whispered. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She took too long to say the first line of the invocation, so the minister repeated it again, as if she hadn’t heard. Her voice came out as little more than a whisper as she said, “We call to the heavens, to the Sacred Skies.” Little bumps lifted along her skin, her hair standing on end as she continued: “We call to the souls ancient and wise.”

Out of nowhere, lightning streaked overhead, splintering the quiet sky. She jumped and turned away and Locke was there, his chest wide and warm and solid against her cheek. When no more lightning appeared, she eased herself out of his arms.

The minister watched her with confusion, but it was Sly just behind her shoulder that stared with clear, unadulterated distrust.

She was being silly. It was only blood. She had sprinkled far more than a few drops of it along the southern road out of Pavan. She nodded for the minister to continue, but the moment she spoke her next words, lightning lit up the sky once more. She finished the sentence quickly, praising the strength of storms as one attempted to make itself known overhead. She glanced at Locke for the first time, and she could not help but let him see her fear. If a storm formed now, here with these strangers, and she reacted badly …

His hand rubbed soothingly up and down her spine. Any other time she would have shrugged off the touch. There were too many people around. But it did calm her. Just that little touch made breathing feel like less of a challenge. “Don’t worry about the skyfire. It’s only in the clouds for now,” he said. “Finish this, and we’ll go inside. And if a storm comes, the others can handle it.”

That only made her more furious with herself. She didn’t want the others to handle it. In fact, she should be jumping at the chance to face a skyfire storm. That was her family’s strongest affinity, and she could not go back home without it.

You are lightning made flesh. Colder than falling snow. Unstoppable as the desert sands.

She couldn’t say the rest because she was done pretending to be Stormling, but the rest was true. Her blood, like her ancestors’ before her, was filled with the light of skyfire. She knew her heart could freeze out fear and doubt because she had done it all her life. And her will, her desire to obtain storm magic, had pushed her through far worse situations than a tiny drop of blood on an altar.

She kept her eyes on the sky as she said the next two phrases.

“We offer a sacrifice to you…”

She did not flinch as the skyfire above her bounced from cloud to cloud, lighting up the sky from horizon to horizon.

Locke peeled back the fingers of one hand she had been fisting at her side. He smoothed his palm over hers, once and then again, tracing the healed scar from when she had cut her palm to sow the tale of her kidnapping. Then he made the tiniest of pricks on the tip of her index finger. She watched a single drop of blood land, and above her head, the sky exploded with light, so bright that it burned like the sun in her peripheral vision. She snatched her hand to her chest and threw her head back, but the sky was dark and still once more. She spat out quickly, “In hopes you find it worthy and true.”

Then she put several steps between her and the altar, clutching her blood-smeared finger inside her other fist. The minister didn’t approach to touch her, but rather said his blessing from afar, his eyes wide and fearful.





Listen to her roar. Listen to her wail.

Listen to the grief that lives inside the gale.

—“At the Heart,” a Sacred Souls hymn





17

The outside of the inn was nearly the same color as the reddened earth it sat on. It was plain and squat. But the inside was a sunburst of color—rich woven tapestries, intricately painted pottery. The calming smell of incense hung in the air.

She could feel the others peeking at her when she was not looking, and nausea rolled through her stomach. A headache throbbed at her temples. One by one the hunters collected a key from Duke. Quickly, she reached into her pack for her coin purse, glad she had brought enough with her to last a while. When she asked Duke how much she owed, he shook his head.

“No need.”

Sly, who had just received her own key, gave Roar a hard look before walking down a hallway to the right, her feet muffled by the thick, blue rug that stretched the length of the hall.

“I have money. I can pay my way.”

“Keep your coin,” he said. “None here have paid their own way until their training ended and they began receiving a cut of the market sales. You will be the same. It is our investment in you.”

Roar had been a lousy investment so far, and would continue to be so, for she had always planned to leave once she had what she needed.

“Please,” she said, “I would really prefer to take responsibility for my own needs.”