Stormcaster (Shattered Realms #3)(15)

“What is it?” Evan resisted the temptation to turn it upside down again.

“It’s the loft.”

“That’s a loft? I thought it was a chapel in a cathedral church.” Evan pointed. “See, that’s the choir.”

“Upside down, Pirate, it’s a chapel,” Destin said. He’d taken to calling him Pirate when he learned that he’d crewed for the Stormlord of the Indio. “Right side up, it’s a loft.”

And there it was—a hint that the soldier had a sense of humor, though it was rarely on display—not at first, anyway.

Destin found ways to help with the barn, despite his relative lack of mobility—by sanding down rough tiles, or using mage’s flame to cut golden sandstone blocks to size, or packing mud into frames to make bricks, or mixing up plaster for the walls. He stayed in shape by doing pull-ups on the barn beams until sweat dampened his hair and ran down his face. He did this bare-chested, muscles rippling under his skin. Evan had to keep his back turned to avoid getting distracted and mashing his thumb.

Destin continually honed himself like a weapon for a war he knew was coming. He was intense, driven, restless, and very, very private. Their conversations circled a courtyard of unstable ground where secrets bubbled constantly.

When the sun was high in the sky and it was too hot for other chores, they retreated to the cottage for the midday. In late afternoon, as the temperature cooled, they returned to work on the barn until there wasn’t enough light to see.

There was always plenty to eat. Frances was the hardest-working blueblood Evan had ever seen. She’d begun with existing groves of olive and fruit trees. Destin’s irrigation system allowed her to plant a ground garden. She’d brought in beehives, chickens, and, of course, the cows, goats, and pigs. Destin had built a smokehouse to cure bacon and ham and the salmon they netted from the river.

One of Evan’s many tasks was to meet ships in port and collect the items they had ordered from the wetlands.

It took a while to persuade Destin to make good on the promise Frances had made—that he would teach Evan about magic. It was like a game of royals and commons where neither wanted to show his hand. Destin was always too tired, or his leg hurt, or he needed to work on drawings for the next day, or Breaker needed feeding right then.

He claimed he was waiting for some manuscripts to arrive from a temple in the wetlands—ancient texts that might help Evan better manage and control his abilities as a weather mage.

He doesn’t want to give me any more weapons than I already have, Evan thought.

Eventually, the soldier ran out of excuses, and they met for their first lesson at midday in the barn.

Evan was hot and sweaty and dirty from a morning spent hauling sandstone blocks around. Destin lounged back against a bale of hay, legs thrust out in front of him, bad leg propped, shirt open, sleeves rolled, breeches riding low on his hips. He was eating goat cheese, ham, and olives, licking his fingers and washing it down with water from a skin.

Hang on while I jump into the river and cool off, Evan thought. It was a good thing the soldier didn’t know what effect he was having on his unwanted guest.

Evan hoped so, at least.

Beside Destin lay a large leather case embossed with symbols, studded with jewels, fastened with a gold-and-silver buckle. Evan eyed it curiously. What could it contain? Guidance from the gods? An extra ration of ale? A second helping?

Breaker sat next to Destin, watching each morsel of food make its way to his mouth.

“So, tell me, Pirate,” Destin said, “when did you become aware that you were cursed with magic?”

“Cursed?”

“Back home, magic is considered to be the work of the Breaker,” Destin said, scratching his dog behind the ears, “a misfortune that, nonetheless, can be put to use for the greater glory of the crown.”

Was that why Evan and his mother were on the run? Was the general who was chasing them an agent of the wetland king? Those were the kinds of clues Destin dropped like a gauntlet in front of him, but Evan knew by now that there was no point in picking it up.

“Pirate?” Evan looked up and Destin was studying him, head cocked, still waiting for an answer.

“I was aboard the stormlord’s ship,” Evan said, wrenching his mind back to the task at hand and picking through his own secrets. “We were under attack by—we were under attack.”

Destin’s eyes narrowed, and Evan knew he’d picked up the near slip.

“I was angry—angry and scared, and I stirred up the wind and the sea and nearly capsized both ships.” That was like taking a barrel of cider and distilling it down to a tablespoon of brandy.

“And you did this without an amulet?” Destin raised an eyebrow, as if he thought Evan might finally change his story.

“I’d never seen an amulet until we met here in the barn,” Evan said. “I don’t believe they are known to mages on this side of the Indio. Where do they come from? What do they do?”

“They are made by tribes in the northern mountains in the wetlands,” Destin said. “They’re used to store and control magical energy, something we call ‘flash.’ There are other magical tools as well, such as talismans to protect against magical attacks, all made by the upland clans.”

“I’ve never seen them in the markets here,” Evan said. Was that the purpose of the magemark? Was it some kind of built-in amulet?