Storms (Sharani Series Book 2) (4 page)

Cobb nodded, but didn’t rise. “Think quickly, sir. These here are like an old waterskin. Being here has swelled them all to the point where they simply don’t have the strength to resist the mounting pressure.”

Gavin nodded and exited, once again massaging his aching temples.

“This text will not stray into the religious beliefs of those calling themselves the Orinai, nor argue the theological ideologies and logical fallacies discussed by the hypocritical race, but it shall suffice to say that the Progression paths used in the Orinai religious circles . . . are contingent upon the nine Iterations outlined on the Schema.”

—From
Commentary on the
Schema, Volume I

Samsin, thirteenth incarnation of Samsinorna, reveled in the storm raging around him. He stood atop a stone platform near the edge of the Northern Dominion, calling down the rains to water the smokeweed fields of Nikanor’s plantation.

One of the slaves clambered up behind him, slipping on the platform’s slick rock.

“Great One,” the slave shouted, “this is destroying the fields. You must stop.”

Without even looking, Samsin backhanded the slave across the face. At well over seven feet tall and nearly twice as broad as the much smaller slave, Samsin struck with enough force to twist and break the slave’s neck and send the broken body sailing out over the edge of the platform. Samsin heard the faint sound of the body hitting the ground as if from a far greater distance.

Lightning struck the ground around him, charging the air. Samsin drew in the charge, using it to fuel both himself and the storm. While it took great strength of will and energy to start up a storm of this magnitude, once started, the storm itself both replenished and augmented the creator’s internal power. It was the beauty of being an Orinai of that strength and power, not that it did him much good in avoiding this current torture.

“You know you’ll have to pay for all this.” The voice was a deep rumble, almost the sound of thunder.

Samsin turned his head, the wind tossing his long, white-blond hair in front of his eyes. Almost as tall as Samsin was himself, but much more
solid
, Nikanor stood in almost the exact same spot the slave had, though Nikanor’s bare feet were a matter of choice, rather than station. His black hair lay plastered to his square-jawed face, tinges of grey visible through the rain.

“I can replace a few slaves as easily as the wind tosses leaves across the sky,” Samsin said. He turned back to the storm, raising his arms into the air.

“I was not discussing their price in gold.”

Samsin snorted. Typical response from Nikanor. Earth Wards all tended to be pacifists, and believers in the Progression of Honor to get to a higher Iteration. It was ironic, considering the Earth Ward’s next Iteration, the Vulcanist, was the most erratic of all magic users. And the most decidedly vicious. No wonder the Seven Sisters so frequently had to put them down.

“Spare me your preaching.” Samsin grudgingly admired the Earth Ward’s dogged determination though. Even after everything Samsin had done, Nikanor still tried.

Nikanor strode up to him with deliberate steps. He took a position next to Samsin, feet placed wide and arms clasped behind his back. Squaring off with the earth, they called it. Samsin almost snorted again.

“Still, the crops themselves are much harder to replace than the slaves who work them,” Nikanor said in his low rumble. “When the Sisters’ taskmasters come for their quota, they will not be pleased.”

That gave Samsin pause. Thunder erupted overhead and rain pelted his face.

“Fine,” he finally snapped.

Reaching outward, Samsin pulled in the threads of energy still crackling in the air. Energy streamed into him. The
storm
streamed into him. His blood raced with it, his skin tingled, his hair stood almost erect. With a roar, Samsin reached out with his power, gripped the storm, and dispersed it into a fine mist which
exploded
outward, covering the plantation, the slave huts clustered at their edge and over fifty square miles in a thick fog. Samsin let his arms drop, unable to keep them up any longer.

“Was that necessary?” Nikanor asked. The man’s voice was even and held no overt judgment in it, but Samsin knew there was condemnation behind it. It was Nikanor’s way.

“Yes.”

“The Sisters’ Council denied your request to return to the Southern Dominion.” It was not a question.

“What of it?” Samsin strode over the wet rock and slid down the ladder to the ground below. Nikanor followed, but took each rung on his way down. Samsin didn’t look at the mangled body on the ground near them.

Muted sounds drifted through the fog. The sound of mourning slaves. The sound of Samsin’s continued hell. How much longer did he have to suffer here?

“The more petulant you act, the longer you will stay here,” Nikanor said as if reading Samsin’s thoughts.

Nikanor strode purposefully through the fog. Samsin followed slightly behind him, his pace much slower and more careful. The Earth Ward didn’t need his eyes to see. His bare feet could sense the vibrations in the earth and he used that as often as his eyes to traverse distances. Samsin, on the other hand, didn’t have that ability.

“I will not lie in my missives to the Sisters.”

Samsin ground his teeth together to keep himself from responding. The man was so storms-cursed 
honorable
. It bothered Samsin that the Ward pairs so often ended up with such dissimilar Progressions. He and Nikanor were of equal rank, despite the decade Nikanor had in age over him, so there was nothing Samsin could do to get him to change his ways, either with political or religious maneuverings. Yet stubborn tenacity was something their Progressions shared. More than once Samsin had considered killing the man—distasteful as that was—but killing Nikanor wouldn’t end him; he’d simply be reincarnated as a babe of equal status somewhere within the Dominions. And the act would definitely give Samsin
another
incarnation as a Storm Ward. Why did he have to end up here anyway? Storms take this place. Storms take the light-blinded Progressions.

It took Samsin a moment to realize Nikanor was no longer walking. He almost bumped into the man. Nikanor had resumed the squared earth posture. Samsin unclenched his teeth, a barbed comment forming on his lips, when he stopped and swallowed the words. Was that an actual
expression
on Nikanor’s face?

“What?” Samsin asked.

Nikanor’s face drained of color.

“The Rahuli live,” Nikanor whispered. “They’re still alive.”

Samsin blinked. It took him a long moment to recognize the words Nikanor had spoken. “Children’s stories. We left the Arena behind almost a thousand years ago. As a child, I almost believed in slaves that could create monsters and kill one of the Sisters. Whatever really happened, the Rahuli cannot be alive a thousand years later.”

Nikanor spun on him and the earth rumbled slightly under Samsin’s feet. “They live. We’ve been summoned. I felt it in the earth.”

Felt the message? Stone Talking wasn’t uncommon, most Earth Wards could do it, but if Nikanor really had felt the message that meant . . .

“Was the message meant for someone?” Samsin asked, licking his lips. Though he already knew the answer, he still winced when Nikanor said it aloud.

“It was sent to the Seven Sisters.”

The bath water was still just a touch short of the perfect temperature. Samsin gestured for one of the slaves to bring in more water. He needed the heat. He needed the steam. Baths helped him think and he severely needed some serious contemplation.

The slaves left, giving him a small bow before closing the wooden door behind them. Samsin pursed his lips and tapped a finger to his chin.

Samsin sighed and slipped lower in the titled basin. When he’d first arrived at the plantation nearly a year ago, there hadn’t been more than a few ramshackle rooms loosely tied together by some halls. The slaves had hardly given a Great One of his stature the respect he’d deserved. And, worst of all, there hadn’t even been a bath. That was fine for a back-country Earth Ward like Nikanor. Samsin required a higher standard of living. He’d been quick to rectify all three situations.

The manorhouse in which they now lived was, by the standards of the slave people in the Northern Dominion and the majority of the Ward Partners who tended them here, opulent beyond reasoning. To Samsin it was barely adequate. Samsin added some scented perfumes to the bath water.

Still, the bath chamber is rather pleasant.

Ceramic tiles covered the walls in colorful patterns, matching the latest fashions in the Southern Dominion. Reliefs covered the ceiling, depicting the sea and the magnificent storms which graced it. And the bath itself, a massive construction deep enough to cover Samsin up to the neck if he stood upright in the deep end, was more than a little lavish. A walkway surrounded it on every edge so the slaves or bathers could walk around to every side.

The door to the bathing chamber opened and then closed again. Through the steam, Samsin couldn’t make out who it was, but assumed it was the slaves returning with his heated water.

“That was fast,” he said, sighing and closing his eyes. “I will see you get rewarded for your efforts.”

There was no response. Slaves rarely spoke, which was fine with Samsin, but they were required to respond when spoken to. Samsin opened his eyes, temper flaring.

Nikanor stood at the edge of the pool, arms folded across his massive chest. “This is your third bath in as many days,” he said.

“It amazes me that you can say that with the tone you do. Storm’s breath, how can you sit in that filth for
weeks
at a time?” Samsin closed his eyes again and leaned back against the edge of the pool.

“It takes the slaves hours to fill the bath, and then another few to heat it. They have better things to be about.”

“Better than serving their master? I think not. You should really consider changing the color of the house slaves’ robes. That same drab brown for both them and the plantation slaves. It makes me feel like I’m always dirty, even when I’m not.”

“And what will a color change?”

“The perception of cleanliness is almost as good as the reality.”

Samsin breathed in the sweet, perfumed air. The steam in the air warmed him as much as the water did. Though his particular powers were not directly related to the water, they were connected, and—well, why shouldn’t he like baths?

“The slaves are still trying to recover from the destruction of your storm. You know, you were only supposed to
water
the fields, not attempt to destroy them.”

Samsin heard Nikanor take a few steps closer to him. The door opened and the temperature in the bath rose as slaves poured large cauldrons of boiling water into the far end of the bath. Samsin sighed in contentment. The door closed.

“I gave you more than enough coin to cover the cost,” Samsin said.

“Coin has nothing to do with it.”

“Coin is everything,” Samsin said. “Coin can replace anything you’ve lost. It is the power to build, to conquer, and to claim victory in the great game of life. Everything comes from coin.”

Nikanor was silent for long enough that Samsin opened his eyes and lifted his head.

“Can coin buy you a new life?” Nikanor asked, his deep rumble of a voice slow and methodical. “Can it help you reach the next Iteration?”

Samsin narrowed his eyes. “Don’t preach to me, Nikanor. You should know better by now. I do not believe in your ways.”

Nikanor gave a slight nod. “They’re just questions.”

Samsin snorted, settling back into the bath. “Why are you here, Nikanor? You didn’t come this close to a bath just to lecture me about the virtues of your Progression.”

“It’s been almost a week since we received the message from the Sharani Desert,” Nikanor began.

Samsin sat back up in his bath, a chill not from the water making him shiver. He felt a dull ache blossom at the base of his neck and down his shoulders.

“Are you sure it was from them?” Samsin asked.

“Another man would take insult at the number of times you’ve asked that. Yes, I am absolutely sure.”

“Then why haven’t you contacted the relays before now? Why haven’t you sent a message to the Sisters? I know you’ve sent a missive within the last week. You didn’t mention it, did you?”