AS MUCH as he wanted to go to Rowen, the first place Kristoff stopped was the governor’s office.
“Kristoff?” Lissa jolted her head up from the sheaves of paper on her desk, pencil in hand. “I didn’t expect you. Were you out working?”
“No, well, I wasn’t clearing a heat spell…. I need to see the governor,” Kristoff said. Lissa paused at his tone, meeting Kristoff’s eyes for a moment before she headed to Lorana’s office. She beckoned when she returned. “She’ll see you now. Is there something wrong?”
Kristoff shook his head and walked past her, closing the office door behind him.
Lorana, seated at her desk by an enormous window overlooking the ocean, waved for him to take a seat. “Report, Storm Lord,” she said. “Something going on with your apprentice?” She raised an eyebrow, probably expecting him to tell her Rowen was failing.
Kristoff ground his back teeth together, resisting the urge to tap his foot. This was his governor and the leader of all the Storm Lords. He took a breath, then spat it out. “The heat spells over the southwest are far worse than we think. People are… people have died. We don’t act fast enough. We didn’t act fast enough last time.”
Lorana closed her eyes as if pained. “I know.”
“You know?” Kristoff boomed, leaping up from his seat. “You know people died because we were too slow?”
Lorana’s eyes narrowed. “Kristoff, you may be powerful and have a student of your own, but you’re only twenty-one. Barely removed from your training. Before you shout, listen to me.”
Kristoff stood, anger and shock simmering on his skin. The sight of the graves wouldn’t leave his mind.
Lorana’s voice was smooth. “There are currently seventy-five Storm Lords residing on this island. Of those, only fifteen have the power to dispel moderate heat spells on their own. The others require various amounts of help. Of those fifteen who can dispel alone, all have innate talents—lightning, or working with frozen air, or working in dry air, or only being able to work with ocean water of a certain temperature.” She lifted a hand. “You, for example, have the power create hurricanes, but are not nearly as effective in cold climates.”
Kristoff nodded. He could see where this was going.
“I have to prioritize. And sometimes, dispelling a heat spell over a city of a hundred thousand is more important than dispelling one over a village of three hundred.” She closed her eyes again for a moment as though the words hurt. They probably did. “Furthermore, the heat in the southwestern wastes is approaching uncontrollable levels. In two dozen years, maybe fewer, I predict that region will be lost.”
Lost. “Like the regions lost already? Like Darsea?” Kristoff’s heart twisted for Rowen. What would it be like, to be completely alone, a refugee from a dead people? The Darseans had fled from their homes ages ago. Darsea was… in the south. “The heat is spreading, isn’t it?”
“It is best that the people there realize that fact and leave, rather than relying on us,” Lorana finished, meeting Kristoff’s eyes. “Now if you still want to shout at me, you may.”
Kristoff realized then how many gray hairs Lorana had and how wrinkled the skin around her eyes was. “Do all Storm Lords know?”
“They all figure it out. They have to. I am surprised you hadn’t yet, Kristoff. The world is dying, and we’re its last line of defense. We’re fighting a war against the environment, and in war… we lose people. We have to make hard choices. Sometimes that means delaying saving a village to save a city. Sometimes that means letting nature take its course and giving the people there reason to leave before it’s too late.” She sighed. “That village should have migrated north years ago.”
Kristoff wanted to shout at her, to argue, to repeat the same points he had before. But it was pointless. He knew better than anyone how hard everyone worked and how common heat spells were. Even on the island, resources had to be conserved. No one who wasn’t a Storm Lord or born to one could live here. That was why Rowen was being threatened with being sent back.
And there were so few students. If things went on like this, they would lose—not just one region, but the world.
“I’m sorry for this, Kristoff. But we must keep working.”
Kristoff just turned and left the room without being told.
He had been an idiot. Dazzled by his own power, he had been convinced he was a hero, a savior. A god, like the villagers had called him. But he was just another man using whatever talents he could to stave off nature, the same as any well-digger. And he could fail. He had failed that village, for three weeks, while people died. He had failed it before, and Rowen’s parents had died.
No wonder Rowen hadn’t seemed to trust him when he had said they saved towns and villages before death could occur. Rowen would despise him, and all of them.
But Kristoff had to tell him. The last thing he wanted would be for Rowen to find out the same way Kristoff had, years in the future, living in a bubble of ignorance like a fool. Kristoff would be honest with Rowen. He owed him that much.
KRISTOFF KNOCKED at the door to Rowen’s shared house that evening, the sound of his knuckles against the wood louder than he would have liked.
He didn’t wait long before the door creaked open. “Hi!” Elise said. “Rowen, Kristoff’s back!” she called over her shoulder.
A spike of fear went through Kristoff as Rowen came to the door. His apprentice didn’t smile when he saw him, merely cocking his head, his red hair shining in the candlelight from inside. All Kristoff wanted to do was protect him.
“Rowen,” he said. “Come walk with me for a while. I want to… talk to you.”
Elise frowned, then met Rowen’s eyes. “Wait!” she said. “Take these.” She disappeared, and then ran back and shoved papers and a charcoal stick into Rowen’s hands. “We’ve been working on writing,” she said to Kristoff. “He’s getting really good.”
Kristoff forced a smile. “Good,” he said. “Come on, Rowen.”
Rowen nodded, waving good-bye to Elise. The door clicking shut behind him sent a heavy weight settling onto Kristoff’s shoulders.
They walked behind the house, a cool breeze sending the scent of salt and sea. The sun was low, bright beams lancing through the trees and spangling the path. Rowen stared at it when the wind picked up, sending the light dancing on the ground and leaves swirling down from the trees. As they walked on, Kristoff could hear the quiet rush of the ocean.
“Rowen,” he said, clearing his throat. Rowen looked at him, and Kristoff could read the nervousness he saw there. He wished he knew why. There were too many possible reasons to count.
“Rowen….” Kristoff sighed, staring up at the sky. His senses told him a storm was brewing in the distance, but it would likely pass them by, bringing nothing but warm rain. “Rowen, I’m sorry.”
Rowen tilted his head, a small frown on his face. He still held his papers and the charcoal stick to write with, but didn’t make any move to write anything. Kristoff wondered if he really could yet.
“I’m sorry that I told you Storm Lords got rid of heat spells before people died. I’m sorry about your village. About your parents.” Rowen immediately swiveled his head down, staring at the ground, and Kristoff’s throat tightened.
“I swear, Rowen, I didn’t know.” No, that was a foolish excuse. Lorana had been right. He should have known, should have used his head and realized how bad things could get, how bad things were all over the world.
He tried again. “We do our best, Rowen, but… they told me that people had died. A lot of them.” He swallowed hard. “I failed you. I failed your village.”
He wondered how many other villages he had failed, how many times he had been too late.
Rowen kept staring at the ground, the paper in his hand crumpled. Kristoff wished Rowen could say something, or that he could figure out what else to say. He had to say something, to fill the silence.
“The heat spells are bad, Rowen, all over the world. That’s why we do what we do. In the southwest, they’re growing worse. They told me about the pit seeds, about how you use them to survive, but even there they aren’t growing well anymore. And other places in the world, with even more people, have heat spells too, with thousands of people suffering. Lorana, she… we have to make choices, Rowen. Part of being a Storm Lord is saving people, but… we can’t save everyone. Sometimes people have to save themselves. We have to make sacrifices.”
Rowen jerked his head up, and Kristoff sensed something. The atmosphere shivered, his storm sense focusing. Rowen had done something, probably without even realizing it, and Kristoff didn’t know what—it still felt like lightning—but clearly he was upset enough that his magic was beginning to work.
“Rowen, please,” Kristoff said, reaching out. “Let me help you.”
Rowen shook his head, taking a step back as Kristoff’s fingers brushed his shoulder. He dropped the stick and papers, shaking his head again and putting up both hands, as if shoving Kristoff away. He turned and began to walk, his steps hurried.
Kristoff’s heart sank into his feet. “Rowen, please,” he called, but Rowen didn’t stop.
Kristoff cursed his own idiocy, and Lorana, and the heat spells. He may have just lost a student. But it hurt even more than that, more than it should.
He just wanted Rowen to be happy. But everything he had done, and failed to do, had ruined Rowen’s life.