ROWEN WAITED for a time before realizing Kristoff likely wasn’t coming back that day. He had said he would arrange something for that evening, but it was going on toward afternoon, the storm still lashing against the side of the house, and there was no sign of him or anyone else. Sharon and Elise were likely studying or napping, and Volkes…. Rowen didn’t want to worry about Volkes.
It was a day off, and he should be enjoying it, but all he wanted to do was work. Rain meant it was time to conserve, to put out bucket after bucket and clean as much as one could, or go out and shore up foundations so mud wouldn’t destabilize his or the neighbors’ houses, or even dig extra holes so water would collect and drain into prepared wells. None of that was necessary here. He could continue practicing his letters, of course, but his body wanted real work, physical work, and there was nothing to do. Life here was almost too easy.
He wished Kristoff were here. He could try to use his magic or learn to swim again… although the thought of getting into the ocean while the rain beat down against him and the wind stirred the waves made his legs feel weak.
Rowen paced, frustration buzzing through him. He hoped this wasn’t another symptom of his losing control of his magic. Maybe it was just like heat boredom, when it was too hot to leave the shelter of one’s home, but a strange sort of opposite of that, when it was too rainy to leave. But it was less boredom and more annoyance, frustration, made worse by the incessant sound of the rain against the windows. It was like the rushing of the ocean, a cold presence that begged him to do something about it, to use it and survive another day.
This wasn’t a desert, and he knew that, but a lifetime of caution and fighting to survive on almost no water meant water like this, pouring down in sheets, made him edgy. He hoped he would one day get over it.
During the worst of the heat spells, people rested and relaxed. He wasn’t tired, but he had to try and do the same. He didn’t want to get upset like before and use his magic by accident and ruin Kristoff’s storm. The last thing he wanted to do was somehow disappoint him.
He gritted his teeth, taking a deep breath. He picked up the book on the table before putting it down in favor of blank paper. The images in the book were gorgeous. Maybe he could try to do that, like the paintings the Darsean man had shown him. They had certainly been soothing.
Willing himself to be calm, he sat down and began to sketch. Nothing came to mind except Kristoff, his smiling face and blue eyes, and the little stone he always wore around his neck. Rowen wondered what it was or what it meant to him. No other Storm Lords wore necklaces that he had seen. It was one of the first things Rowen had noticed that day when Kristoff saved him. Maybe it was Kristoff’s chosen item from his home.
That image began to come alive on the paper, a drawing of Kristoff hovering in the air, his hand outstretched. Forked lightning split the sky behind him, and Rowen added harsh lines. Rain, or maybe the pain he had been in, made the houses behind Kristoff look as though they were melting against the stormy sky, and Rowen smudged the charcoal intentionally. But Kristoff was clear, his eyes searching as he reached down to save Rowen.
Kristoff was beautiful, even in drawings. Rowen swallowed, realizing with a guilty flush that he was getting aroused by all the thought required to draw Kristoff so accurately. His hips, his thighs, his bare chest, even the delicate arches of his feet…. Rowen could imagine them perfectly as he reproduced Kristoff on paper.
He wished he could tell Kristoff how he felt. He remembered how his own voice had sounded, deep and strong. Maybe if he could talk….
No. That thought wouldn’t get him anywhere. It was past time he accepted it. Besides, Kristoff liked men, but he was also a full Storm Lord, and Rowen just a student. A poor student, so far.
No one is going go after someone who can’t even fucking talk. The memory of Volkes’s words was like a splash of spilled water, cold and promising future dread. Suddenly he felt alone, as alone as he had that horrible year after his parents had died.
Rowen frowned. He would learn to write, at least. He may not be able to be with Kristoff, or with anyone, but he could still be a good student and a good Storm Lord.
He had to believe that.
A knock at the door brought him out of his thoughts, and he pushed the paper away, putting it under the book on the table.
“Hello.” Franken greeted him at the door, and Rowen looked around but saw no sign of Benjamin. “Just me today. Kristoff wants me to help out. Ready to work?”
Rowen smiled, the bleak mood lifting. Finally.
It was still raining when Franken brought Rowen up to Seer’s Hill, the sky beginning to dim to purple. The wind had lessened, at least, and now it was a rain close to what Rowen was used to, a light drizzle that would soak the sands and fill wells that he and his father would dig in the morning. There, the rain had been warm. Here, rain fell like pricks of cold on his skin and made the air smell like soil and the grass leave stains on his shoes.
“So,” Franken said, facing Rowen and crossing his arms. “Kristoff tells me you’re losing control of your magic, eh? When you get angry?”
Rowen nodded.
“But you’re not aware of yourself doing it?”
Another nod. He wondered where Benjamin was, but Franken hadn’t offered any explanation. Maybe it was too late for the boy to be awake.
“About time, I suppose. You’re the oldest student I’ve seen, but it’s the older ones who usually have that problem. Their magic develops late, and they don’t know how to control it, like a developing boy who doesn’t know his own strength. So. First thing.” Franken held up one finger. “Have you ever tried, on your own, to use your magic? Not sensing. I mean bringing in weather of some sort.”
Rowen shook his head.
“Fair enough.” Franken tapped his chin with one finger. “It’s the second step to sensing. The easiest thing for anyone to do is bring the air toward them. You sense it, and then you pull it in. A lot of people end up doing it when they’re uncomfortable, like during a heat spell—they want to be cooler, they sense cool air in the distance, and boom—” He snapped his fingers. “They bring it in. With you, when you’re mad, you must have wanted something. Something to ease discomfort?”
He supposed getting Volkes to leave him alone was like that. Rowen nodded.
“All right, good. So perhaps instead of thinking of something that makes you angry, think of the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been. Close your eyes. Really imagine it.”
Rowen frowned. His mind leapt, unbidden, to his worst memory—finding his parents. He had been thinking of home too much lately. The sight of them lying on their sleeping pallet on the dirt floor of their wooden cottage, both of them lying apart, too hot to even stay together to find comfort.
He had never wanted to think of it again. His mouth twitched, the urge to cry heating his eyes. Why had they died and he had lived? They were healthy, healthier than he was, having lived all their lives in the village, used to the heat. His father used to laugh at him on summer days. “Come along, Rowen. The sun burns, but the shade of the tunnels is nice.” His mother once boiled water during a heat spell, cooking a lizard she had caught, when it was too hot for anyone else to eat cooked food. The heat hadn’t bothered them.
And then they had died. The heat spell had killed so many. Why had he lived?
He remembered the cloying, stifling heat, the sting of sweat on his skin, and the bitter taste of the pit seeds on his tongue. After that had come the numbness, which was worst of all. Goose bumps had flashed over his body, the sensation like thousands of tiny ants marching across his skin that sent pinpricks of false cold. His throat tightened, and his eyes began to burn, tears massing behind the closed lids.
Franken spoke up. “Now instead of ignoring the memory, or pushing it away, bring in something new. Think of a nice, cool breeze from the sea or a nice, soothing rain. Keep your eyes closed. Imagine the breeze blowing away or the rain washing away whatever you’re feeling.”
Rowen thought of the ocean and the cold of the water and how the air prickled his skin when he was wet from learning to swim with Kristoff. But that just felt like the pit seeds, a false sensation. And he had to admit, he didn’t much like being wet. The annoyance and frustration of the sound of the rain just made it worse. Rain wasn’t a relief for long, only motivation to work harder to prepare for the long dry weather ahead.
He thought of the dry desert wind instead, hearing in his mind the soft rush of falling dirt when it blew through the tunnels of the wells he and his father dug. It wasn’t hot, but not cold either. It anchored his awareness, a soothing combination of relief and warmth that thawed the anxiety of bad memories. He could imagine it easily, how it would send dust spiraling across the village ground like rippling sheets on a bed. Here it would be hot, he supposed, and slow, barely enough to budge the enormous green trees and fronds all over the island.
“Good, Rowen,” Franken said. “Can you sense what you’re doing? You haven’t summoned anything yet, but you’re clearly using magic. You’re gathering it up, like a little storm cloud gathers water.” Franken chuckled at his own words. “Keep imagining whatever it is you’re imagining. This time, keep your eyes open and keep track of how you feel.”
The lights from the torches nearby hurt his eyes when he opened them after keeping them closed for so long. Other than that, he didn’t feel anything except for the steady drops of rain on his skin, although he kept imagining the breeze. He flicked his gaze to Franken, raising one eyebrow.
“Just keep going,” the Storm Lord urged. “Keep imagining it, but keep your eyes open. Try to sense the air and imagine things at the same time.”
Rowen took a breath, wishing he could ask how. Keeping his mind in two places, both here and in his memories of home, seemed impossible. Home was a dream, or a nightmare if he thought of his parents’ death, and the island, full of cold rain and swaying palm trees, was his future.
“Another way to do it is to imagine how the refreshing air in your mind would affect things here,” Franken said. “When a Storm Lord wants to break a heat spell that is what they do, after all. They bring in cooler air, and it all begins, at heart, when they want to bring it toward themselves. So try that, Rowen. Imagine that discomfort, but a cool, refreshing breeze blows it away.”
Rowen blinked. “Keep your eyes open,” Franken said. “Focus on yourself and the island too. The island is a part of you—you’re breathing its air, aren’t you? Focus on that. That’s the connection.”
Rowen let out another breath, imagining dust swirling in a sunbeam. Rain drummed against his skin, and it was hard to focus when the pinpricks of cold kept pelting him.
He paused for a moment, then breathed in, obeying Franken’s command to bring in comfort toward himself. He thought first of Volkes, of the pushy northerner’s touch and how the northern man’s voice had sounded when he had commanded the village to tie Rowen up. Then he thought of his salvation, of warm air rushing in and bringing in Kristoff’s storm, the wind whipping through and shoving away anyone and anything that would hurt him. As he breathed in further, he imagined the rush of the rain and the cold wind stilling, nothing but motionless warmth remaining behind, a normal sunny day at home after a rainstorm, when the water jugs were full, the mud had dried, and life always seemed easiest.
His chest expanded, his stomach tight with the held breath. He kept his eyes open, and he could have sworn he felt a damp heat gather on his skin. In the distance, his breath stirred something, a mass of heat and high pressure, and it lurched toward him like a heavy heartbeat. Certainty filled him. He could do this!
His gaze flicked to Franken, and then the warmth vanished, his body cold with dread.
“Rowen,” Franken said, his eyes wide and the skin around his mouth white. “What did you do?”
Rowen’s brows drew down, and he fought the urge to run from Franken’s stare. The rain had stopped.