The Gathering Storm (Crown of Stars 5)

“Lord save us!” said a man’s voice, heard as through a muffling cloak. “Can anyone have survived that? Go on, then, boys!”

Hounds barked. He heard them pattering through pools of muddy water, paws slip-slapping on the ground. He tried to open his eyes, but a salty grime encrusted them, and it wasn’t until tongues licked him, wiping away all that blinded him, that he could see again.

“Sorrow!” he whispered. “Rage!”

They whined as they bumped up against him, waggling their hindquarters in ecstasy. They were thin, and scruffy, and overjoyed. The salt had cracked the bindings that shackled him, and as the hounds swarmed over him, the chains fell away.

A man loomed into view. He uttered a gasp of shock, or a murmured curse, or perhaps a prayer.

“Alain?” He knelt beside him but didn’t touch him, not yet. Instead he dragged the heavy chains off his body. He was weeping. “I heard, lad, but I had to see for myself. They said you’d gone over the ridge. And that storm! Ai, Lady. There’s at least three dead in the village and I haven’t been back home yet to see how Bel and the others fared. My God. What man could be so cruel as to treat another man in this way?”

He cracked open his eyes. “Father?”

Henri looked much older; he had many more lines on his face, and his hair was gray. But the face was so blessedly familiar, so beloved. There were tears on the merchant’s cheeks.

“Ai, God, lad, can you forgive me? Even though you weren’t the old count’s son, you never deserved this. I raised you better than to lie and cheat in such a way. I suppose the old count chose for himself and how could you say him nay? There was a girl he’d bedded who bore a stillborn child near or about when you was born. He might have thought otherwise, might have insisted you were his. Old sorrows take men that way sometimes. I should have trusted you. I should have known you better. That’s how I failed you, Son.”

The words spilled out in a rush as strong as the tide, leaving Alain stranded and out of breath. He was still dazzled and shaken and stricken, and the hounds were laying half on top of him, pressing as close as they could.

Henri frowned, wiped away tears, and spoke again. “Off, you brutes!”

Amazingly the hounds crept back meekly, their soft growls more like groans of protest. Hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to touch him, Henri laid a hand on Alain’s arm. “Here, lad. Come now, get up. Lean on me.”

arth groans. Along the northern sea the mouths of rivers run dry as the land jolts a finger’s span upward to counterbalance the abrupt weight that has slammed into the Middle Sea. In places, rivers run backward. Ports are left high and dry.

Everywhere the ground shakes. The windstorm that raked across the broad lands dissipates in wilderness where there are only dumb, uncomprehending beasts to sniff at its last gasping residue.

Deep in the earth, goblins race through ancient labyrinths, seeking their lost halls.

Out in the ocean, the merfolk circle, diving deep to escape the maelstrom above.

Out on the steppe lands, the Horse people hunker down in hollows that offer them some protection against the howling wind. The magic of the Holy One shelters them even as it drains the life right out of her.

Those who were most harmed in ancient days ride out the storm, for they have the least to lose now. It is humankind who suffer most. Maybe Li’at’dano knew all along that this would be the case; maybe she planned it this way, harming the two greatest threats to her people—the Cursed Ones and her human allies.

Maybe the WiseMothers suspected humankind would take the brunt of the backlash. Maybe they had no choice, knowing that the belt was already twisted, that the path was already cleared through the forest on which their feet must walk.

They speak to him through rock and through water, although the salty sea almost drowns their voice.

It. Is. Done. You. Have. Saved. Us.

The link retreats, and their presence withdraws.

The tidal wave sucked back into the sea, pulling every loose piece of debris with it into the sound. At first, the wagon was caught in that riptide, but the church wall trapped the wagon among its fallen stones and the chains held him. Battered but alive, he was left wheezing and choking on sodden ground as the water receded.

The sun came up. It was a cold, cloudy day; there was no blue sky visible, and an ashy haze muted the daylight, but nevertheless the world had survived. He had survived. He was weak and exhausted and sopping wet and hungry and thirsty and filthy and yet despite all this at peace.

It was done.

He had seen the beginning and now the ending. The crown of stars was obliterated. The Ashioi had returned from their exile.

“Lord save us!” said a man’s voice, heard as through a muffling cloak. “Can anyone have survived that? Go on, then, boys!”

Hounds barked. He heard them pattering through pools of muddy water, paws slip-slapping on the ground. He tried to open his eyes, but a salty grime encrusted them, and it wasn’t until tongues licked him, wiping away all that blinded him, that he could see again.

“Sorrow!” he whispered. “Rage!”

They whined as they bumped up against him, waggling their hindquarters in ecstasy. They were thin, and scruffy, and overjoyed. The salt had cracked the bindings that shackled him, and as the hounds swarmed over him, the chains fell away.