Nealrith stared at his father in horror.
"Ah, I see. You would have us all go down together, so that no one survives at all?"
"I can't believe you would-"
"Believe it!" his father growled in another display of his old strength. "Stop dreaming, Nealrith. Even if you find a potential stormlord or two in the Gibber Quarter, we may have to let whole parts of the Quartern die. There won't be a choice. My disagreement with Taquar is over when to do it, not whether to do it. He wants me to conserve my energies as long as possible by cutting down on cloudmaking. It's a wise strategy; I'm just not quite desperate enough to do it yet. But if you fail in the Gibber Quarter, then yes, I will withhold rainstorms from that whole Quarter. And the White Quarter, too."
For a moment Nealrith stood, immobile, the blood drained from his face. Ethelva came and laid a hand on his arm. He turned to look at her and saw the acquiescence there, written in her eyes. His horror deepened, choking off thought. His mother could believe such a solution was necessary?
"Do as your father asked, dear. Open the shutters."
He strove for coherence. "Sandblighted eyes, Mother, he-"
"Nealrith, just do it."
He made a gesture of negation but threw open the shutters anyway. Light blasted in on a wave of dry heat, both so intense he winced.
Granthon did not bother to look down at the slopes of the city below; instead he squinted towards the horizon and waited for his eyes to adjust. Nealrith knew he was already assessing the distant water in the air, far beyond a mere rainlord's perception.
"The conditions are good," he said. "Can you see, Nealrith?"
It took a moment, but then he could indeed see wispy clouds dissolving and coalescing above where the Giving Sea bordered the southern limits of the Quartern. Not many, but enough to make Granthon's stormquest easier.
"Yes," Nealrith said heavily. If only I could help! Guilt rippled through him. Irrational, he knew. It wasn't his fault that he was no more than an average rainlord. Watergiver knew he tried.
Then his father's focus was gone from him, turned inwards, pushed outwards, whatever it was that he did at moments like this, with whatever power he possessed. Nealrith gazed at the cloud over the sea and tried to imagine that he could see the changes his father wrought, the gathering of water, the building of the dark storm clouds packed with the potential of life-giving rain.
For a long while there was nothing; then the storm clouds were there, growing larger and darker by the moment. Time passed; a servant entered the room twice to upend the sandglass. The clouds moved away from the sea, rose higher, slowly shifted closer across the Skirtings.
His father lay, propped up on the divan at the window, bathed in sweat. Giving up his own water in the effort. His own life seeping away as he reached the limits of his power. His skin was pale, his breathing shallow; his body shivered.
Nealrith shot a look at his mother, knowing he could not keep his fear out of the glance.
"Yes, it is too much," she whispered, the words soft, her voice resigned. "It was too soon. One day he will not come back." She held her son's gaze. "One day there will be one stormquest too many."
He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. "Could it be… today?"
"No, no, not yet. A year, two… who knows? Lord Gold makes sacrifices, the Sun Temple worshippers pray for him, the High Physician doses him; perhaps one of them will find the miracle they seek. We all do what we can. I no longer grow flowers. I bathe infrequently. I don't give my clothes to be washed so often."
He looked back at the clouds. They would bypass the city to the east, and they moved as if they rode winds across the sky. He knew there were no winds; there never were. Nothing except the force a stormlord sent from himself. All being well, soon they would reach the Warthago Range and be forced to rise and drop their rain.
Priests explained all water-power by saying the Sunlord had gifted it to his believers in order to mitigate the ferocity of his radiance. That made sense to Nealrith. A god by his very nature must always overwhelm, and water-power evened up the balance. What puzzled him was why the Sunlord had not helped as the stormlords disappeared one by one from the Quartern. Why had he not ensured the birth of others?
I mustn't question, he thought. The Sunlord knows best and the priests say we must accept his will. Everything happens for a reason.
He looked back at his father, the last stormlord in the land. He wanted to help him, yet he knew in his heart he was glad he didn't have to give up so much of himself to keep others alive. He was glad his whole life was not governed by the quest for storms. Still, he would have done it to help his father, to prevent the Cloudmaster's life seeping away from him, his strength draining drop by precious drop.
And then Granthon cried out, a heart-rending cry of pain and outrage and despair.
Ethelva gasped and dropped to her knees at his side, grabbing for his hand, but Granthon pushed her away.
"No!" he cried. "No-"
"Father, what is it?" Nealrith's heart was pounding. He couldn't even begin to guess what had gone wrong. He glanced at the storm clouds again. They were dark enough to carry rain and they were heading-as far as he could tell-in the right direction.
Granthon clutched at him. "Nealrith," he said, and shock made his voice quaver, "someone took it away from me. Someone stole my storm."
CHAPTER FOUR
Scarpen Quarter Breccia City Feldspar House, Level 3 "Ryka, Ryka, come quickly!"
Ryka Feldspar looked up as her younger sister Beryll came skidding across the terracotta tiles into the room, grinning with a mixture of delight and mischief. "Quickly, change out of that horrible tunic thing and wear something pretty, for pity's sake. Your Destined One is here! Talking to Papa."
Ryka pushed away the document she had been translating and looked short-sightedly at Beryll, who was already rooting through her wardrobe. It shook alarmingly under the onslaught.
"What are you doing?" Her newest silk outfit, intended to be worn for the first time at the annual Temple Gratitudes, came sailing through the air and only her quick reflexes stopped it from overturning the ink jar. "Beryll, please! Stop and tell me what's going on."
Her sister's head ducked down into the cupboard, her voice muffled as she rummaged through footwear. "Lord Kaneth Carnelian is here, asking to see you. Mama way-laid him and sent me to tell you to dress nicely."
She looked at Beryll blankly. "Uh?"
Her sister emerged triumphant, waving a pair of embroidered slippers. "He's come as a suitor, you dryhead! Oh, Ryka-how did you manage to get ink all over your fingers? You'd better wash."
Ryka laughed, unbelieving, and went to return the dress to the wardrobe. "Whatever he's here for, it's certainly not as my suitor. He might have an eye on you in a year or two, perhaps, if he wanted to marry a Feldspar. But I doubt he'll ever marry. He likes his women pretty and plentiful and playful, does Kaneth."
And he likes snuggery jades, too, from all accounts, she added sourly to herself.
Beryll laughed. "He's too old for me. At least thirty-five. Besides, I'm not a rainlord. You are. And so is he. Two rainlords: more chance of a stormlord child. Mama says there's a rumour that the Cloudmaster ordered Kaneth to marry if he wanted to continue to receive a rainlord allowance from the Quartern's coffers. The only other unmarried rainlord female is Senya Almandine and she's a child, so what does that tell you?"
Ryka stilled, and the silk slid to the floor, unheeded. "Are you serious, Beryll?" she asked at last. "Cloudmaster Granthon ordered him?"
"After a fashion. Marry, or find tokens in short supply."
She felt the colour drain from her face and abruptly sat down again.
"You have a dowry you didn't even know about!" Beryll crowed.
"Even though I'm so low in talent I'm only a cat's whisker from being a mere reeve?" She pursed her lips, her anger growing. If Kaneth really was coming to propose, then he had a cheek! Suddenly willing to marry her because he needed a rainlord's allowance from the treasury? She'd have something to say about that.