Stormrise

The money bag was heavy in my satchel. At first, I had intended to only bring half of the coins. But then I realized that if Madam S’dora had what I needed, I should buy as much as possible and not have to worry about running out. So I’d taken all fifty tak from the box and slid them into a bag that barely contained them. Then I stuck the bag into a satchel, hiding them beneath the linens from my bed, which I claimed I needed to wash.

“I’ve warned you about writing in bed,” Mama had said as I left.

It was only a partial lie. There was no ink spill on my sheets, but I did intend to wash them and lay them out on the grassy bank to dry. That part, at least, would be true. I pulled my straw hat low over my eyes and set off.

It was hard, at first, to remember which street to turn down. Yesterday, I mostly had been following Willow and trying not to drop everything I was carrying. After a moment or so of near-panic, I recognized the building at the corner of the street I was looking for. I ducked my head and hurried into the obscurity of Madam S’dora’s street and into her shop.

She looked up as soon as I opened the door and watched me as I made my way to her counter. I meant to say hello, but my heart was beating too fast for talking to seem easy. So I forced a smile instead.

“Has your sister sent you, or are you here on your own business?”

She remembered me. “My own business.” I dropped my satchel—carefully—at my feet.

Madam S’dora nodded as if she weren’t at all surprised that I’d come. “So. What does Little Sister need that she didn’t want to ask for while Big Sister was present?”

Heat rushed to my face, and it occurred to me that there was no way for me to explain why I needed what I needed. “I need something to stop the bleeding.”

“Bleeding?” She leaned in, her hands splayed on the counter. “Monthly bleeding, or something else?”

“No,” I said. “Yes. Monthly.”

A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “An elopement?”

If my face were any hotter, it might spontaneously combust. “No. Nothing like that.”

“Well, you’ll have to be clearer about what you want.”

“I want”—I took a deep breath—“to stop the bleeding. Permanently.”

I could hear the dust settling as Madam S’dora stared at me. It wasn’t a stare of judgment or even surprise. It was, simply, a stare. Like she was trying to read the thoughts behind my brow bone.

“Permanently?” she asked.

“For a long time, anyway,” I said. “As long as possible.”

“Hmm.” She turned her back and disappeared through a small, curtained doorway.

I drummed my fingers on the counter in an effort to make myself feel casual. Inside, though, I was tight as a bowstring, ready to snap if someone so much as touched me on the shoulder. I peered around the shop, making sure the scuttle I’d heard was only a mouse and not the soft shoes of someone else waiting to buy a potion.

It seemed an entire day before Madam S’dora emerged, bearing an amber jar with a thick cork stopper. The glass was too dark for me to see inside, and I tried not to stare as she set the jar before me.

“How much are you willing to risk?”

I opened my mouth but closed it when I realized she hadn’t said “pay.” A creeping sensation played along the edges of my hair and down the back of my neck.

“Silence tells me you’re unsure,” Madam S’dora said.

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘risk,’” I said.

Her voice trailed lower, almost reverent. “This is an ancient magic, and powerful. Not to be dealt with lightly.”

I swallowed. “What is it?”

She pried the stopper from the bottle and took a slow, gentle sniff. Euphoria spread over her face like sunlight. “This.” She pushed the jar toward me and gestured to her nose.

I didn’t want to smell it. I wanted to change my mind and run from the shop. But I leaned over and took a tentative sniff.

And gagged.

Whatever was in the jar smelled sharp and dull and fresh and old at the same time. Mostly it smelled like dead feet, or the inside of a fish barrel that had been left in the sun.

Madam S’dora grinned. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“What is it?” I asked again.

“A strong powder from the remains of T’Gonnen himself,” she said. “One pinch a day beneath your tongue will keep your womanly time from coming. But you may find it has other effects as well.” She cocked her head, waiting for my question, but I was too busy trying to imagine placing a pinch of dead feet under my tongue every day. So she continued, “It may increase your facial hair or deepen your voice. Or it may not.”

My heart jumped. Either of those effects would help with my disguise. “Is that all?”

Madam S’dora coiled cold fingers around my hand. “You understand what I mean when I say dragon magic?”

I bit back a retort. Dragons were nothing but myth, dragon magic a child’s tale. If Madam S’dora believed in that, it was no wonder she sold her wares in a dark shop off the beaten path. Anyone making claims like that in the Tenema marketplace would have been ridiculed.

Still, I didn’t want to jeopardize the sale. So I kept my expression neutral and said, “I know nothing about dragon magic, Madam S’dora.”

She nodded soberly and her grasp on my hand tightened. “T’Gonnen was high king of dragons! When you swallow this powder, his magic becomes a part of you.”

“I don’t care what’s in it, as long as it works.” Which, at this point, I was beginning to doubt. T’Gonnen was a name from the dragon mythology. A story told to scare children into obedience.

Madam S’dora shrugged and wrapped her hands around the jar. “If you buy it, you can choose to care or not about what you are swallowing.” She cocked her head. “It might awaken things. You could have dreams.”

I frowned. “Dreams?”

“The power of T’Gonnen is strong,” Madam S’dora said. “His final gift to us. There’s no telling how it may affect you.”

“I just need to know that it works.”

“Everything in my shop … works.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to buy some or not?”

I hesitated. Madam S’dora studied me, and for a moment I was five again, and she was holding out the handkerchief, smiling.

Kind. For two heartbeats, that’s what my heart had said. But then childish fear had taken over, squashing my heart’s impression.

“You’re afraid,” she said softly. “But it’s not the powder you fear.”

“I’m only afraid of doing the wrong thing.”

“Of breaking the law by pretending you’re a boy?”

I cringed. “I know it’s against the law.”

On the surface, it made sense—since men owned all property in Ylanda, a woman caught impersonating a man was branded a thief, under the assumption that it was her intent to claim ownership that wasn’t legally hers. The penalty was death without trial.

“If you’re discovered, they will show you no mercy. But the magic in this powder is…” Madam S’dora lowered her voice to a whisper. “Immeasurable.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Madam S’dora smiled. “How much do you need?”

It was a good question. How long would I have to keep up this deception? How many weeks would I last until I was found out—or fell in battle?

“A year’s worth,” I said.

“Dragon magic is powerful. Are you sure?”

“I need enough for a year.”

She nodded. “That will be eighty tak.”

“Eighty!” It flew from my lips before I could stop it.

“This particular magic of T’Gonnen is not replenishable,” Madam S’dora said. “When the powder is gone, there will be nothing to replace it.”

The rarity of the powder made no difference—I didn’t have eighty tak. “I’ll take six months’ worth, then,” I said.

“Forty tak.”

So much money. Too much. Almost the entire half of the dowry Papa had given me in good faith. What would he think if he saw me right now?

I swallowed the tightness in my throat. “S’da.”

“Very well. This will take me a few minutes.”

She retrieved a small, wide bowl from the shelf beneath the counter, along with a tiny, long-handled spoon. With a steady, graceful hand, she began to scoop the dark powder into the bowl, pinch by pinch.

“One … two … three…”

I turned away, desperate to find something—anything—to distract me while she painstakingly measured the powder. A box of cylindrical metal amulets set with tiny, uncut jewels caught my attention. Their beauty was negligible, but there was something compelling about them. I had just picked one up to examine it more closely when the shop door creaked open.

A young man entered, and I lowered my head and studied the amulet as though nothing else in the world were so important.

“Madam S’dora?” The boy’s words were brusque, as though he had no time for politeness.

“I will be right with you,” Madam S’dora said, and returned to her muttered counting.

“I don’t have much time.”

She ignored him, and he let out a short burst of air before beginning to pace. I peeked between baskets of empty bottles and rabbits’ feet and stole a glance. He was short and stocky with a prominent jaw and a nose that looked as though it had once been broken.

I pulled my hat lower and made my way back to the counter, so he would see that Madam S’dora’s attention was mine right now. More than anything, I wanted to leave. She counted so slowly.

“Seventy-one … seventy-two…”

“You know mine will only take a moment,” the boy said.

“You’ll have your moment next.”

He made another exasperated sound and began to pace again. I bit back the rebuke that sizzled on my tongue. What mother had raised a son to be so rude?

Endless minutes later, Madam S’dora tapped the contents of the bowl into a soft leather pouch. I lifted my satchel onto the counter and withdrew the money bag.

I’m sorry, Papa.

I counted out the forty tak and placed the leather pouch in my satchel. Then I slung the satchel over my shoulder.

“One pinch every night before sleeping,” Madam S’dora said. “No more or less. And don’t skip a single night.”

“Thank you.” The words felt like gravel.

Then, suddenly, Madam S’dora reached across the counter and patted my cheek. “Whatever happens, don’t be afraid.”

My nod felt awkward. I was going to thank her again, but Rude Boy had returned to the counter.

“Will you help me now, old lady?”

Ire rose in me like sparks at a blacksmith’s. I clenched my teeth to keep hot words from spilling out, and instead purposely shoved my satchel into the boy as I turned around. Our eyes met, and his face shifted into a leer. As I moved away, I felt his hand groping at my bottom.

I swung in an instant, bringing up my knee and knocking his arm back while hitting his chest with my knife hand. He staggered backward, catching himself on the counter, his face red.

“Your tongue should have been cut out at birth,” I spat.

“Who do you think you are, little bitch?”

“Someone who thinks men should know how to treat women.” I looked at Madam S’dora. “If he gives you any trouble, poison him.”

Her eyes twinkled at me—I was sure they did—before I spun and exited. If I stayed another moment, I would be tempted to pummel that poor excuse for a son to the floor.

I worked out my trembling as I washed my bedding in the stream, scrubbing beyond what I needed to. After I had spread the sheets onto the grass to dry, I waded back into the water to catch some fish for that night’s meal. A surprise for Mama. Or perhaps a guilt offering.

Papa had taught me to fish by hand as soon as my hands were big enough. “The patience of fishing lends itself well to the centeredness of a Neshu fighter,” he would tell me. I’d never forget the first fish I caught—slippery, chaotic, exploding from between my fingers. A proud moment of my girlhood.

I took a Neshu cleansing breath, stilling myself in the water even as my mind turned over and over again the thought of swallowing Madam S’dora’s powder. One pinch under my tongue at bedtime. How bad could that be? The worst of it was having spent forty tak of my dowry and not even knowing if the powder would work. But even if it worked, then what? Would I be able to train with the others? Would my speed and agility in Neshu make up for my lack of brawny muscle and male swagger?

It would have to. I’d made a choice that I couldn’t unmake. And didn’t want to.

The flick of a fish tail caught my eye, and I poised to grab it. On the first try, I swept it from the water and threw it onto the bank, where it flopped in mute protest. Then I returned my attention once more to the water.

After my third catch, I scooped the fish into my bag and left the linens to dry. I took a shorter route home, walking quickly. Even so, Mama met me in the mudroom as I was slipping off my shoes.

“What took you so long?” she asked.

“I caught you some fish.” I opened the bag to show her my still-twitching catch.

She nodded, pleased. “Well, come and help me harvest the crimson squash. I can hardly keep up—such an abundance this year.”

“I’ll be right out.”

I hastened to my room and placed the remaining ten tak in the box beneath my pillow, along with the pouch of powder. As I passed my parents’ room on my way out, I glimpsed Papa inside, polishing his sword. My heart banged against my chest like a trapped bird as I hesitated, unsure whether to knock or to keep moving silently by.

He looked up, sparing me the choice. “The sadness of a hundred winters is in your eyes.”

I stepped just past the doorway. “Not sadness, Papa. Just anger at the injustice.”

“I’m honored to serve our high king.”

“I know.” I moved closer. “But Storm isn’t fit for this. He had nightmares last night.”

“I will be with him,” Papa said. “I’ll calm his fears.”

“But you shouldn’t have to go. You should have a son capable of fighting, instead of a second daughter.”

Papa laid the sword on the bed and turned to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “You are worth more to me than twenty capable sons. Surely you know that.”

“I—” No, I didn’t know that. I had never asked, had never let Papa’s words and actions speak for themselves. Always, it was my own inner voice whispering that I was a disappointment. That Storm should have been the one to recover from the fever instead of me.

How many times had I heard Mama say, “If only the healer had given Storm the medicine!” when she thought I wasn’t listening? Yet now, as the warmth from Papa’s hands sank into my skin, I realized that Papa himself had never said that.

“Thank you, Papa.” Tears puddled in my eyes as he drew me into a hug. “I’ll miss you.”

“And I will miss you,” he said into my hair. “More than I can say.”

I nestled into his chest, flooded with the satisfaction of knowing I would save his life. Both their lives.

In this moment, nothing else mattered.

Willow sat at the table, slicing cucumbers. I grabbed a knife and sat beside her, grateful to finally have her to myself.

She eyed me sideways. “This doesn’t bode well.”

“I thought I’d help you.” I grabbed the nearest cucumber.

“Please don’t cut any fingers off, little sister.”

I wrinkled my nose at her and tried to think of a casual way to bring up what I wanted to say. “Where are Mama and Papa?”

“Walking by the stream,” Willow said. “I … wanted to give them some time together.”

I heard the tremble in her voice but chose to ignore it. “I was wondering.” I waited while she sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “What was the other thing you bought at Madam S’dora’s?”

“Oh. That.” She broke into a smile that hinted at embarrassment, then leaned close and lowered her voice. “For ease of the loss of maidenhood.”

“What—” But I didn’t really want to know. “Don’t you worry that these things might be dangerous?”

“No.”

“Because?”

“Because, Rain, if people died from Madam S’dora’s wares, she wouldn’t have stayed in business this long.”

She had a point. “And you have friends who’ve drunk the tea?”

“Yes,” Willow said. “And it’s not only them. A lot of people have purchased from Madam S’dora over the years. They just don’t talk about it.”

“Really?” I wanted to lay this fear to rest.

“Really.” She placed her hand on my wrist. “Still. Don’t tell Mama and Papa about it, please?”

“I won’t say a word.”

“She’s from Province Ytel, you know. Madam S’dora.”

I frowned. “Yes, I know. But her belief in the stories about dragon magic doesn’t make them true.”

“It’s hard not to believe them when everything she sells works so well.”

“You don’t know that, Willow.”

“I’ve never heard a single tale of something going wrong.” She sighed. “Do you remember The Lament of Nuaga? They say Madam S’dora can recite it from memory.”

I barely remembered; the Lament was another piece of the childhood stories that had kept me up at night. “You don’t have to keep defending her. If you trust her, then I trust you.”

Willow’s lower lip trembled. “I need to keep believing I’ll actually need those things. That I won’t lose him before I even have him.”

“You deserve to be happy,” I said. “I don’t think the Great God will steal that from you.”

“I hope you’re right.” Willow reached for her next cucumber. “And please don’t think I’m not worried about Papa and Storm. I can’t bear the thought of losing either of them.”

“Don’t worry about them.”

I had Papa and Storm covered.

By the pale light of the moon, I made my way to the barn, where I had hidden a hastily altered pair of pants and a shirt from Storm’s clothing chest, and the rest of what I needed for my journey. I crept past the half-sleeping donkeys into the empty stall at the back. A single candle cast its glow as I slipped out of my nightgown and into the pants, which were slightly too big. I fumbled with the belt, cinching it tightly. Then I took the strips of linen I’d carefully cut from an old sheet and bound my chest.

It took me three tries to get it right; the first time, it was too loose, the second, too tight. When I knotted off my third attempt and ran my hands over my breasts, I felt satisfied. I wasn’t well-endowed to begin with, and the binding did its work well. I slipped a shirt over the strips and belted it with a length of braided rope. A pair of Storm’s socks and Papa’s old boots—with rags stuffed into the toes—completed my outfit. Fortunately I’d be doing more riding than walking, so the boots would be sufficient until I was outfitted at camp.

Next, I set up a hand mirror near the candle and set to work on my hair. Papa had worn his in the military style ever since returning from his days of battle; it would be easy to imitate. After combing the tangles from my long hair, I cut it to boy-length, an inch or two below my shoulders. When I was satisfied that it was even, I swept it back and pulled it into a knot at the crown of my head, securing it with a length of twine.

Then I stepped back and peered at my reflection.

In the play of shadow and light, if I squinted, I looked like a boy. Like Storm, whole and bright. I studied my face, recalling the many times I’d worn his clothing and fooled my family. When we were babies, Mama had relied on the traditional “son’s cap” to tell us apart—a white silken bonnet signifying the honor of being a male child. There was no such cap for infant daughters, but tonight I passed for the son I might’ve been. Or that Storm might’ve been.

The smoothness of my cheeks bothered me, but it wasn’t unusual for some boys to mature later. The matchmaker’s grandson was sixteen, and he didn’t look a minute older than twelve.

With some luck, I could do this.

I opened the leather pouch from Madam S’dora and took a pinch of the powder between my thumb and finger. Without breathing, I tucked the pinch beneath my tongue and closed my mouth.

The initial bitterness that crept along the edges of my tongue gave way to a warm tingling, followed by a hint of earth and a distinct muskiness that made it hard to swallow. The powder itself dissolved quickly beneath my tongue, as though it were sugar. I shuddered as the bitter, earthy musk trailed down my throat. Then I took a long swallow of water from the jug I’d brought to the barn.

Heart pounding, I stood in the quiet warmth, wondering what sudden transformation I might experience. I felt nothing different, though. Only the lingering tingle beneath my tongue hinted that I’d swallowed anything at all.

Time would tell. I was probably three quarters of the way to my next monthly bleed. I would know soon enough if the powder was working.

I folded a heavy blanket and laid it across the nearest donkey’s back—Sweetpea, I’d always called her. It wouldn’t be fair to take Papa’s saddle, and I could sell Sweetpea and send the money home so that Papa could replace her. He’d always claimed Sweetpea was lazy, anyway.

My satchel contained a few things I needed—extra socks, some food, a few sheets of parchment with a writing pen and inkstick. Beneath it all lay several carefully folded rags, should my monthly bleed decide to show up despite the powder. I threw the satchel crosswise over my shoulders and led Sweetpea from her stall. She balked, not wanting to leave comfort behind in the middle of the night. I stroked her shaggy neck.

“Come on, Sweetpea,” I said. “It’ll be an easy ride. I promise.”

Once I’d coaxed her from her stall, I affixed a carefully written letter on the uppermost crossbeam of the door to the stall:

Papa,

You deserve a son who can go to war and bring you honor. If I hadn’t been given the medicine meant for him, Storm would be that son today. He is the dearest brother I could ask for, and his place is at home, where he will be safe.

You spent so many years unable to provide for us, and now you are living honorably and have the life you deserve. Mama has no one else to provide for her, and there is a great chance that Willow’s betrothed will not return from the war, despite what Mama says. They both need you. I’m glad that I’m your daughter—but now it is my turn to be your son.

Please do not send anyone after me; by the time you read this, I will already be a long way from home. Forgive me for taking Sweetpea without asking. I will sell her and send you the money so that you can replace her.

I love you and Mama to the moon and beyond. I will make you proud.

Your affectionate daughter,

Rain

My hand trembled as I took Sweetpea’s lead and walked her out of the barn. She was unusually quiet, and I was grateful. Probably it was because I hadn’t saddled her—she was always happier to be barebacked. After I’d eased the barn door closed, I walked her to the gate, which swung soundlessly open when I pushed it.

I turned one last time to gaze at my home, its low, curved roof nestled gently over the four people I loved best in the world. Then I mounted Sweetpea, urged her with a single whispered command, and started out.

I did not look back again.