James Wyatt - Storm dragon

Gaven ran, the wind howling at his back.

He hadn’t even thought about where he would run-he’d been too busy thinking and worrying about Darraun. He knew Six Corners well from his childhood, but he wouldn’t rely again on a mental map of streets and alleys that was years old. He looked over his shoulder. The Darraun-changeling was locked in battle with Ossa and one other dwarf, and Rienne fought beside him, using mostly her feet since the manacles still bound her hands. Bordan and the other two dwarves ran behind him. As he slowed to look behind, they gained several paces on him.

He had no choice. He had to trust Darraun to get Rienne safely out of there-if the changeling could free her hands, they’d be fine. So without any other plan in mind, he did as Darraun had told him: he ran like he had in Aerenal.

The wind blew like ragged wings at his back, speeding him through Six Corners and beyond, outside the city to the rain-spattered beach. He swept along the sand, leaving only the faintest of footprints. Waves rose up to drench him in their spray, and lightning flashed across the water. Rage and fear and grief overwhelmed him-they took shape around him like forces of nature as powerful as the storm, and he howled with the voice of the wind.

Sandy beach gave way to sharp rocks that cut his feet as he ran across them, but he felt no pain. His pursuers were lost in the distance, Stormhome had been swallowed in the mist and rain behind him, and even Rienne and Darraun were all but forgotten. Storm clouds blotted out the sunset and swallowed the stars. Soon he climbed above the tumultuous waves as the rocky beach rose toward the jagged cliffs at the far end of the island.

He ran, buoyed and buffeted by the wind, until he reached the highest bluff. Part of him imagined running off the point and either plunging down onto the rocks or somehow running onward, upward, becoming one with the storm. He stood at the precipice for a moment, suspended in the air, his eyes fixed on the waves crashing against the jagged rocks below, and then he sank to his knees, lifting his gaze to the storm clouds that brooded over the cliffs.

“Father!” he howled to the sky, and the wind howled along the cliffs and blew itself out.

Gaven slumped to the ground.

The rain pounded his back, stinging his skin, and the waves thundered as they crashed against the cliffs. His body clenched like a fist around a knot of grief in his belly, and he pounded his hands against the rock. The storm began to wane and the knot in his gut loosened, and his breathing went from shallow gasps to a slower, deeper flow of air.

He drew one last, long, shuddering breath and uncurled his body, lifting his head to a sky that began to show patches of blue. He saw ships navigating the bay and imagined their crews’ relief at the passing of the freak storm. The waves started to quiet, and gulls took to the air again, calling to each other with keening cries.

Arnoth d’Lyrandar is dead, he thought, but life will go on. It must.

He stood, taking another deep breath, and looked behind him for any sign of his pursuers. The beach was still deserted, but a ring of fire flickered in the sky, growing quickly larger as the airship it propelled drew nearer. He watched it warily, feeling power welling up within him while hoping he would not have to use it again-he was so tired. Finally he saw a figure in the prow, arms waving in the air-Rienne. The airship was the Eye of the Storm, his brother’s vessel.

Gaven turned back to the sea and thought of Thordren, and his father, until Rienne called down from the airship above him. “Gaven! Are you all right?”

He looked over his shoulder and saw a rope ladder hanging over the ship’s bulwarks, dangling just outside of his reach. Rienne leaned out over the top of the ladder, a look of worry on her face.

“I’m fine,” he called. He walked slowly to stand just below the end of the ladder, and carelessly jumped up to grab the lowest rung. “Don’t worry about me,” he said as he started to climb.

The airship jerked in the air, nearly throwing Gaven off the ladder. He saw Rienne clutching the bulwarks, her eyes wide. “I’m not worried about you,” she hollered back. “I’m worried about how long Darraun can fly this thing. Hurry!”

Gaven clambered up the ladder as fast as he could, even as it writhed and jerked in his hands. Rienne helped him over the edge, and shoved him aft, where Darraun clutched the wheel-and wore Darraun’s face again. That face was chalk white, and his eyes were wide. He didn’t give any sign of recognition as Gaven approached him.

“He’s been trying to convince the elemental that he has the Mark of Storm,” Rienne explained, “but it’s a losing battle.”

Gaven saw a pattern on the changeling’s skin that suggested a Lyrandar dragonmark, but it wouldn’t fool even a casual observer, let alone grant Darraun the magical ability to control the airship.

Gaven moved to stand behind Darraun and reached his arms around the smaller man to clutch the wheel.

Be still, he told the elemental, channeling his will into the helm and into the conduits that bound the elemental to the ship. A true heir of Storm commands you now.

The ship stopped bucking, and Darraun slumped to the deck in front of Gaven. Rienne took his hand and led him out of Gaven’s way. Pulling Darraun’s arm around her shoulder, she led him below decks. Gaven stepped closer to the wheel and settled into a comfortable stance. A smile blossomed on his face as the ship responded to his every thought, soaring smoothly away from the island and into the clearing sky.

Since Darraun had first mentioned airships to him in White-cliff, Gaven had been waiting for this moment. Since he had first laid eyes on one in Korranberg, he had dreamed of standing at an airship’s helm. His smile broadened into a boyish grin, as a single thought ran over and over through his mind:

I was born for this!

Bordan fell to his knees on the sandy beach. The dwarves hadn’t been able to match his speed, though he wouldn’t be surprised if they ran all the way to Storm Point before they flagged. He glared up at the airship receding into the rain, the sign of his defeat. Gaven had escaped him again.

The storm lashed him, though it had diminished as Gaven got farther and farther away. Gaven had been the cause and the center of the storm. Bordan was sure of it. A harder rain had begun almost at the moment that he’d knocked on Arnoth’s door. The thunder that accompanied Gaven’s kick-he rubbed his sore head thinking of it-and the wind that had literally carried him out of the city made it clear. The storm obeyed Gaven’s command-or at least echoed his emotions, overriding the will of Esravash d’Lyrandar, the house matriarch, and all the Lyrandar heirs who worked together to maintain the paradisal climate of Stormhome.

Despite his boasts to Gaven’s face, Bordan found himself grappling with serious doubt for the first time in his career. Perhaps he could continue finding Gaven-but he’d found Gaven twice already and been unable to apprehend him. What if he never caught him? And even if he caught Gaven, could he hold him? Or would he meet the same fate as Evlan d’Deneith?

Could even Dreadhold contain a man with the power of the storm at his command?

The beach grew darker, as though a new storm cloud covered the sun. Bordan felt rather than heard a presence behind him, and he leaped to his feet.

A pool of shadow had formed on the white sand, roiling like smoke at the feet of Phaine d’Thuranni. An elf woman garbed in black stood just behind Phaine. Both elves had weapons drawn.

“Damn it, Thuranni, I didn’t hear you approach.”

“Few ever do,” the elf replied, taking a step forward. The darkness moved with him, clinging to him as he walked.