Tom Lloyd - The stormcaller

'1- No, I remember flashes. That's all.'

'Flashes is all there were, boy!' A glint appeared in Carel's eye. 'A whole damn lot of them, more lightning than nature ever cast down in one place. We still don't know how many you killed, but it was hundreds. They had crammed near every man they had into the breach. You had your shield in the air and it attracted the lightning, then channelled it down on to them.'

Isak could feel a dull throb in his hand, but it was mild compared to how the rest of his body felt. He carefully lifted his shield arm – and fought back a scream. To his absolute horror his left arm had changed completely: it felt the same: same size, and weight, but instead of his usual healthy colour it glowed an unearthly white, shining in the bright morning sunlight. The skin was perfectly smooth, and unbroken by even the slightest scratch. It looked as if every drop of blood, every hint of colour, had been leached from his arm. Panicking, he raised his other hand, but that looked normal, although grazed and bruised after the battle.

'It's only the left one,' Tila said softly, soothingly, but her expression betrayed her alarm.

'How far up does it go?' He tried to twist his head sideways to get a better look, but the effort made him wince in pain and he let his head slump back on the pillows.

'Just beyond the shoulder,' Mihn said, appearing behind Tila. 'It ends abruptly – it looks like you've dipped your arm in paint.' He betrayed no emotion now. Isak remembered seeing him fighting on the wall, wielding only his staff. Mihn had surpassed even the men of the Brotherhood for agility and speed. He'd not been hurt, avoiding even the smallest cut, though his tears had flowed freely. He'd vowed never again to use a sword after he failed to become a Harlequin, but he had broken that vow to help rescue Isak from the White Circle; that was one more shame he felt on his soul.

Dipped in paint: that was an accurate description, Isak thought: the bit he could see wasn't translucent, not drained of colour at all, just purely white. He remembered how the lightning had curled lovingly

around his arm, its burning bright light first warming his skin, then seeping down to the very bone. Now he looked closer, he could see the fine hairs, and two moles on his forearm, still there, but snow-coloured. Although he healed exceptionally fast and almost inhumanly well, he had one scar, from when he'd fallen from a tree and nearly lost his arm: now that was barely visible. Isak stared at it in fascination. Blue veins were just visible under the skin. His arm wasn't damaged, just touched by the divine.

He reached for Eolis, lying at his side, and touched the edge of the blade against his forearm. Despite the battle it was as sharp as ever: he watched, mesmerised, as a trickle of scarlet edged its way down his arm. The contrast against his skin was shocking.

'If you've quite finished?' Tila sound exasperated. 'I've just bandaged every wretched cut on your body and you want to make more? Don't mind me, will you.'

Isak looked up at the girl, grinning wider as a reluctant smile crossed her own lips. Her once-elegant green silk dress was now torn and stained with blood, and frayed at the edges where she'd ripped off the flounces for bandages and run a knife from thigh to calf to free her legs enough to move properly.

As he took in her appearance he realised with a jolt that his own chest was bare. His hand immediately went to the scar there.

'Ah, yes,' Carel said quietly, 'and then there's that. What in Nartis's name is it, boy? Why didn't you bloody tell me about it?' Though the words were harsh, his voice remained at conversational level.

'King Emin saw it too,' commented Vesna, moving into Isak's field of vision. Isak was pretty sure the pained expression on his face had nothing to do with the crutch he was resting on.

'Did he say anything?'

'He did, my Lord, and I hope it makes more sense to you.'

Isak narrowed his eyes at the formality. Clearly the count was hurt that he'd not been deemed trustworthy enough to tell.

'He said he wondered why you'd chosen it.'

That's all?'

He nodded.

Isak suddenly felt as though all the energy had drained from his body. He sagged back on to the bed. He didn't even have enough strength to feel guilty yet.

'Well?' Carel demanded.

'Please, not today. There's too much to do, too many to grieve for.' Isak coughed feebly, taking a moment to recover his breath again. 'Can you leave me alone for a while?'

None of them looked happy, but Isak's fatigue was obviously not put on just to get out of an awkward conversation. They moved away silently and crossed the hall to join Mistress Daran, who was supervising the nursing of the wounded Ghosts lying there.

Isak lay back and tried to identify the points of pain in his body. Once his headache had calmed a bit it was easier, using his supernatural awareness, to ensure that no great damage had been done. He had no broken bones; nothing had got past Siulents. There were deep bruises from where axes and swords had pounded against his armour, but his weakness was mainly from the overuse of magic.

A faint smile appeared on his lips as he remembered wielding the power of the storm. A tremor of that power still rang in his bones: an

echo of the divine.

After a few minutes of staring up at the beautifully painted ceiling, listening idly to the distant voices, he began to feel a little stronger. Gingerly he lifted his head and raised himself up on to his elbows. The pain had dulled a bit: now it felt like an awful hangover – albeit one that affected his soul as well. His huge body felt heavy and awkward; even the smallest movement was an effort.

At last he managed to get himself out of bed. He stood there sway-ing as Mihn dragged over a chair for him so he could sit with a little more dignity. Isak caught sight of Tila, Carel and Vesna, watching from a little distance, allowing Mihn to help his Lord. Tila sent someone off to find food and in a few minutes a servant appeared with a platter and a steaming jug of tea. Isak wrapped his hands around the pot, huddling over it to breathe in the warm vapour.

'Where's my brother's body?' The booming voice made Isak flinch as it echoed through the hall. A broad man stormed in through the far end of the hall, ahead of a small group of people. In stark contrast a tiny man, a palace official by his dress, was trotting behind, trying to keep up. His hands were clasped anxiously together as he pursued

the larger man.

'My Lord, Suzerain Toquin, if I could please speak to you alone-' 'Damn you, man, no, you can't!' the man snarled, casting a con-temptuous look at the,servant. His scarlet and white tunic was immaculate and expensive. Suzerain Toquin's face reddened with rage

as he looked down the hall, then spied Isak and strode on past the women in his group trying to calm him down. One had a young boy clutching at her skirts.

The nobleman glared at the white-eye as if daring him to complain about the intrusion. Isak recalled the name: Commander Brandt's brother, and he remembered Brandt's heroic actions on the wall, and his final sacrifice. Suzerain Toquin could hardly be faulted for being angry.

Isak pulled himself up as straight as he could and said, 'My lord, you must be Commander Brandt's brother. I apologise for not getting up to greet you, but I've been in a bit of a fight.'

The man scowled, mollified slightly by Isak's respectful tone. 'You must be the Dowager Countess Toquin?' Isak continued, looking at the older of the two women in the suzerain's party.

She gave a small curtsey; her tear-stained eyes never left Isak's face.

'You, madam, must be Lady Toquin.' He smiled gently at the younger woman and turned to the boy. 'And you are the son Commander Brandt spoke of so proudly.' The woman bobbed her head and clutched the boy closer; her grief was almost palpable, but it didn't look like the boy had yet fully grasped that his father was never coming home. He was only nine, Isak thought, too young to fully understand what had happened yet.