Stormsick, Kess thought as she limped her way through the city. The man has to be stormsick. It was a term reserved for those who survived a night out in the storms, then came back babbling incoherently about creatures in the tempest, a visit from Mariel herself, or any other such nonsense.
There were, of course, no creatures, no Mariel, and no talking storms. But this Rowan might as well have come out of one to suggest that Kess learn her Fulminancy from a Dud, no less.
She had to admit, as she leapt up onto a dock, wincing at her leg, that there was some merit to what Rowan offered. If Kess had learned her Fulminancy long ago, she certainly wouldn’t be dodging Witchblades at the peak of a Drystorm. She wouldn’t be stuck searching for her brother, and she wouldn’t be nursing the many wounds that made her dizzy and sick as she made her way towards Draven’s.
But clouds, she’d tried all those years ago. She’d tried and failed to master it, and with the best teachers the Uphill had to offer, no less. There was no future in Fulminancy—there never had been. Perhaps Rowan was a Dud, but Kess was something worse—a lit fuse with nowhere to spend the charge.
That was to say nothing of the other part of his offer. Kess had never been one for balls and galas—or at least that’s what she’d told herself. Her parents had kept her far away from court politics for reasons she couldn’t help but agree with; there would have been a target on her back from the moment she set foot in court with such an untapped well of power.
Going back to court would be hard enough with the usual threats of political maneuvering, backstabbing, and ostentatious displays of Fulminancy, but it was more than that. Kess had avoided identification for so many years mostly because she kept out of sight of the very people who could identify her. Direct witnesses were long gone, but that didn’t mean that she was entirely safe. Going back Uphill was potentially a death sentence.
Kess only wished it had been easy to tell Rowan no. She’d been flippant and callous with her rejection, but deep down, Kess was tempted by the offer. Oliver was as enmeshed in the Uphill lifestyle as Kess was Downhill. She wouldn’t find him with her usual methods.
It still gave her pause. Balls and galas were one thing, but learning Fulminancy?
Kess shook her head as she stumbled across a street. The healing earlier had helped, but hadn’t fully taken just yet. Her wounds tugged, her stomach rumbled its discontent, and Kess felt oddly disconnected from her body, as if she might float away with the Drystorm breeze. It was fortunate that Draven’s home wasn’t far. Perhaps Kess didn’t know what to do, but Draven would. He always did.
A small tap tap tap was the only noise Kess allowed herself to make in the alleyway, though she looked over her cloaked shoulder as she did so. The window cracked ever so slightly, and a short sword appeared, ready to run her through. She rolled her eyes.
“Draven, let me in the windblown place,” she hissed. The wind gobbled her words up, but she still felt too exposed in the alleyway. She peeked up at the buildings overhead. No sign of her shadowed friend so far, and she had been very careful to avoid any Fulminant patrols.
The sword retreated into the slit, and the window cracked open fully. Wincing, Kess slid through the hole, biting her lip to stifle a curse as her ribs smarted and her shoulder seared from grabbing the edge of the window. She plopped directly down onto Draven’s couch, leaning her head back to catch her breath as Drav shut the window above her head. Drav leaned back from the couch, took one look at her, and swore.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Lass, what in Mariel’s Seat happened to you?” Kess tilted her head back up, frowning at her clothes.
“I thought I cleaned up pretty well.”
“Your face is the color of a windblown glass of milk,” he said. As if in response, Kess’s stomach gurgled loud enough for them to both hear over the wind buffeting the window. She grinned slightly and shrugged with her good shoulder. Draven rolled his eyes and left through the doorway that connected his personal kitchen to his tiny living area. Kess wouldn’t have normally come in this way. It was after hours, but Rowan’s words had stuck with her; she didn’t want anyone seeing her associate with Draven’s tavern. Few knew that the window above her head connected to the tavern, but Draven’s own rooms connected in a series of twists and turns throughout the building. He rarely used his own home for more than sleep, but he always had extra food lying about from the bar.
Draven returned with a steaming bowl of stew and rice with a pile of fruit. Tropical fruit. He set both down on the table, then disappeared back into the kitchen. “Where did you get that?” she asked, picking up the spoon.
“Even an old bartender like me can afford a treat once in a while,” he called out from the kitchen. Kess scowled as she stared into the steaming bowl.
“You shouldn’t waste it on me,” she said, taking a bite of too-hot stew and wincing. Draven came back with a tankard of something and placed it on the table before plopping down across from her.
“And who,” he asked, leaning forward with his arms on his knees, “am I supposed to waste it on, if not you, lass? Let an old man spoil his only daughter.” Kess smiled slightly, sipping the salty broth and working some of the tougher cuts of meat around her bruised jaw. Kess tried not to trouble Drav too often, but well, it was nice to have a place to go to. Her own father was long gone, in any case. “Now, tell me what brings you creeping around to my side window in the middle of the night.”
Kess lost her smile, and suddenly the stew seemed rather tasteless. “He’s gone,” she said. “It’s all gone.”
Drav’s face darkened as he rubbed his beard. “So I take it the fight didn’t go your way.”
“Not exactly. I won.” She took another sip of the stew and watched Drav’s eyes go wide for just a moment before he mastered his expression. He hadn’t thrived for so long Downhill by wearing his emotions on his sleeve. He took a sip of the tankard he had brought out for himself.
“Well, if you call that winning,” he said, gesturing at her. Kess went to take a sip of her own drink, but paused, frowning.
“No ale?” She twisted her mouth distastefully at the drink. It had the bitter, earthy smell of tea. Clouds take it all. Drav chuckled quietly across from her.
“Lass, if the way you’re moving and the color of your face is any indication, you’ve got a lot more than bruises going on. Blood loss and ale don’t mix, not with a girl your size.”
Kess made a face and downed the drink. She was hardly a girl anymore at twenty-two years old, but Draven was more than old enough to be her father, so she let the word slide without comment. Certainly her small frame convinced many people she was much younger than she looked. Draven watched her carefully, waiting for more.
Kess worked through the details of the night before, leaving out some details of her argument with Oliver. She couldn’t figure out a way to avoid the subject of her encounter with Rowan and the woman Claire—not with her wounds patched up so professionally. Draven whistled slowly when she was done.
“Well, that’s a heap of trouble,” he said darkly. “You’ll need to lie low for a bit, lass. Keep your head down. You can stay here, no charge, though—“ he laughed slightly. “I doubt you’ll have problems paying me for anything with the kind of sum that bastard Mattes was wagering against you.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I can’t stay here, Drav,” Kess said. She popped the last bit of bread into her mouth, wincing again at her sore jaw. She had known that going back into the city might attract attention, but it had been worth it to see Drav one last time. Drav’s place was as much of a home as she had now. But she couldn’t stay here while Oliver was at the mercy of the Uphill, or worse, the Council.
“I have to get him back,” she whispered.
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