"Then no one would ever wanna hurt such a person," Shale said sensibly. "He'd be too important."
"Want to."
"What?"
Taquar frowned. "Speak properly. Want to, not wanna."
Shale blinked. "I don't speak proper?"
"You surely do not. Copy me in the future. Speak properly."
Shale tensed. This was getting more and more difficult by the moment.
Taquar leaned forward, fixing Shale's gaze with his own. "To continue: I think that there is a person, or people, who want there to be no stormlords. Possibly because rain will then be random, and if rain is random, the people who will be in most demand are those who can sense and find water. Someone who is not a stormlord, can never be a stormlord, but wants the power to rule the Quartern anyway. A rogue rainlord. At least, that's one possibility."
It sounded mad to Shale, but he nodded anyway and avoided Taquar's gaze by helping himself to a kernel cake.
"All of which brings me to you, boy. And why you weren't killed."
Shale refused to cringe. He lowered the cake so that he could concentrate.
"Cloudmaster Granthon sent us to the Gibber Quarter searching for water sensitives. Against all expectations, we found many. Six of the older ones may possibly be good enough to be rainlords. I started to worry. What if they, too, died young? What if there was another rash of mysterious accidents? I did not know who to trust with my unease. They travelled with us-four boys and two girls-and we taught them as we journeyed. I protected them as best I could, but I worried.
"That was why, when I found you, I decided not to tell the other rainlords, except one. The one I most trusted. The one I thought would never be so indifferent to the wellbeing of the Quartern that he would want to prevent us obtaining a stormlord to follow his father."
He took a deep breath. "I don't know whether Nealrith betrayed us, Shale. Or whether he told his wife, Laisa, or one of his friends-Kaneth maybe-and they betrayed us. I did tell him not to tell anyone. Anyway, whether the guilt is wholly his or not, whether he is a murderous madman or just a credulous instrument in the hands of his wife or advisors-whatever happened, the result was tragic for you and your settle."
Shale, meal now forgotten, sat rooted. Cold. "Don't unnerstand," he said at last. "What's this to do with Reduners? It weren't no rainlord who led those men to our settle! They was Reduners, and they was looking for me. They knew me name!"
"Yes. I believe our rogue rainlord has an ally among the dune tribes. I think he asked the sandmaster of that tribe-his name is Davim-to capture you and to hide your capture by killing the adults. What the sandmaster did with the young was up to him, and he chose to kill the babes and seize the older children as slaves or converts to their way of life."
Shale was unable to speak. It was true. It was because of him. Citrine. Pa, Ma, Rishan-almost every adult he had ever known in his life-were dead. Mica and the other children taken. Because of him. He saw the picture in his head again, the image he wanted desperately never to see again: Citrine tossed into the air, too shocked to scream at first, turning, oh-so slowly. The sandmaster on his pede, manipulating the reins, whirling his steed. The beast rearing up, a magnificent beautiful animal, burnished red-on-black in the rays of the rising sun, great black shadow cast across the plains like a monster out of nightmares; Davim holding his seat, extending his spear in a fluid movement of grace, the ululation of triumph ripping from him, catching Citrine's robe on his spear…
Davim.
The piece of jasper from her hand turning in the air, catching the light like an arc of bloodied green fire.
Taquar leaned forward and slapped him across the face. "Stop it!"
Shale was gasping for breath, his chest heaving, his eyes wild.
Taquar was relentless. "You are our only hope for the future, boy. You. Granthon is old, close to death. You are the only person we have who can possibly be the next cloudmaster. The only one who has enough power within to be trained."
Stormlord. "No," he said, shaking his head. "No." He stood, hands up, palms outwards, as if to ward off an attack. "Noooo."
Then he whirled and ran. There was no sense to it, no plan, nothing but a desire to run from a trouble too great to bear, from thoughts that were, in fact, unbearable.
There was nowhere to run, of course. He shot across the entrance hall, past the pede, and came up against the metal squares of the grille that separated the underground building from the outside. It was closed once more. And because there was no exit, he climbed. Even then, there was nowhere to go. He reached the top of the grille; above, there was only rock wall, far too smooth to offer a handhold. He hung there on the bars, facing outwards, lit by the last rays of a setting sun, like a spider's prey caught spread-eagled in a web.
"Come down," Taquar said. He did not sound angry, just exasperated.
Slowly, Shale did just that. When he stood on the cave floor again, Taquar added, "There's nowhere to run, Shale. Nowhere. You were born to be what you are. It is your duty. Accept it."
"You don't unnerstand. They all died 'cause of me," he whispered. "They died."
Taquar heaved a sigh. He came forward and pulled Shale into his embrace, Shale's cheek to his shoulder. For once, his tone was gentle, threaded with regret and concern. "Yes, that's right. I'm not going to lie to you. You are more important than any one of them. If you die, thousands of people die. From now on, Shale, you think of nothing but making yourself into a stormlord. Nothing else is important. Nothing. Not one of those people mattered by comparison."
Shale's jaw tightened with anger. Citrine mattered.
Taquar felt his tension and released him. "All right," he said, voice hardening, "if you don't believe that, then believe this. Your only chance of ever finding and freeing your brother is to have the power of a stormlord. Then you can do anything." He turned Shale back towards the inner room. "Go and finish your meal," he said. "Then we will start the first of your lessons."
Shale returned to the table. He took the piece of jasper from where he had put it in his tunic pocket and rubbed it with his thumb. For a long time, he didn't speak; the lump in his throat didn't allow it. Finally, he closed his hand over the gemstone, holding it tight. He would keep it forever, to remember Citrine.
He raised his head to meet Taquar's gaze. "Why didn't they snuff me out?" he asked. "Why did this-this rogue rainlord ask the Reduners to find me if not to kill me? They bunched all the rest together, those they didn't kill. But me-me they asked for by name. They put me on the pede and took me away 'stead of snuffing me. Why?"
"I don't know. It may have something to do with that water that came down your wash. Remember that? It was stolen from Granthon by someone who has water-powers. It's unlikely that he intended your settle to be the recipient of it. I suspect he was trying to send it elsewhere, and he failed. Perhaps that told him he is not as powerful as he thought. Perhaps his Reduner ally is angry with him as a result. Perhaps the Reduners have begun to wonder if they will have enough rain for themselves after Granthon dies.
"They were taking you to the Red Quarter, that's what I found out when I went to Wash Drybone to collect you. You were to be a prisoner on one of the dunes."
"They tole you that?"
Taquar smiled, a touch of nastiness in his satisfaction. "A rainlord can be very persuasive, Shale. Anyway, what I learned leads me to suspect that you were to be their secret stormshifter, the one who could save them if their Time of Random Rain didn't work out to be as successful as they hoped." He shrugged. "It's the only thing I can think of that even begins to explain what happened." Shale stared at the two bowls on the table. One was filled with water; the other was empty.
"Look," said Taquar.
Shale watched as the water in the first bowl flowed out, seemingly of its own accord, into the second bowl.