"Can someone who is not a stormlord rule the Quartern?"
"Not in normal times. But what other choice is there now? There is you, but you are young. You were not brought up to rule. And more than that, you will be the Quartern's only stormlord. Just to supply water to the nation will take most of your waking moments."
Shale froze, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Even if I was a stormlord, Taquar would still rule the land?"
"I think that is what my father would like, yes. He expects to die soon. You are too inexperienced to take on the responsibility, and I am too weak, or so he believes. He thinks that only Taquar will be able to force people to save water, only Taquar will be able to rein in the Reduners." He snorted.
Shale shook his head, his denial vehement. "But it was Taquar who urged the Reduners to rebellion!"
"Irony upon irony."
"When Taquar could tell the Reduners he had a future stormlord, he had a way of controlling Davim. Now he has nothing."
"I doubt he is going to tell Davim that. Davim has seen you with his own eyes. Seen how easily you shift water. Taquar will have told him he has taken you to Scarcleft for your final training."
Shale struggled with his shock. With his betrayal. Again. With his burgeoning horror. Waterless damnation, one day I am going to be returned to Taquar's power!
Nealrith continued, "My hope is that if you can learn to bring us storms, there won't be any need for a man such as Taquar to rule, and my father will change his mind."
"He must change his mind. Highlord Nealrith, he doesn't understand Taquar."
"No, he doesn't. He thinks you exaggerate. That is another irony. You want to know my father, Shale? As he used to be? Then look at me. Granthon Almandine is me, too weak to rule this land in time of trouble. He will not believe the worst of Taquar because he himself would never be capable of such crimes. Believe me, I have tried to convince him. He accuses me of petty spite."
"Perhaps if I was to talk to him." Even as he said the words, Shale wondered at his temerity. Who was he to speak to rulers about who had the right to rule? He was still just Shale Flint, one of the washfolk of Drybone Settle.
"No. He has heard your story once. My father needs to have faith in you, and you will not earn that faith by appearing to be greedy for power-or by showing lack of judgement by supporting any tenuous claim of mine."
Shale was silent, thinking things through. Finally he said, "You're not going to tell anyone you have me, are you? Because Granthon wouldn't want that news to get to Davim. Taquar won't tell him and you don't want the sandmaster to know, either."
Nealrith smiled, appreciative. "You're no fool, are you? If Davim thinks Taquar has you, he will wait and Taquar can control him. Better that than a horde of Reduners rampaging across the land."
Shale shook his head. Taquar does not have control over Davim, and he never did, for all that he thought he did.
"I want you to use another name for a while," Nealrith continued. "And to pretend you're just another water sensitive we found in the Gibber."
Shale found it hard to give voice to his thoughts. He had lived so long keeping all he believed within his heart, not blurting it out like water from a spigot. Still, he knew he had to try to speak his thoughts; if he didn't, then how could he expect people to know what he knew? How could he share his understanding? He took a deep breath. "If Taquar becomes the ruler of the Quartern, I may be safe-but one of the first things he will do is have you killed. Anyone who believes differently is a fool. Or they don't know Taquar."
Nealrith nodded. "I know that now. But my father is not dead yet. Things can change."
They looked at each other and Shale knew they were thinking the same thing: they had much in common. They had both been betrayed by people they'd respected. Shale said quietly, "We're just shells in a game, aren't we? To be moved about on the board, to be collected as part of the spoils and discarded at will when not needed. I thought things were going to be better here-but they're no different." He tilted his head in a gesture of defiance. "Lord Nealrith, I will not stay, you know. If Scarpen rule is handed over to Lord Taquar, I will leave. I will not serve that man. Ever."
Nealrith gave a rare smile. "We'll leave together, then," he said. "I'll do my best for you, Shale, no matter what, because you are the only hope we have. Whatever happens, I promise you that much."
Shale nodded, almost believing him. Nealrith reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I swear it, Shale. And I am not Taquar. Nor am I my father." Shale nodded again, this time with more certainty. "And you shouldn't address me by my title, not in private. We rainlords are all equals. I am Nealrith or Rith; you are Shale. Or whatever your new name is. Have you decided?"
He remembered Galen, blinded by avarice and drink. Remembered Citrine, seeing only the beauty of a piece of bloodstone in her last happy moment of life. What had Taquar called the gem? The martyr's stone. The familiar knotted feeling welled up inside him. The same feeling he had every time he thought of Citrine. Or Mica. Or of the burden he carried: to be a stormlord. To save a land from thirst. The burden of responsibility.
The true horror of being a stormlord.
"Jasper Bloodstone," he said.
"We call that the martyr's stone." Nealrith sounded dubious. "I hope that's not a prophetic choice."
"It's a better name than the one I had." Shale Flint the Gibber boy was a dupe. I have to leave him behind. The man who would cope with what was to come was Jasper Bloodstone. That was the face the world must see. A man who wouldn't trust again so foolishly.
Nealrith shrugged. "As you wish. And now we must start your exercises. The ones Taquar would not teach you, because they enable you to kill in the rainlord manner. If you can master these, you will not have any trouble in extracting fresh water vapour from salt water. But before we begin, I want you to meet my wife, Laisa, and my daughter, Senya. She is younger than you are, fifteen. I hope you will be friends. Come, I'll take you through to my private rooms."
Shale blinked, trying to assimilate the difference between private rooms and the one they were in. The extravagance of any family having so much space shocked him. He followed Nealrith, momentarily overwhelmed, reflecting wryly that Jasper Bloodstone had a lot to learn before he stopped being Shale Flint. He remembered how Mica had spoken of Laisa's beauty with awe-and of her desirability with a more basic crudity. She was everything that Mica had said she was: sensual and lovely. Her eyes, though, were knowing, and there was no gentleness in her gaze as she welcomed him to Breccia City.
"There is much riding on your shoulders, young man," she told him. "I trust you have the fortitude to take on such a burden. I have always found Gibber-grubbers to be more feckless than hardworking, myself."
"I am sure we will have no complaints with Sh-Jasper," Nealrith said. "Jasper Bloodstone."
Laisa's eyebrows shot up. "A gemstone from a Gibber rock, eh? Well, we will see."
The girl at her side giggled. Shale was damned if he was going to blush; he was Jasper now. He switched his gaze to her without colouring up. Senya was shorter and less elegant than her mother, but her face was just as beautiful. Right then, though, as her amusement faded, lines of distaste marred her prettiness. He recognised that look. He'd seen it on the faces of some of the settlefolk when they looked at the washfolk of the shanties.
"This is Senya," Nealrith said. "I trust the two of you will be good friends."