Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

34 Sand Spirit

Shegeb, Sheia Desert, Erdil, 30 Years Ago

    The storm Casamir had buried awoke when those papers hit the grey wall in Roda'Aham's learning room. With it came the memories he had buried of the way his sisters had really died.

    Rishtai, Rishtai, bloodthirsty one. In his mind's eye he saw Shashishta's blood drenching the desert sands around her pale and empty body. There had been blood on his hands. A wave of sobbing wracked him and he hid his face on Roda'Aham's table. Had he drank her blood like the legends said? Suddenly the first few pages of the translated text seemed more important than ever. Was he truly the monster all of Shegeb feared?

    Shenesis and Shashishta's young corpses, hollow on Sheia's sands, ghosted in his mind and affirmed his worst fears. The twins had only been twelve, he now recalled, innocent and lovely. Tears and snot mixed and dripped onto the table. And he had been young too, at least in appearance. What was his true age, who were his parents, why had he forgotten so much? Fists clenched, he ground his teeth and wrenched tears from his squeezed eyes.

    A soft hand touched his shoulder, and he flinched, muscles tense.

    'Casamir,' Roda'aham said. It would be rude to ignore her, to refuse to meet her eyes, but something in him had died, or maybe it had been dead all along and the lessons and laws did not matter anymore. She would spurn him and refuse to teach him, but he was past caring, past believing he was worthy of anything good. He had killed his own sisters.

    'Casamir.' There was the warning in her voice, the admonition. Had his training given him enough strength to rein in his thoughts and fears? In a flash he remembered his sisters' giggles, and his shoulders shook with deeper sobs.

    'It is too long since you have lived in the truth.' Roda'aham's voice did not hold the anger he'd thought it would, but a tenderness, maybe regret too.

    This, at last, helped Casamir to rein in his tears, to suck in his emotions and behave as a warrior of the Sheia should. 'Shiaham,' he whispered, wiped at his face, lifted his eyes to the blank grey wall. What more was there to say?

    A cup of steaming red tea appeared before him on the table, and Roda'aham's wrinkled hand disappeared again. 'You must know the full truth, so I will sit with you and you may ask what you will.' The sudden patience and kindness from his Shiaham scared Casamir almost as much as facing whatever she would tell him, but the answers she offered enticed him and he breathed a heavy sigh.

    With Shiaham everything was a test, and he had no doubt that whatever he asked would be some test of his character, his strength of will, his integrity in worship of Sheia. And for once he couldn't care less what her tests were or what repercussions his mistakes would have on his future. There were too many questions to ask, too many things he did not know or could not remember. His age? His heritage? Had he truly been found after a storm? And what were these Rishtai really? Was he really one of them? Had... had he killed his own sisters? Why could he not recall all the answers?

    'Stop frowning,' Roda'aham said, and Casamir realised he'd drifted into deep thoughts. She had seated herself across from him, the translated pages limp and forgotten behind her on the floor.

    The table surface drew his eyes and he swallowed. 'Forgive me, I...' The silence was choking, or was it the emotion boiling in him—a river too deep to swim? 'I have so much to ask.'

    She nodded, folded her legs under her, and lifted her chin.

    Where to start? What did he want to know most? 'So I'm... I mean, Rishtai... that's me?'