to Branislav’s storm-madness. If it had been deliberate... He struggled for air.
Captain Vrana said, “Some historical precedents are... open to interpretation. The Stormhawk has chosen to encourage more powerful imbuements in the face of coming war.”
Like the metallic clack of a fresh round chambering, the events beneath the bozhskyeh storm snapped into clarity. “Tesarik didn’t care if one of us went storm-mad,” Gerrit said. “He thought it an acceptable risk.”
“I don’t understand,” Darina said. “Bourshkanya only has a few dozen storm-blessed bozhki. Why would they risk destroying one of you for a single imbuement?”
“Because they expect more.” Filip clipped the words.
“The Tayemstvoy think they can manage a storm-mad imbuement mage?” Hana asked, sickened.
“The colonel is looking forward to the experiment.” Captain Vrana rubbed the shoulder where Tesarik had shot her.
“The experiment?” Gerrit ran a hand through his hair as he realized what Captain Vrana wasn’t saying. “Freezing sleet. This isn’t over, is it? If half of us crack but can be managed, and half of us become more powerful...” Gerrit tasted bile. “As far as the Stormhawk’s concerned, Tesarik will have strengthened Bourshkanya.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WITH GRANDFATHER’S HELP, Celka dug deep into scripture’s archaic text, combing every word for clues. A dominant theme emerged: control. Controlling needs and controlling emotions. Mundanes achieved control with Songs but, in scripture, the storm-blessed rarely sang. Grandfather argued it was so much a part of their lives that no one had recorded it, but Celka had felt a bozhskyeh storm yank on her spine. A Song, no matter how ingrained, would not have shielded her.
She’d managed some meager control by trying to need nothing, but either she wasn’t doing that right or it wasn’t enough.
So she combed back through Pa’s teachings—even from before he’d known the bozhskyeh storms were returning. She struggled to distinguish lessons from play, but much of what he’d taught had focused on sousednia. Could the neighboring reality hold the key to control?
Scripture’s passages that spoke of forming imbuements—pages Celka read secretly—described intricate sousedni-scapes and weaves of light. Before her near-fall, she had thought the language metaphorical, but the way the balance pole had coalesced from mist made her wonder whether the descriptions tried to capture something most people had no reference to understand.
Pa had taught that building an imbuement involved pulling a true-life object into sousednia and wrapping a desperate need around it. So if Celka separated her true-form and sousedni-shape, maybe it would be harder to bring anything into the neighboring reality. And sousedni-dislocations definitely required control.
But even if her theory was right, the technique wouldn’t work perfectly the first time. Tricks never worked the first time. You had to practice. And practice some more. And maybe after a lot more practice you’d finally be ready to perform. Which meant Celka wouldn’t be walking the high wire any time soon.
Her ‘sprained ankle’ bought her only a few days, so she concocted something better. Supposedly healed, she climbed the rope ladder to the high wire platform with her family. A few meters up, she froze. The near-fall had traumatized her. She couldn’t perform.
The excuse had seemed brilliant, but after two days, Celka couldn’t bear the pitying glances and whispers when people thought she couldn’t hear. She hated how some performers watched with barely disguised glee, whispering bets as to whether she’d ruined her career.
She needed to do something. Prove she wasn’t washed-up and moping.
The plan involved cherry lipstick and heavy eye makeup, a white, sleeveless blouse and wide-legged trousers drawn tight around her calves. Adding bronzing powder left her a stranger in her steamer trunk’s mirror.
In the sideshow tent, the other performers eyed her when they thought she wasn’t looking. Voices from the crowded midway and the sideshow’s band formed a background roar, and Celka’s palms sweated as she reached for Nina—a beautiful, three-meter-long python.
The sideshow’s actual snake charmer had grown sick with consumption before the season began, so only her snakes were on tour, caged in the menagerie. Celka’s new act would make them exotic and appealing—and all she had to do was stand with a python wrapped around her, smaller snakes at her feet. No risk of falling, no matter how a storm yanked on her.
Yet as Georgs led the first group of spectators out of the darkened illusion tent, Celka’s stomach churned. Was the crowd really going to be standing close enough to touch?
Three dozen people approached, oohing and aaahing while Dobromil swallowed fire, then Georgs led them to Celka’s platform. She didn’t have any neat tricks, so she