But all of Gerrit’s failings paled beneath one overriding truth: for Bourshkanya to rebuild its former glory, the Stormhawk needed imbuements.
Gerrit had memorized thousands of nuzhda weaves—the technical core of magic—and had practiced building them under the harshest conditions. All he needed was a flash of Gods’ Breath to crystalize his magic inside an object.
He would start small, of course. He followed orders, usually, and Captain Vrana’s most of all. Today, he’d start with a magically sharp blade—the best you could do with a Category One combat weave. But he wouldn’t stop there. Soon he’d imbue snap-to weaves to return a knife to its mage when thrown. He’d imbue rifles with increased accuracy and range and, when he’d proven those weaves stable, he’d imbue howitzers—just like Major Doubek was said to have miraculously done at Zlin.
The Stormhawk valued strength. Gerrit would give his father strength. After today, even Gerrit’s perfect, storm-touched sister would be no more than his pale shadow.
“There’s something you should know.” Darina startled Gerrit from his thoughts. “Today might not be...” Worry tightened her voice.
“Might not be what?” Filip asked.
“Did anyone else see who got into Captain Vrana’s staff car?” The grim set to Darina’s jaw ratcheted up Gerrit’s nerves.
“Red shoulders,” Filip said with a shrug. No one liked the secret police, but they all expected the Tayemstvoy to keep an eye on them.
Darina shook her head. “Colonel Tesarik.” The Storm Guard Academy’s Tayemstvoy overseer.
Hana drew a sharp breath, her expression shuttering. Branislav shifted uncomfortably.
Gerrit locked his own churning hatred behind an emotionless mask. Tesarik was hail-eating scum, powerful because he’d supported Gerrit’s father from the beginning, before the war. Helpless rage twisted Gerrit’s stomach, and he felt Filip’s gaze without needing to see it. Filip, warning him not to do something stupid but measuring how likely Gerrit was to do it anyway—and get them both caned.
No. Gerrit wasn’t helpless today. Beneath a bozhskyeh storm, he was powerful. More powerful than the sleet-licking colonel.
“We’re imbuing,” Gerrit said. “That makes this a Storm Guard operation.” The Storm Guard trained predominantly Army officers, and though some cadets chose to take Tayemstvoy commissions when they graduated, as cadets they obeyed the Storm Guard General—and she was Army; Tesarik was Tayemstvoy. No matter how the red shoulders wanted to control the world, that distinction kept Tesarik out of their chain of command. “Captain Vrana will give our orders in the field.”
“Tesarik just gives us a better audience to prove our storm-blessing.” Branislav managed to sound calm about it.
Voice tight, Hana asked, “Has he attended other imbuement attempts?”
“No,” Filip said.
“Tesarik just wants us scared so we’ll lick his boots.” Gerrit tried to believe his own dismissal.
“Maybe.” Darina clearly didn’t.
“We’ll keep an eye out,” Jolana said. “You three”—a solemn nod to Branislav, Hana, and Gerrit—“just focus on imbuing.”
They nodded, though the engine’s growl had grown more ominous, each pothole’s jolt more spine-jarring. Then the transport rumbled out of the trees and, just a few kilometers south, lightning lashed the clouds.
Gerrit focused, breathless enthusiasm hardened into determination as he searched for a flash unlike the others. When it came, lighting the clouds as though they’d been cut and bled, he clenched one hand into a fist. Soon, he would imbue. Soon, his father would see true power.
CHAPTER THREE
CELKA CLIMBED THE steps to the Prochazka sleeper car as sunlight chased the early morning chill. She flung the door casually open, hoping the rezistyenti knew to stay out of sight.
“Of course it’s my fault,” Celka said, keeping up her cover conversation with Ela in case anyone wondered why they were in the railyard when the other performers were all at the fairgrounds.
“It’s always your fault,” Ela said, half in laughter, half in sympathy as she followed Celka inside.
Celka puffed out her chest in her best Aunt Benedikta impression, “If you hadn’t distracted Demian with your chattering, he would have remembered the laundry.”
Ela rolled her eyes. “Like Dem can’t take care of himself.”
The gaunt rezistyent crouched on Celka’s bunk, watching warily; the wheezing one sat on Grandfather’s. Celka nodded to them but responded to Ela. “But Dem’s so busy during our performances.” She spoke with a mocking whine and kicked the door shut behind her younger cousin.
Ela took up the grumbling while Celka swung a pack off her shoulders. “We brought breakfast and fresh clothes,” she whispered, low enough that even someone in the next compartment wouldn’t overhear. The train should be deserted this time of day, everyone offloaded, the roustabouts erecting tents while the performers started