“Our people are no less educated than yours!” Betaan shouldn’t call Yanlin small and isolated – even if it was. “Our chanters know all the old tales. And we do not have as many thieves as you suffer. And—”

“Of course your chanters are excellent,” Mer soothed. “Betaan often speaks before she thinks. But she is proud of Bellum, as we all are. And you, of course, are proud of Yanlin. But you cannot live as a woman if you return to your island.”

Storm inclined her head, acknowledging the truth of Mer’s words. “I must give my life to my people,” she said. “I am a Weather-witch. I have no choice.”

“You do!” Betaan grabbed Storm’s hands, eyes large and pleading. “Stay here with us. Live as we do. Be whomever you like. Enjoy your life. You did not ask to be a Weather-witch, so why should you suffer for the actions of the Elemental spirits?”

“I don’t know.” Betaan’s pleading expression was so un-Betaan-like that Storm wanted to laugh. She heard once again the words of the Albatross, spoken on the day of her Choosing: Storm-bringer. Storm-rider. Storm-queller. Much is needed from you. Learn what it is. “We cannot always choose our life’s path.”

The other two girls exchanged a glance. Betaan shrugged. “Here,” she said. “Put on these earrings I bought for you yesterday. And then we will go into town to visit my favourite tea shop. I shall treat you to the best plum cakes in the Inner Sea!”

The sun was already three hands above the horizon when they set out, the usual guards in attendance. Storm’s stomach knotted with nerves. The morning would soon pass and much depended on luck … and these guards. They were the same three men and a woman as on previous days.

“What are their names?” Storm asked her companions, whispering to avoid giving offence to the guards.

“Names?” Betaan looked blank. “You!” She pointed at the nearest guard, the woman. “The Honourable Storm wishes to know your name.”

“Tolbar, Mistress.” A frown flitted across the woman’s usually impassive face.

“Shall I ask the others?” Betaan turned to Storm with a patient expression.

“No.” Storm watched the guard. The woman’s face remained wooden. She looked clever – possibly too clever – but time was running out. Storm had promised to meet Uncle Lake. Ancestors help me! Suddenly, her plan seemed anything but foolproof.

10

They sat at a table in the tea house’s small garden, tucked away in one of the many squares somewhere in the south of the city, far from the harbour. Palm trees dangled leaves overhead, splashing welcome shade across the terrace. Bird cages hung from every tree, painted bright pink, blue and yellow. Imprisoned ke-ke birds sang frantically, until Storm’s head began to ache.