All four of them were sitting at Greybeard’s old kitchen table. Spread out before them was the map, its golden lines shimmering in the light of the oil lamp. The old captain was a valuable source of help in deciphering the old names and foreign places that Eva, Nora and Finn did not recognise. ‘Here,’ said Greybeard, pointing to a mark on the edge of the map. ‘That must be the castle Stormspire. You can see its old name here: Praesidium tempestatis. And here, right next to it, the second island – that must be the Thunderclash Keep. The two islands are connected by the Great Storm Bridge, which you can see marked here.’
‘Stormspire,’ repeated Eva, leaning over the map to carefully trace her finger over the delicate golden line leading from Nimbusheim to the castle. ‘And what do these inscriptions mean?’ She pointed to tiny, almost invisible writing along the line. Nora rummaged in her shoulder bag and brought out a lot of different objects: pencils, a spirit level, screws, a storm hawk feather and finally a small magnifying glass. With that, she bent over the map. ‘Hm, it’s written in really small print: ‘Tempestas manet apud te’.’ She frowned. “A piece of the storm stays with you,” Finn translated. Eva laughed. “I’ve always wanted a souvenir like that.’
‘It’s no secret that the way there is dangerous,” said Greybeard, taking a sip of tea. ‘The storm zones are unpredictable and the old mapmakers probably built this route in to deter uninvited guests.’
‘Or to test them, you mean,’ Finn murmured, studying the map with folded arms. His voice was calm but firm. ‘The route from Nimbusheim to Stormspire is not usually taken, even though the two islands are close together. Most traders come from the west if they want to go there, and I myself have only flown over Skycrag to get there. This route alone is risky enough. But it could be…’ He scratched his head and fell silent for a while. Eva was about to shake the rest of the sentence out of him when he continued. ’…that the golden line is a route – one that will guide us safely through the storms.’
‘Safe?’ Nora raised an eyebrow. “I doubt it. But luckily I’m no coward.” Finn snorted. “Luckily you’re no navigator either.” “You’ll need more than courage in any case,” Greybeard interjected. ‘The storm zones are full of turbulence and if you stray from your course, you can easily get lost.’ “We’ll just have to stick to the markings on the map,” said Eva. ’What are Stormspire and Thunderclash Keep like?’
Oh, Stormspire Castle. How could I ever forget its harsh beauty? For those who dare to venture so far into the storm zones, it is an impressive sight: a stone bulwark of black basalt, perched like a silent sentinel on a towering rocky plateau. The island itself appears forbidding – steep cliffs, gnarled trees growing almost horizontally along the ground, and an impenetrable thicket of brambles and blackthorn. Few dare to cross this defiant vegetation, but those who have done so report ancient statues and columns hidden in the greenery. Relics of a long-forgotten time, when the Storm Knights ruled here.
And then, of course, there’s the bridge. Ah, the Great Storm Bridge – an architectural masterpiece that connects Stormspire Island with the neighbouring Thunderclash Keep. It is said that the bridge was built in a time when humans and Stormknights were even closer than they are today, and the Tempestarii were not an eccentric cult that prefers to keep to itself. Its massive arches stretch seemingly weightlessly over the raging storm clouds. Symbols are carved into the stone railings, which are said to promise travellers luck and protection. But be careful: crossing the bridge can be dangerous. The gusts here are so strong that careless travellers are repeatedly swept off the platform.
And then there’s storm taming itself: an art that seems like a dance between man and natural force. In Thunderclash Keep, the Tempestarii are trained not only to survive storms, but to control and direct them – but I have to admit that I only have fragmentary information about this. The Stormknights, as they were once called, were a hereditary line of nobles whose bloodline inexplicably died out several centuries ago. In their place came the Stormtamer guild, whose members are no longer chosen by birth, but through the strictest selection process and tests.
The tradition, however, remains elitist: only young men with impeccable health and strong physiques are admitted to the training. Women? Not a chance, at least not officially. It has remained a ‘knightly’ male domain and its practices are shrouded in secrecy that borders on superstition. In the libraries, one searches in vain for written documents on their methods, because a few decades ago, the Tempestarii had all the works that had ever been written about storm taming systematically removed and burned. Outsiders are not welcome at the Thunderclash Keep—the massive gates alone ensure that no unauthorised person sets foot on its grounds.
However, during my journey to Stormspire, I managed to catch a rare glimpse. From an elevated point on the large stone bridge connecting the two islands, I was able to watch part of a training session. Before me lay the mighty fortress, embedded in the seething storm clouds that surrounded the edges of the island. There, on the training ground, I saw men in long cloaks – the uniform of the Tempestarii, recognisable from the pattern criss-crossed by lightning. With curved iron rods that resembled antennas, they directed the electrical energy of the storm clouds into nets made of finely woven copper wire. They moved with an almost dance-like precision, as if they were performing an ancient, well-rehearsed dance with the unleashed forces of nature. The spectacle was breathtaking: sparks flew, lightning flashed and thunder rolled across the bridge. It seemed as if they were in dialogue with raging nature, sometimes negotiating, sometimes challenging. It was as fascinating as it was frightening, because you could feel the danger in their art.
‘And what if we reach Stormspire?’ Finn asked. ‘What are we looking for there?’ Greybeard let his eyes fall on the map. ‘The castle has quite extensive archives. In the absence of the Stormknights – which will certainly last a while‘, he laughed – ‚the castle is ruled by… er, what was his name again…?’ ‘Tharion,’ Finn interjected, ‘Tharion Falstaff.’ ‘Exactly,’ Greybeard nodded, ‘Tharion is the warden of Stormspire. Talk to him. Show him – but only him – the map. Perhaps he has an idea.’
‘Sounds good!’ Eva stood up and rolled up the map energetically. ‘Then Stormspire is our first destination. And from there, we’ll see what happens.’ She turned to her companions. ‘Can we leave in the morning?’ Nora clapped her hands, a grin on her face. ‘Rex is ready to go.’