Water & Storm Country

WATER & STORM COUNTRY


David Estes



Chapter One


Huck





Standing on the deck watching the sunrise, I can’t hold back my smile. The air is crisp, a little colder than usual for this time of yar, numbing the tip of my nose, filling each breath with the distinct smell of salt and brine. While endless yellow clouds keep watch over the Deep Blue, the half-sun splashes purples, pinks and oranges on the ever reddening morning sky.

To the starboard side I can see the shoreline, sandy at first, and then green, rolled out like a welcome mat. Above the land, the yellow clouds darken to black.

In the waters surrounding the ship, I see the familiar dark triangles of sharp-tooth fins breaking the surface, patrolling the ocean, hoping for an execution or a natural death to give them the chance to taste human flesh yet again.

But even the constant presence of the sharp-tooths can’t wipe away my grin. Not today.

The ship lurches beneath me, riding the crest of yet another big rolling wave. But I don’t stumble, don’t lose my balance, don’t so much as sway from the ship’s movements or the tumultuous wind that whips my shirt in a frenzy around me.

Steady.

Balanced.

A seaman, through and through.

And smiling, bigger than the ocean, relishing the salt spray splashing my face as a wave crashes against the hull, living for the feel of the power rolling and throbbing beneath my feet, laughing when a flock of white-winged big-chins dive-bomb the water, each emerging with a nice-sized fish clamped tightly between its beak.

This is the life. The life of a Soaker. A typical morning in water country.

My life, all about to change. Because I’m fourteen now.

“Huck,” a deep voice rumbles from behind. Not a murmur, not a greeting: a command.

Startled, I turn quickly, my smile vanishing in an instant. “Father?” I say.

“Admiral Jones,” he says. Admiral Jones is what his shipmen call him.

“Sir?” I say.

“Son,” he says, taking two steps forward to reach my side. “Today you become a man.” His words are the truth but I know he doesn’t mean them. Not after what happened. Not after what always happens.

Today’s the start of my fourteenth yar, the yar I cast off my childish ways and become a real seaman, not just the son of one. “I’m ready,” I say, wondering if it’s true. I desperately want to look down, to look away, to escape the piercing stare of my father’s crystal blue eyes, which are startling next to his white, freckled skin, but I don’t—

—because men don’t look away for anyone;

—men aren’t scared of anything;

—men don’t cry.

My father’s creed, one I’ve heard a million and a half times.

And men don’t fail their fathers, like I have so many times before.

Resting a hand on my shoulder, my father—Admiral Jones—says, “Are you? Ready?”

Uh…I think? Maybe? “Aye,” I say, keeping my gaze on his but feeling his disappointment tremble through me.

“Hmm,” Father says, chewing on his lip. “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?”

I hold my breath because the way he’s looking at me, so full of doubt, so uncertain, with one eyebrow raised, his nostrils flared slightly, his expression lopsided, seems to pick me apart from the outside in, like a big-chin tearing at the flesh of a fish. If I breathe I’m afraid it will come out in a ragged shudder, and then he’ll know.

He’ll know I’m not a man, even if I’m old enough to be one.

My face warms while I hold my breath for ten seconds, twenty, as he continues to stare at me, his eyes probing, closing in on the truth.

Just when I start to feel a little lightheaded, he looks away, turns, stomps off, his boots hammering the wooden deck like a funeral drum. I let my breath out as slowly as I can, closing my eyes. “I am a man,” I whisper under my breath, trying to convince myself. “I won’t fail you. Not anymore.” If only I had the guts to say it loud enough for him to hear.

“Walk with me, Son,” my father says without turning around.

“Aye, aye, Father,” I say.

“Admiral Jones,” he replies. By blood he’s still my father, but by rights he’s the admiral, and I’m one of his men, subject to all the same rules as anyone else.

“Admiral Jones,” I correct, wondering why saying it this time doesn’t feel nearly as good as it always did when I practiced in my cabin.

I hustle to catch up, trying to stride the way he does across the deck. Long steps, chin up, eyes sweeping the ship, taking everything in. As we walk aft, two of my father’s lieutenants are swashbuckling on the starboard side. Their swords ring out loud and shrill and practiced as they parry and slash and block. It’s a morning ritual for these two, Cain and Hobbs, one I’ve watched with boyish interest many times before.

When we approach, they stop, planting their blades point-first into the deck. Hands flat, they each raise the tips of their fingers to the arch of their eyebrows in a rigid salute. “At ease, lieutenants,” my father says.

They relax their arms but continue to stand at attention. “Mornin’, Admiral…Huck,” Cain says, his blue uniform turning dark with sweat stains beneath his armpits. He flashes a smile.

“Mornin’, Cain,” I say, smiling back.

“Lieutenant Cain,” my father corrects sharply. I look up at him and he’s giving me those dark eyes again, sparkling blue under the morning sun but shrouded in shadow from the brim of his admiral’s cap.

“Lieutenant Cain,” I mumble, feeling stupid. How can I be a man if I can’t even talk right?

“Mornin’, Huck,” Hobbs says with a sneer. Unlike Cain, he’s never liked me.

I frown at his half-smirk. “Mornin’,” I say under my breath.

“Lieutenant,” my father says again.

Stupid, stupid. “Lieutenant,” I say.

“So you’re a man today,” Cain says, slapping me on the back with a firm hand. It hurts a little but I’ve never felt better.

“I am,” I say, beaming.

“That remains to be seen,” my father says, wiping the grin off my face before it’d even reached my eyes. How do I prove myself to him after what happened two yars ago? My mother’s face flashes through my mind: her quick smile, her green eyes, her long blond hair. The way she’d read to me at night. Tales of great battles against the Stormers, our independence won and lost and won again. Many yars ago.

Her face again, not smiling this time: awash with terror, twisted and stricken and looking up at me, pleading—her eyes always pleading…

“Huck!” my father barks.

I snap out of the memory, shake my head. Hobbs is snickering while Cain looks at me under a furrowed brow. Father’s lips are unreadable beneath his thick salt-and-pepper beard. “Wha—what?” I stammer.

“Lieutenant Hobbs asked you a question,” my father says.

I glance at Hobbs, who looks smug, his hands on his hips. “Aye?” I say. Catching myself, I add, “Lieutenant.”

“Have you been practicing your sword work?” Hobbs asks again.

Not the question I expected. For a moment I let the warmth of pride fill my heart, because I have. Been practicing, that is. Every spare moment I’ve been practicing with the wooden blade my father gave me when I turned seven. Fighting the other young boys on the ship, parrying with masts, battling heavy bags of potatoes and rice. Swinging and swinging my practice sword until it’s become a part of me, an extension of my arm and hand.

I stick my chest out and say, “Aye.”

“Show us,” Hobbs says, a gleam in his dark brown eyes.

I look at him sideways, wondering what he’s up to, but, not wanting to disappoint my father yet again, I start to pull my wooden sword from where it hangs loosely from my belt.

“No,” Hobbs says. “Not with that. With this.” He reaches down and picks up a sword, shorter than his, but shiny and sharp and real. And the hilt…

—it has the Admiral’s markings on it, a woman, beautiful and shapely, her hair long and falling in front of her shoulders to cover her naked breasts. And beneath: the skin of her stomach gives way to a long tail with scaly fins, like a fish. A merwoman. Identical to the figurehead on the bow of the ship. The ship’s namesake. The Merman’s Daughter.

The sword is my birthright, the sword I will wear until my father dies and I inherit his long-blade. With a slight bow, Hobbs holds it in front of him reverently, offering it to me. Through his long blond bangs, which hang over his eyes, I see him wink at me as I take it.

Something’s up. Hobbs never winks.

In my grasp, the sword seems to gain weight and I almost drop it, awkwardly bringing my offhand up to balance it. I hear Hobbs snort, but I ignore him, because this is my time, my day.

My right.

Slowly, I raise the sword to eye level, watching in awe as it seems to catch every ray of red sunlight, sending them shooting in all directions.

My right. My sword.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” Hobbs says, and I sense something in his voice—a challenge.

“Hobbs,” Cain says sharply, sounding sterner than I’ve ever heard him.

“Uhh, aye,” I say, looking between them, wondering why Hobbs looks so mischievous and Cain so angry.

I move a safe distance away and raise my sword to attack position, my feet planted firmly as I’ve been taught. I start to swing, but stop when Hobbs laughs. “I mean against a real opponent,” he says.

I look back, my prideful chest deflating. “Sir?” I say. I can’t possibly fight him. He’s a man, and I’m…not, regardless of my age and who my father is.

I can feel a crowd gathering, their boots shuffling on the deck. I whirl around, taking them in, the eyes—so many eyes—staring, waiting, watching. To see what I’ll do. A test. This is exactly the kind of thing my father would do.

My chance. To prove myself. To him.

Maybe my last chance.

My mother’s face, open-mouthed and screaming. Pleading and pleading.

I grit my teeth, shake my head, nod firmly at Hobbs. Raise my sword with two hands in his direction.

He laughs, deep and loud. “Me? You thought you were going to fight me? Don’t insult me, kid. You’ll fight someone closer to your own size.” At the same time as I feel angry heat swallow my neck—because he called me kid on the day I become a man—I breathe out a silent sigh of relief. Perhaps I have a chance after all.

I look around, seeing a couple of the guys I practice with, Jobe and Ben, looking almost as scared as I feel, afraid they’re about to be asked into the circle with me to prove their manhood in front of an audience. “Who?” I say, my voice quivering around the single word.

“We don’t want to give you more than you can handle for your first real fight,” Hobbs says, walking a lazy circle around me. Meaning…what?

“You’ll fight one of the bilge rats,” he says, the edge of his lip turning up.

“What?” I say, more sharply than I intended. What the hell is going on? “But I can’t possibly…”

“You can and you will,” my father interjects. “Remember what I taught you, Son.”

I frown, remembering his lessons well. The bilge rats are nothing more than swine, less than human, here to serve us and be trodden under our feet. Nary better than animals, they are. When, as a child, I asked him where the bilge come from, he said, “From nowhere,” like they just popped out of the ground or were fished from the ocean or dropped from the sky. He wouldn’t say any more than that and I knew better than to ask.

I nod. If this is what I must do to become a man, I’ll do it.

“Bring him in!” Hobbs hollers and I sense movement on the port side of the ship. The crowd parts and a skinny, brown boy stumbles toward me, being half-dragged and mostly pushed by a strong man I recognize as one of the oarsmen. The bilge rat’s eyes are wide and scared, darting around him, like at any moment someone might hit him. I’ve seen the boy before but have never spoken to him. Usually he’s on his knees, scrubbing the decks, his head hanging in defeat and resignation.

Less than human.

The big oarsman shoves him forward and he trips, nearly falling into me, but I catch his arm firmly, hold him up. He stares at the sword in my other hand, his jaw tight. For a moment I look at him—really look at him—like I never have before. For this one time, he’s not just an animal, not just an object to be ignored, like my father always taught me. He looks so human, his skin browner than mine, aye, but not so different than me after all.

He jerks away from my grip and a piece of his dirty, tattered shirt comes away in my fist. I stare at it for a moment and then let it drop to my feet. Hobbs hands the boy an old sword, even shorter than mine and blunt and rusty around the edges. Unblinking, the boy takes it, swallowing a heavy wad of spittle that slides down his throat in a visible lump.

How can I fight someone like him?

I have to.

But how? He’s so weak-looking, so scared…

I have no choice.

“Fight,” Hobbs says, backing away, smiling bigger than ever.

I raise my sword, which has fallen loosely to my side. The bilge rat continues looking at his rusty blade, as if it’s a snake, but then suddenly grips it tightly, his brown knuckles turning white. He lifts his chin and our eyes meet, and I see…

—hurt

—and anger

—and fear, too, but not as much as before.

His mouth opens and he screams, right at me, a cry of war.

I take a step back just before he charges, cheers rising up around me like sails on a summer wind.





Chapter Two


Sadie





The wind rushes over me and around me and through me, blasting my dark hair away from my face and behind me, flattening my black robe against my chest.

I lengthen my strides, the dark skin of my legs flashing from beneath my robe with each step. Muscles tight, heartbeat heavy, mind alive, I race across the storm country plains, determined to surprise my mother with the speed of my arrival back at camp after my morning training run.

Lonely dark-trunked leafless trees force me to change my direction from time to time, their bare scraggly branches creaking and swaying in the wind like dancing skeletons.

I can already see the circle of tents in the distance, smoke wafting in lazy curls from their midst, evidence of the morning cook fires. Although I left when it was still black out, the sky is mixed now, streaked with shards of red slicing between the ever-present dark clouds.

With the camp in sight, I call on every bit of strength I have left, what I’ve been saving for my final sprint. I go faster and faster and faster still, unable to stop a smile from bending my lips.

I close in on the tents, sweat pouring from my skin as excitement fills me.

That’s when I hear the scream.

Carried on the wind, the cry is ragged and throat-burning.

I stab one of my dark boots in the ground, skid to a stop, breathing heavy, swiveling my head around to locate the bearer of the yell. My breath catches when I see it: a ship, moving swiftly along the coast, the wind at its back filling its white wind-catchers, propelling it forward as it cuts through the waves.

A boisterous cheer rises up from the ship, and I exhale, forcing out a breath before sucking another one in. The Soakers are here!

Instinctively, my gaze draws away from the ship, following the coastline, easily picking out the other white triangles cutting into the base of the scarlet horizon. More ships—at least a dozen. The entire Soaker fleet.

I’ve got to warn the camp.

I take off, pushing my legs to fly, fly, fly, muttering encouragement under my breath. Before I reach the camp, however, a cry goes up from one of the lookouts, Hazard, a huge man with the blackest skin I’ve ever seen, even blacker than a cloudy, starless night. He yells once, a warning, and soon the camp is full of noise. Commands to rush to arms, to secure the children, to ready the horses, are spouted from the mouth of the war leader, who I can just make out between the tents.

His name is Gard, and if Hazard is huge, then he’s a giant, as tall and wide as the tents. He’s already on his horse, Thunder, which is the largest in the stables, the only one strong enough to bear the war leader’s weight. Gard and Thunder turn away as one to the south, where the other horses are tied.

I dart between the first two tents I come to, slip inside the camp, and narrowly avoid getting trampled by a dozen men and women warriors charging to follow Gard. The Riders. Trained from birth to be warriors, to defend my people from the Soakers, they ride the Escariot, the black horses that have served my people in peace and war for every generation since the Great Rock landed on earth.

Trained like me, by fire and the sword.

“Sadie!” I hear someone yell.

I turn to see my father beckoning to me, his face neutral but serious. Hesitating, my eyes flick to where the warriors are disappearing behind the tents, soon to emerge as Riders, their steeds snorting and stomping in preparation for war. All I want is to watch them go, to see my mother flash past on Shadow, her face full of the stoic confidence I’ve seen on the rare occasions she’s been called to arms.

Unbidden, my legs carry me toward my father, who graces me with a grim smile, his dark skin vibrant under the morning sunlight. His thin arms and legs look even thinner after seeing Hazard and Gard, not unlike the spindly, dark branches of the trees on the storm plains.

“Come inside,” he says.

“I want to watch,” I admit.

“I know,” he says. “Come inside.”

Of course he knows. He knows everything. But I follow him into our tent anyway.

Even when my father seals the flaps at the entrance, the thin-skinned walls do little to block out the rally cries of the Riders as they organize themselves.

When my father, the Man of Wisdom, turns to look at me, I say, “I’m almost sixteen, Father.”

“You’re not yet,” he says patiently, motioning for me to sit.

I ignore the offer. “I need to see this,” I say.

Father sighs, sits cross-legged, his bony knees protruding from the skirts of his thin white robe. “You do not need to see this.” Who am I to argue with the wisest man in the village?

“I’m not your little girl anymore,” I say, pleading now. I kneel in front of him, my hands clasped. “Just let me watch.”

He grimaces, as if in pain, and I wonder how I came from him. My mother makes sense. She’s strong, like me, like Gard, like the other Riders. But my father is so…weak. Not just physically either. I know he’s wise and all that, but I swear he’s scared of his own shadow sometimes.

“Please,” I say again.

He shakes his head. “It’s not your time,” he says.

“When will be my time?” I say, slumping back on my heels.

“Soon enough.”

Not soon enough for me. It’s not like I’m asking to fight, although Mother Earth knows I want to do that too. I want to see what the Riders do, for real, not some training exercise. I want to see my mother fight, to kill, to knock back the Soakers to their Earth-forsaken ships.

Many years have the Soakers threatened my people, for no other reason than they can. Their leader is hungry to conquer, to make slaves out of us, like he has with other peoples before us. Like snakes, their fleet of twelve ships patrols the waters just off the coast of storm country, attacking us from time to time, seemingly at the whims of the Soaker Admiral. We fight for our land and our lives.

We could leave, seek more peaceful lands free of the bloodthirsty Soakers, but my people can be a stubborn people, especially when it comes to our home. It’s been our home since the time of the Great Rock, back when we crawled from our hiding places like worms, finding a changed world. But for me, many generations later, it’s the only world I know. It’s like the lightning and thunder of the storms that so often rage across the plains have become a part of us, strengthening us. The storms call to us. We must stay to hear them.

We want but a small portion of storm country to live off of, but the Soakers want it all, never content with simply controlling the great waters and lands to the north and south of us. So we fight because we must.

I’ve got nothing else to say to the great Man of Wisdom sitting before me, so I don’t say anything, keep my head down, study the dirt beneath my fingernails.

The cries outside the tent die down, dwindling to a whisper as the clop of the horses’ hooves melt into the distance. The world goes silent, and all I can hear is my father’s breathing. My heart beats in my head. Weird.

I look up and his eyes are closed, his hands out, his forearms resting on his knees. Meditating. Like I’ve seen him do a million times before, his lips murmuring silent prayers. In other words, doing nothing. Nothing to help anyway. Meditating won’t stop the Soakers from killing the Riders, from barging into our camp and slaughtering us all like the frightened weaklings that we are, hiding in our tents.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, I rise and move toward the tent flaps, careful not to scuff my boots on the floor.

I creep past my father, and he’s behind me and my hand’s on the flap, and I’m about to open it, and then—

—his hand flashes out and grabs my ankle, his grip much—much—firmer than I expected, holding me in place, hurting me a little.

“Nice try,” he says, and I almost smile.

When I start to backtrack he releases me. Dramatically, I throw myself to the ground and curl up on a blanket, sighing heavily.

“There’s nothing to watch anyway,” he says in The Voice. Not his normal, everyday speaking voice, but the one that sounds deeper and more solid, like it comes from a place low within his gut, almost like it’s spoken by someone else who lives inside of him. A man greater than himself, full of power, barrel-chested and well-muscled—like Gard, a warrior.

The Voice.

When people hear The Voice, they listen.

Even I do. Well, usually. Because The Voice is never wrong.

I set my elbow on the ground and prop my head on the heel of my hand. “Why not?” I ask, suddenly interested in everything my father has to say—because he’s not my father anymore. He’s the Man of Wisdom.

Maybe the meditation wasn’t him doing nothing after all.

His cheeks bulge, as if the words are right there, trying to force their way out. But when he blows out, it’s just air, nothing more. Then he says, “Listen.”

I cock my head, train my ear in the air, hear only the silence of a camp in hiding.

Silence.

Silence.

And then—

—the chatter of horses’ hooves across the plains, getting louder, approaching a rumble, then becoming the distant growl of thunder.

“Now you can go,” Father says in his normal voice, but I’m already on my feet, bursting from the tent opening, running for the edge of the camp while other Stormers are emerging from hiding.

I charge out of the camp and onto the plains, my footsteps drowned out by the grumble of the horses galloping toward me. Gard’s in the front, leading, and he flies past me like I’m not even there. Another few Riders pass in similar fashion before I see her.

My mother, astride Shadow, her skin and robe so dark she almost looks like she’s a part of her horse, a strange human-animal creature, fast and dangerous and ready.

She stops in front of me, perfectly balanced, her sword in her left hand.

“What happened?” I say.

She motions with her sword behind her, where, with the sun shimmering across the water, the white ships are sailing off into the distance, barely visible now.

“They’re gone,” I murmur.





Chapter Three


Huck





Still screaming his head off, the bilge rat’s sword flies past my head, whistling in my ear as I duck out of the way.

A cheer rises up from the heavy crowd, who suddenly feel like they’re closing in, surrounding us, preventing any chance of escape. I blink hard twice, trying to get the sweat out of my eyes and the noise out of my head. My stomach clenches when I see my father watching quietly as the brown boy stumbles, regains his footing, and then turns to face me again.

I don’t know this boy—

Don’t want to fight this boy—

But I can’t let my father down again.

I squeeze my stomach muscles tight, bite away my fears, and attack, swinging my real sword the way I always practiced with my wooden one. The boy’s eyes go wide and he shrinks back, narrowly deflecting the first of my blows with his blunt blade.

Using this sword is nothing like a wooden one. It’s weighted differently and feels unbalanced in my hand, each slash becoming more awkward than the last. The bilge seems to realize it and easily dodges my next attack, kicking me in the stomach with a dirty bare foot.

I feel the wind go out of my lungs and I gasp, clutching at my gut. Like before, the boy’s face goes from fear to anger in an instant, and he kicks me again, this time in the rear and I go flying, crashing into an empty barrel and sprawling headlong on the deck.

My face is burning, so hot—red and burning. Not from exertion or anger—humiliation. I’ve literally just had my backside kicked by a bilge rat, a scrawny one no less.

But I’m not done yet.

Because my father is watching.

And there’s blood in the water—my mother’s blood. Teeth snapping. I can’t fail him.

Not again.

I push to my feet, only to sense a brown form charging from the side, slashing with his sword. I’m ready this time.

I duck, pushing my fist hard into his stomach. He doubles over and I knee him in the chin, launching him back, his sword flipping end over end as it leaves his hand. Leaping forward, I try to stomp on him, but he rolls away, grabbing his sword. He stands to face me again.

I mutter a curse.

We dance in a circle, staring at each other. There’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there when he was first pushed into me. Anger? Violence? No and no, I realize. Desperation. He’s fighting for his life, and I’m fighting for what? Pride? My manhood? My father? Even I don’t know anymore, only that I must continue on, finish what I started.

I slash and he blocks and I slash again, narrowly missing and trimming a shred of cloth from his already tattered sleeve.

My head spins and suddenly there’s a rush of air all around me and I feel my blood pumping and my heart pounding and sweat pouring out of me like rain, and I could’ve killed him—that last swing could’ve killed him and I didn’t even take anything off of it and if it had connected he’d be dead right now and I’d have done it.

I’d have killed him.

I don’t even know this boy and he hasn’t done anything to me except fight for his life and I almost killed him.

I realize I’m breathing heavy and on the verge of tears and my sword is lowered and the bilge rat’s staring at me, probably wondering whether I’ve caught the Scurve because I’m sweating, sweating so damn much that it’s pouring off my brow and into my eyes, blurring my vision.

I stare back at him through sweat—or are they tears?—and strands of dirty-blond hair that have come loose from my ponytail, wondering whether we can just shake hands so he can go back to his scrubbing and I can go back to becoming a man.

Sensing my weakness, he attacks with a fury. It’s all I can do to raise my sword to block his attack, the metal on metal contact ringing out, rising above the cheers of the men around me, who have come to life again. He pushes me back and I stumble. When he pushes again, I’m off balance and my legs get tangled up and I trip, dropping my sword as I try to break my fall with my hands, skidding backwards on my rear, coming to a stop.

I look up, panting.

My father stands over me, his lips a thin line beneath his beard.

But all I can see is the motion of his head. Shaking, shaking, back and forth, wishing I wasn’t his son and that I hadn’t failed him yet again.

And then the tip of the bilge rat’s rusty old sword is at my throat and I can’t breathe and I’m looking up at him and I’m scared of him doing it, but I’m even more scared that he won’t and I’ll have to face my father’s head-shaking and disappointment.

The boy’s face is hard, and for a moment I think he’ll do it, that he’ll kill me, but then he sighs and throws down his sword, letting it clatter to the deck with a dull clang. He stalks off and I close my eyes.

There are murmurs from the crowd, whispered words I can’t hear, and plenty of words that I wish I couldn’t hear.

“The admiral’s son…bah!”

“Beaten by a bilge rat, what an embarrassment!”

“He’d be better off swimming with the sharp-tooths if you ask me.”

Each comment is like a slash to the heart, cutting off another piece of me, ripping me open. Hot tears well up beneath my eyelids, but I won’t open them, not for anyone or anything. Won’t let the tears out where he can see them.

“What a joke,” I hear Hobbs mutter before he stomps away. There’s more scuffling feet and I know the crowd is dispersing, going back to their morning work.

“Huck,” a gentle voice says. A kind voice.

“Go away,” I say.

“Open your eyes,” Cain says, more firmly this time.

“No. Leave me alone.”

“Your father’s gone,” he says. “It’s just you and me.”

Great. Even worse. My father is so ashamed of me he wanted to get as far away as possible. Me, a man? Ha! I’m not even a boy, not even better than a bilge rat.

I open my eyes, squint as a ray of sunlight shoots between the billowing sails rising above me. Feel the warmth of a tear creeping down my cheek, tickling my skin.

Men don’t cry.

I wipe it away with the back of my hand.

Cain looks at me with eyes bluer than the ocean. “I saw what happened,” he says.

“Yeah, everyone did,” I mutter. “I got my ass kicked.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You could’ve won. You were the better swordsman, but when you almost cut him, you freaked. You practically let him win after that.”

“I almost killed him,” I whisper, as if saying it any louder might take away the almost part, leaving the brown boy lying bloody on the deck, my sword through his gut.

“True,” Cain says. “But you didn’t. You chose defeat over ending a life. A brave choice.”

It doesn’t feel very brave. Feels awful. “Father will never make me a man now,” I say.

Cain laughs and I frown. “He doesn’t have much of a choice,” he says. “Plus, he’ll be itching to get you off his ship as soon as possible now.”

I glare at him. “Thanks for the reminder.”

I see movement over his shoulder, on the shore, and I crane my neck to look around him. “What is it?” he asks, turning to follow my gaze.

Dozens of dark Riders spill onto the beach, their black horses stamping and bucking, their swords gleaming in the morning light. Watching us. Waiting. Almost like they’re hoping we’ll come ashore and fight them.





~~~





Because I’m the admiral’s son, turning fourteen and becoming a man means leaving The Merman’s Daughter, the ship I’ve grown up on, the ship I love, from its flowing white sails to its polished decks to the songs of the sailors in the morning, bellowed on the wind as they work. Songs of glory and victory and bravery.

Songs about people who aren’t me.

The men are singing now, and their song is for me, but I clamp my hands over my ears and try to block it out. I haven’t seen my father all day, which is fine by me. Seeing him will bring me nothing but pain.

My entire cabin rocks back and forth, as the waves flow beneath the ship. I welcome the gentle, calming motion, a source of normalcy in a place that’s feeling more and more abnormal by the day.

Maybe leaving is a good thing.

Maybe all I need is a bit of change to become a man.

Maybe not.

Blood in the water. Ripping, ripping, crushing my life away.

My father’s face, paler than the white sand beaches of storm country; his blue eyes, wet at first, shocked, but then later dry and red and full of spite. Anger directed at me and my failures.

I slam my fist against my bed pad, feeling pain lance down my fingers when I hit the wood through the stuffing. But the physical pain feels better than what I’m feeling inside. I hit the bed again and again, and I realize the tears are flowing now, which only makes me angrier, because

(men don’t cry.)

Do they?

Do they?

“Bring us the boy! Bring us the boy!” The chanting begins above deck, and although the word boy is meant to be a temporary label, I feel like it’s being shoved into my chest with a hot iron.

I rub my chest with one hand while wiping away my tears on a blanket with my other—

“Bring us the boy!”

I stand up, smoothing the wrinkles on my new blue uniform—

“Bring us…”

Squeeze my fists at my sides—

“…the BOY!”

—and leave my cabin, taking the stairs one at a time, which I haven’t done since my legs grew long enough to skip a step or two.

On the top step, I pause, take a deep breath, and emerge onto the quarterdeck at the rear of the ship, above the officer cabins.

A cheer rises up, but there’s laughing too, and men elbowing each other’s ribs, telling a joke or two about earlier today, reliving my defeat at the hands of a scrawny bilge rat. Hobbs’ jokes are the loudest of all, careening across the ship, bouncing off barrels and railings and masts, swarming around me like relentless flies.

Cain greets me with a smile and a firm handshake, which I don’t return, because I’m distracted by the hundreds of torches blazing across the ship, illuminating the typically dark and shadowy deck. And I’m trying, desperately trying

(to find him.)

But my father is nowhere to be seen. Did he forget? Impossible. And yet he’s not here. He’s finally given up on me, abandoned me.

I feel a pain in my stomach so sharp it’s like the bilge rat’s kicking me again.

But no, this pain is worse. Much worse. Because my father’s not here.

“Cain?” I say.

“He’ll come,” he says, reading my mind.

Blood in the water.

“He won’t,” I say, and Cain doesn’t respond because he knows I could be right.

As Cain leads me across the quarterdeck to the edge, where it’s elevated above the lower decks, I scan the crowd. Everyone’s here, even the women, having come up from below deck, throwing aside their pots and pans and the clothes they were cleaning. Come to watch me become a man.

I recognize many men and boys I know and love, like Cain, who have been my friends for as long as I can remember. There’s Grubbs, the ship’s head cook, wearing a splotched and stained apron bulging out with the curve of his well-fed belly; a man who used to let me sit on his table and sneak extra rations of gruel before it was served to the rest of the men and women. Down the row is Croaker, the lookout with a voice like a crow, who first taught me to climb the ladder to the very tops of the tower. I spot a group of boys, jostling and pushing each other for position, trying to get the best view possible. My friends. One of them, Jobe, sees me looking their way and stops punching the kid next to him to wave. I want to wave back, but if I had to guess I’d say men don’t wave. So I just nod in his direction, finally feeling the tug of a smile on my lips.

Because I’m becoming a man! Whether my father’s here or not, this is one thing he can’t stop.

Cain clears his throat and a cheer erupts from the men and women and boys and girls, louder than before—and no laughs, no jokes. All for me.

All for me?

I feel a shadow from behind.

My father looms over me, his admiral’s cap like a dark cloud.





Chapter Four


Sadie





“Why didn’t they stop to fight us?” I ask, hours later.

Clang!

I catch my mother’s sword on the broadside of my own, spin to get in close to her, but she pushes me away with a strong hand. Although my legs are tiring, I feel reinvigorated when I suck in a deep breath of the cool, salty air.

Mother dances to the side, onto the hard sand, her feet lithe and graceful like an animal’s. “I don’t know,” she says. “They don’t always fight. Sometimes they move past us, searching for a safe place to land, to refill their freshwater supply.”

I shove the tip of my sword in the sand and release it, letting it spring back and forth in the wind. Put my hands on my hips. “But why do they get to choose when we fight. Why can’t we attack them for a change?”

She looks at me with an amused expression, her black ponytail dangling in front, over her shoulder. Her dark brown skin almost seems light brown against the darkening sky, which is one single mass of black clouds with no beginning and no end. Down the shoreline, lightning flashes in the distance. The wind picks up, tossing my untied hair around my face as easily as it picks up a fallen feather from one of the dozens of gulls that swirl overhead, cawing and crying. The waves are dark blue and churning, crashing on the sand with the strength and power of ten horses. The Deep Blue is restless.

As usual, a storm is coming, and a fierce one at that.

“Patience,” my mother says, and then leaps forward, the half-smile gone, her face hard with concentration. Her blade cuts toward me.

Clang!

I whip my own sword from the sand and narrowly manage to deflect hers away. Not that she would’ve hit me. But she would’ve pressed the point tight against my skin and lectured me on always being prepared, never letting my guard down, or any number of her favorite “Rider Lessons.”

For a while we forget about the Soaker ships, forget about the cheers erupting from them as they passed, forget about everything but our own bodies, moving, slashing, blocking, fighting, preparing for…for what?

Finally, my mother puts down her blade.

“A storm is coming,” she says, but I don’t think she means rain and lightning and thunder.

Though we both know we should run for shelter, for the camp, we sit on the sand for a while, just watching the gulls play on the gusting wind. Seems the storm isn’t close enough to scare them yet, and the birds are usually right.

“I hate them,” I say to the ocean.

“Who? The birds?” my mother says, and I can feel her smile on my face. She can be intense during training, but when she’s just my mother again she’s different.

“The Soakers,” I say, looking at her quickly, matching her brown stare.

She knows why, so she doesn’t ask, doesn’t say anything, just throws an arm around me and pulls me into her chest. Her heart beats firmly against my face.

“Don’t be so quick to grow up,” she finally says.

I pull away, embarrassed that I gave myself the comfort of my mother’s tenderness. I’m not a child anymore. “I’ll be a Rider soon,” I say, frowning. “Is Father trying to delay it?”

“Your father loves you,” she says, “it would do you well to remember that.”

“Father’s a coward,” I say before I can stop myself. But why should I stop myself? The words are on my tongue most of the time, why shouldn’t I speak them? They’re the truth, after all.

“Your father’s a hero,” Mother says.

Something red and hot and sizzling with energy tears through me, like lightning striking a lonely tree. I shudder, breathing heavy, trying to control my anger like Mother has taught me. I want to swallow the words in my mouth, if only because I love my father, despite his weaknesses, despite all his wise words and no action, despite the coward that he is. But I can’t, because of Sorrow. Because of Sadness. Because of Loss.

Because of Paw. My brother. My lost brother.

“He let him die,” I say through tight lips.

“He tried to save him,” Mother says.

“He was too weak.” My jaw aches from grinding my teeth.

“No, you don’t remember. You were too little.”

I slam my eyes shut, squeeze them so hard, like maybe if I push enough, I can force my head to remember. I want to ask her to tell me, to tell me what happened that day, the cold, hard truth, but I won’t. I can’t. I have to remember it on my own so I know it’s real. Plus, I’ve asked before, and she wouldn’t talk about it. Why won’t she talk about it?

Faint images flash in the darkness behind my eyelids. A cold, rainy night. From the little my mother has told me, I was three, Paw was four.

I remember. I remember.

We are playing together, Paw and me. Some silly game with stones and sticks. He tosses a stone, clapping and laughing when it bounces and rests on the stick. I frown, stamp my little foot. “No fair,” I say, even though I know it was perfectly fair.

I throw my own stone, but it clatters away from the stick. “I win again!” Paw yells, his arms over his head in victory.

I cross my arms and refuse to look at him, but then he’s there, with an arm around my shoulders, saying, “You’ll win the next one,” and I can’t stop the smile, because Paw is the best big brother I could ever ask for, and because I love him, and want to be just like him, and because we’re both going to be Riders one day…

Screams in the distance. Angry screams. Scared screams. Violent screams.

Torches surround us, flying through the air, carried by dark bodies. Riders, rushing to arms, to get their horses.

But it’s too late. Too late.

The Soakers are upon us with swords and knives and clubs, somehow managing to sneak in, already in the camp, slashing, cutting, killing…

The memory starts to fade, like it always does at this point, but I squeeze my eyes shut tighter still, smack the heel of my hand against my forehead, forcing it to show me—

—Paw’s death.

I have to know why I survived and he didn’t.

Thunder crashes, heavy and loud and close.

“We have to go,” Mother says and my eyes flash open. When I look up, the gulls are gone.





~~~





We’re drenched by the time we reach our tent. I duck inside first, with Mother right behind me. Father looks up from a piece of wood bark, where he’s writing something with a piece of chalkstone. We’ve startled him.

Thunder booms overhead and his eyes flick upward, as if the tent might cave in on top of us. As if he’s just realized there’s a massive storm.

I know what that means. He’s been gone. Not physically, like how Mother and I were down at the edge of the ocean, but mentally, spiritually—gone. Off in his own world, doing his Wisdom Man thing, discovering our fates by studying grains of sand in a water skin or herbs in a clay teapot. In other words, doing nothing, wasting time—while we trained for the next battle with the Soakers.

“A bad one?” Father says when we sit next to each other on a blanket, drying off.

Mother shrugs. “No worse than the last one.”

As the name suggests, storm country is a place where nature fights against itself constantly, warring in the skies—not with swords and shields and horses and ships, but with lightning and dark clouds and—

Boom!

Another heavy clap of thunder shatters the brief silence, momentarily drowning out the drum of the rainfall on the tent. Father twitches slightly. Mother and I stay as still as stones.

“What are you doing, Father?” I ask, motioning to the marked tree bark.

His eyes meet mine and I see the fear in them as they widen. “I had a vision,” he says, and it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. He’s always having visions, but none of them ever seem to make any sense. Just because one Man of Wisdom said he would become a Man of Wisdom when he was a baby doesn’t mean it’s true.

“Tell us,” Mother says seriously. I shoot her a frown, which she returns with a clear warning on her parted lips: don’t.

I turn back to my father, sigh, say, “Yes, tell us, Father.”

“It involves the Soakers,” he says, which isn’t at all what I expected, and suddenly I find myself inching forward, lifting my head, interested—actually interested—in what my father has to say.

“Are we going to fight them? Are we going to kill them?” I ask eagerly, forgetting that his visions don’t mean a damn thing.

Now it’s his turn to frown, turning our happy family gathering into a frown party. “Sadie,” he says, and I can feel the lecture in the way he speaks my name. “Our existence is not all about killing Soakers. Sometimes the more important choice is not when to take a life, but when to spare one.”

Spare one? Is he talking about the Soakers? Because I refuse to offer any of the wave riders my pity. “Is that the choice they made when they killed Paw?” I say, my voice rising.

“Sadie, I—”

“When you let them kill Paw?” I practically shriek. Bright lights flash through our tent as lightning bursts all around us.

“Sadie!” my mother snaps, but I’m not listening to her, not seeing the lightning, not caring about the way my father’s face has drooped like the wax on a melting candle.

Wet or not, storm or not, I don’t care. I bash through the tent flaps and out into the thunder and lightning.





Chapter Five


Huck





“My son!” my father bellows, his face beaming with something I’ve never seen before. Excitement? Sort of. Happiness? Definitely. Pride? Aye! There it is. My father’s face is full of pride. And I think it’s for me.

The crowd cheers, but my father, Admiral Jones, waves his hands to silence them. “Thank you all for coming. This is an important day for me, for my family, for my son.” More cheers. “Today my son, Huck Jones, becomes a man!”

The roars are deafening but I barely hear them because I’m basking under the glow of my father’s pride. But then I have a thought that makes me go numb:

Is it real?

My father once taught me that part of being a leader is being what people expect you to be. “Isn’t that lying?” I had asked, remembering how my mother always told me never to lie, no matter what the circumstances. “No,” Father had said, smiling broadly, “it’s leadership.”

Is that what he’s doing now? Pretending to be proud of his son because that’s what’s expected of him on my fourteenth birthday?

But still.

It’s wonderful seeing him like this—the best feeling in the world. The numbness fades because I don’t care whether he’s lying, or just being a leader, or whatever. For right now, he’s proud of me.

“May I present to you…my son…Lieutenant Jones!” He pulls his sword out, hilt branded with the mark of The Merman’s Daughter, and I do the same, my sword matching his

(Except I lost the fight with the bilge rat.)

(And my father never loses.)

and we raise our swords above our heads, and I feel full of power and strength, and for the first time in my life I’m fearless, and I can do anything, conquer anything, and I’m ready,

(I think.)

ready to become a man.

No, I am a man. Lieutenant Jones.

Someone starts singing…

“Yo, ho, on land or at sea; yo, ho, get down on your knees…”

…and soon we’re all singing, me and my father included, his proud arm around me—only no…no, it’s just me and Cain.

“Yo, ho, we’ll fight to the end; yo, ho, we’ll fight cuz we’re men!”

My father’s gone.

But I don’t care because he was proud of me tonight and he’s a busy, important man and I can’t expect him to stick around for a silly party that’s all for me. So I keep singing and smiling and my friends come up and shake my hand like I’m something, someone bigger than them, because I am.

I’m a man.

And then the grog starts flowing and I’m allowed to have a few burning—and if I’m being honest, quite disgusting—sips this time, because I’m of age and I’m a lieutenant now, so who would stop me anyway?

But father’s not here.

But I don’t care because the grog has sent warmth through my belly and the stars are shining even though there’s lightning flashing off yonder in storm country. And the white sails are full and it’s a perfect night for sailing. And—and—

—father’s not here.

I take another sip of grog and force it down.

Someone picks me up, Cain I think, and throws me off onto the lower decks where eager hands await to catch me, to hold me up, to pass me around like a hero’s welcome. And I’m laughing and my friends are fighting through the crowd alongside me, laughing with me. Suddenly I realize: one of the worst days of my life has become one of the best nights of my life. Maybe even the best night.

A night to remember.





~~~





“Uhhh,” I moan the next morning, blinking in the dark of my cabin.

Why is someone hammering on my head?

I reach up, swat at whichever friend is playing the trick on me, waking me up with repeated knocks on my skull. But no one’s there and my hands whoosh through the empty air.

I feel around for the dark drapes covering my cabin window, pull them aside, squint when the circular beam of light hits me full in the face. The sun is way above the horizon and I’m late. Very late. Not a good start for my first day as a man.

And my head—oh, my aching head. I drank way too much grog, stayed up way too late. “Just one more song,” the men kept saying and I wasn’t about to deny them. Not on my night. Not when the jokes about me and the bilge rat had ended hours earlier.

Someone knocks on the door. “Lieutenant Jones?” a voice says.

They’re looking for my father, but he’s not a lieutenant. “Admiral Jones,” I correct, pulling my pillow over my head to drown out the continued knocking by the confused sailor.

“That’s your father’s name,” the voice says, and I realize it’s Cain and he’s talking about me, because

(Aye, I’m a lieutenant now, aren’t I?)

“Come in,” I say, my voice raspy.

I hear the cabin door swing open and I peek out from beneath my pillow to see Cain, dressed in his dirty blue uniform, smiling like he’s the one who just became a man. “You alive?” he asks.

“Barely,” I say. “But I’ve got a headache the size of the ship’s hull.”

“I bet,” Cain says. “I think you might’ve overdone it a little.” He’s still smiling like my headache is the funniest joke of the yar.

I groan in response. Then ask, “Why are you here anyway?”

With those five words, his smile vanishes as if it was never there in the first place. He runs a hand through his long, dark hair. “It’s time,” he says.

“Time for what?” I mutter.

“Time to go.”

A shudder passes through me and I have to clutch my stomach because something’s roiling in there, threatening to come back up. Still wearing my clothes from the night before, I stagger to my feet, stomp past Cain, climb the stairs three at a time, smashing my shoulder into the wooden wall when the ship lurches and my stomach along with it.

The sun warms my skin when I burst out into the fresh air, but it doesn’t help. I’ve got to get to the side. I rush starboard because the boat’s edge is closer on that side, and because my father is port and stops talking to the rudderman when he sees me, shooting glares in my direction that hold none of the false pride I saw from him last night.

Barely, barely, I make it to the railing before I throw everything up: last night’s supper, the obscene amounts of grog I drank, my manhood. All of it splashes down the side of the ship, leaving a trail of pink in the water, which is quickly swallowed up by the sharp-tooths thrashing below.

My loss is their gain, I guess.

Hanging my thundering head over the side, I just breathe, holding back my hair with one hand so the stream of drool from my mouth doesn’t soil it, the endless rocking of the ship doing little to help the nausea. Nearby, someone laughs. Then someone else. My ears open and I hear their jokes. “The little man can’t even hold his ale,” one says, laughing loudly. “He won’t last a minute on the Sailors’ Mayhem,” the other voice adds, chuckling.

My head snaps up, not from the jokes, which I’ve grown used to, but because of what the second man said. Sailors’ Mayhem? A ship name, one I know all too well. Its reputation precedes it. The worst ship in the fleet, requiring constant repairs, the Mayhem, as it’s known, is home to the outcasts of the outcasts, the sailors who can’t seem to fit in on any of the other ships.

But I won’t be going there.

My father wouldn’t do such a thing.

(He would.)

He wouldn’t.

(He would.)

As if in response to my inner tug of war, a voice startles me from behind. “Lieutenant Jones,” he says.

I stare at the fins cutting circles in the ocean, take a deep breath. Wipe the drool off my lips with my shirt. Comb my dirty-blond locks away from my face. Turn to face him.

“Father,” I say, feeling horribly underdressed in my vomit-stained shirt and three-quarter-length britches. His pristine blue uniform gleams with metal medallions. So does his sword when he slides it shrieking from its scabbard.

I shrink back when he points the tip of the blade at me, but I have nowhere to go, my back pressed against the railing.

I can feel the sharp-tooths swarming below, hungry for the blood of another Jones. My mother wasn’t enough to satisfy their insatiable hunger.

Red flashes across my vision, and it’s not the clear crimson sky overhead. Blood in the water. So much blood.

“Admiral,” he corrects, but I can’t see him through the red. “Your assignment is in, Lieutenant. You’ll board the Sailors’ Mayhem shortly, just after we make landfall.”

The ship rolls on a particularly high, wide wave and I feel whatever I’ve got left coming back up, and it’s too late to turn, and I know I’m about to

(throw up in front of my father.)

but I can’t stop it now, and so then I do.

I throw up all over my father’s polished black boots.

I don’t feel any better though, because my mother’s blood is still in the water and I’m still leaving everything I’ve ever known to work on the Mayhem.





Chapter Six


Sadie





Drenched and cold and shaking in the stables, I feel much better.

I hold my knees to my sopping chest, my wet and stringy hair falling around me like a black veil.

The unceasing drumroll of the rain on the roof drowns out my thoughts.

Something about being near the horses calms me. The light stamp of their feet showing their agitation at the storm raging around them; their smell, musty and leathery and alive; their soft whinnies and snorts: all of it centers me, steadies me, like how driving a stake deep into the ground anchors a tent.

I remember Paw. No, not really remember him. More like the idea of him. The feeling of him. Even after all these years. Even after all that’s happened. Although in my memory his face is blurry now, as if smudged with dirt, my heart leaps when I think about how I looked up to him, how we ran around waving swords and practicing to be Riders even before we started our formal training. Paw never had the chance to train, but I know—I know—he would have been amazing.

Abruptly the chatter of the rain and the smell of the horses aren’t enough to soothe my rising temper. I slam my fist into the dirt, which is fast becoming sludge as a river of rainwater finds its way inside.

My father, a Man of Wisdom, ha! He wasn’t wise enough to know to save his own son from death. But even in my anger, I know in that burning place in my chest it had nothing to do with wisdom—it had everything to do with fear. Fear of the Soakers and their swords, fear of dying, fear of not fulfilling some strange and mystical destiny that Father believes is his.

“Mother Earth, please bring him back,” I pray, blinking back the tears. It’s a fool’s prayer, and yet I feel better for having whispered it in the dark.

Shadow stamps and I stand up, lift a hand to his nose, let him nuzzle against my palm. When I rub him between his ears, he lowers his head so I can easily reach him. “Shadow,” I murmur, and he responds to his name with a slight jerk and a snort.

I’ve known Shadow forever. He was only three when I was born, so we’ve grown up together. Although I shouldn’t be allowed to play with him because he’s a Rider’s horse, Mother always made exceptions for me. We used to run, run, run through the long grass, stopping only so I could make myself a soft bed, and so Shadow could eat it out from under me. Mother lets me ride him sometimes, too, but only when she’s around. “Shadow may look friendly,” she always says, “but he’s still a Rider’s horse, and he’s seen great and terrible things.”

Although I don’t think Shadow would ever do anything to hurt me, I won’t betray my mother’s trust by riding her on my own, although Mother Earth knows I’ve been tempted before. I’m tempted now, but instead I just keep rubbing him, counting down the days until I’ll have a horse of my own. A Rider’s horse, one of the Escariot.

I hear a noise that doesn’t sound like a horse. A scuffle and a splash, like someone’s stumbled and stepped in a puddle. Probably Father coming to make peace, as he does. “Hello?” I say.

Silence for a moment, and then, “Who’s there?” A man’s voice, only without the gruffness.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I say to Shadow, who seems content as long as I keep rubbing him.

“Remy,” the man-not-a-man’s voice says.

My heart stutters, because I know exactly who he is. Son of Gard, the leader of the Riders. Not six months after my father laid his hands on my head and declared me a Rider, he did the same for Remy. Until we were twelve, we attended the same fire speeches, sitting around a campfire with all the other children while my father taught us the ways of the Stormers, of the Soakers, our history. Why we fight and why we kill.

For most of my childhood, Remy tormented me. Up until we parted ways for our individual training, he’d pull my hair, try to trip me, whisper gross messages in my ear. Back then I didn’t have the strength I do now. I tried to ignore him and eventually he gave up.

“Sadie,” I say firmly.

“I know you,” he says, his voice closer now.

“Good for you,” I say.

“Where are you?” he asks.

I say nothing.

“What are you doing out here in the rain?” he asks.

“I’m not in the rain,” I say, “and again, I could ask you the same thing.” My tongue feels sharp and I’m glad. My hand stops moving on Shadow’s side as I listen for his response.

“True and true,” he says. “My father asked me to check on Thunder.”

Of course. What else would he be doing out here? Hiding from his parents like me? Not likely. Not when you’re the war leader’s son.

“The horses are fine,” I say. They always are, even in the worst storms. They’re used to the thunder and lightning by now. Even the young ones do okay, so long as their mothers are nearby.

“I know,” Remy says. “But you know Riders and their horses.” He says it in such a way that makes me laugh, but I cut it off right away. I shouldn’t be out here. I shouldn’t be laughing with him. Already I feel unsteady on my feet, unfocused, not something I can afford when I’m so close to…

“Won’t you be a Rider soon?” Remy asks.

Is Remy also training to become a mind reader? “I’m already a Rider,” I correct. The moment a Man of Wisdom says we’re Riders, we’re Riders, even when we’re just little babies who don’t know a horse from a mossy stump.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean it like that.” His voice is much closer now, and I realize it’s coming from the stall next to Shadow’s, through a gap in the wood.

I peer through and see him watering Thunder, holding a tin bucket up so the horse can slurp it up without bending over. His other hand’s on Thunder’s nose, stroking it much the same way I rubbed Shadow’s.

Lightning flashes and for a moment his face is fully illuminated, sending crackles of warmth through me, as if I’ve been struck by the storm.

He’s pleasing to look at. That’s all I’m saying.

Warm, brown eyes, close-cropped dark hair over a well-shaped head, lips that are quick to smile, which he’s doing now, something I remember about him from my father’s fire speeches. But that’s all I’m saying, for real this time.

I pull away, embarrassed with myself for staring for so long.

“You still there?” he asks, and I take a few deep swallows of air, trying to catch my breath.

“Still here,” I say, managing to keep my voice steady in the way my mother taught me to command the horses.

“So you’ll be having your Rider ceremony soon?” he says, correcting his question from earlier.

I nod absently, then realize he can’t see me, not unless he’s…

Two big, brown eyes stare through the crack in the wall separating Thunder’s and Shadow’s stalls.

I flinch and half-jump behind Shadow, who gives me a strange look and snorts as if to say, Some Rider you are.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I spout.

The white teeth and curved lips of his smile flash through the crack. “The same thing you were doing a minute ago: looking.”





~~~





I leave after that. I don’t know what kind of game Remy’s playing, but I’m not in the mood to play it. Nor is now a good time in my life to be playing games of any sort.

I stride back across the deserted camp, ignoring the muddy puddles as I tromp right through them, dirtying my black pants. The rain is still coming down in sheets, but the lightning is streaking far away now, the thunder distant and no more than a grumble. The storm is passing.

Gritting my teeth, I shove my head into our tent, seeing my father’s head snap up from the piece of bark, which he’s once again poring over. Mother is sleeping, which is her favorite activity during storms. “I’m going for a run,” I say, and I hear my father start to protest, but I’m already gone, leaving the flap swinging in my wake.

Today I head south, opposite from where I ran yesterday, when I first spotted the Soaker ship. The storm has moved north, as they usually do, and although the clouds remain dark and gray, they’re slightly less dark and gray to the south, and down the coastline they almost look yellow, like the clouds out to sea.

I hear a shout from behind, and I know it’s my father, but I don’t look back, just start running, letting the slowing rainfall wash over my head, my face, my arms, every part of me, cleaning away my father’s choices and Remy’s smile—like the storm is a part of me, and me a part of it. My blood starts flowing, my heart pumping, and I feel warmth blossom through me, chasing away the chill I felt earlier in the stables.

For this is my time. Mine alone.

The camp fades away behind me as I gallop across the plains to the ocean. Just before the grass gives way to sand, I shuck off my black boots, discarding them haphazardly in a muddy pile until I return. Overhead, the gulls are back, playing and chattering, riding the back edge of the storm, which continues to blow the hair around my face. The ocean is restless, churning whitecaps in a seemingly random sequence of waves and swirls.

I run right for it, relishing the coolness of the thick wet sand on my feet. When I reach the point where the waves lap onto the shore, I cut hard south, loving the way my heel digs into the sand, changing my direction as quickly as a bird lowers a wing to change its flight path. The tide rushes around my feet and I splash through it gleefully, almost childishly.

My time.

I run and run, picking up speed when I know I won’t be coming back anytime soon, not for hours at least. No need to conserve my energy. Wherever I’m going, I’ll be stopping there to rest before I return. My parents will be worried—no, my father will be worried—but I won’t be punished. I’m a Rider, which gives me a certain level of independence that other children only dream of.

When a burst of sun shatters through the cloud cover, I realize I’ve left the storm well behind me. Although the wind has lessened, my clothes are nearly dry, save for the bottoms of my pants. The sun crawls up my dark skin, drying the beads of sweat already there and drawing more drops out from the little holes in my skin.

A huge bird swoops overhead, a fish in its mouth, dozens of white gulls around it, hoping for scraps. A big-chin.

I laugh and keep running, never tiring, feeling only strength in my taut muscles. “If you want to be a Rider, you have to be as strong as your horse,” my mother taught me when I was eleven. It was my first day of Rider training, starting earlier than the required age of twelve. “But don’t I ride the horse?” I asked. She laughed and said, “Yes, but your horse will be stronger knowing that you’re strong.” At the time I didn’t get it, but I do now. If a Rider is truly to be one with her horse, she needs to be every bit as strong, so they can each rely on each other, trust each other, protect each other. Die for each other, if necessary.

I veer out of the ocean water, still on the hard-packed sand, but not where the waves can reach. Although the last thing I want to do is stop—can I keep running forever?—I know I have to stop at some point, or I won’t be able to make it back before nightfall. And the ocean is calling to me in the way that it does, with whispers and swallows, in and out, in and out, almost mesmerizing.

So I pull up, breathing heavy but not out of breath, heart pounding but not wildly, body tired but not exhausted. As I start to pull off my shirt, I can already feel the ocean washing the sweat and anger off my skin, but then I stop, belly exposed.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, I lower my shirt, my eyes widening and my breath hitching.

Because further—much further—down the beach I can see it. A series of shadows, rising and falling with the ocean’s breathing, just off the shore.

Ships.





Chapter Seven


Huck





“You can’t do this!” I say, speaking to my father louder than I ever have before.

He gives me a look and I shut up, sink down on my bed, wondering if he’ll hit me. He doesn’t, although I can see the tension in his arms, in his hands. In his face. “Are you a child or a man?” he asks, surprising me. Not a rebuke or a command, a question.

A trick?

Am I a man?

If drinking grog and singing men’s songs makes you a man, then maybe I am. If having a pounding head and the bitter taste of bile in the back of your throat is the key to manhood, then I’ll wear my lieutenant’s uniform with dignity.

“Aye,” I say, reverting back to my typical method of dealing with my father: telling him what he wants to hear.

“Then quit acting like a child,” he growls. Then, turning, he says, “Come to my chambers when you’re ready.” He slams the cabin door behind him.

It’s only then that I realize the boat is moving differently than it has for the last few weeks. Back and forth, back and forth, but different. Still rolling, but calmer, slower and shorter.

The anchors are down.





~~~





My father’s chambers are lit by a dozen round portals, the sun streaming through each one with a yellowish-white glow. His bed sits in the center of the large cabin, which is ten times the size of mine. And mine’s three times the size of anyone else’s.

He’s not on the bed. I glance to the right to find him sitting in a large, finely carved chair with lion’s paws etched at the base of its legs. His arms are sitting calmly on the rests. His face is relaxed. His eyes are closed.

As I approach, he says, “Speak,” and I flinch, thankful his eyes are closed so he doesn’t see.

“Yes, Admiral,” I say, remembering myself.

“What have you learned from me?” he says.

My heart twitters because I didn’t expect the question. Blank. That’s the only word to describe my mind. It’s like everything’s gone white and then black, first like one of the pale-white sun portals that are surrounding me, and then like a dark chasm in the ocean, sucking all life and ships and men into its endless void. He’s taught me so much

(Hasn’t he?)

but I can’t seem to remember any of it, nor am I able to speak anyway.

His eyes flash open. “Bilge rat got your tongue?” he asks harshly, flicking his tongue out like a snake.

“Uh.”

“You haven’t learned to be a coward from me, I hope.” His eyes lock on mine and then dance away, settling on a painting mounted on the wall.

A woman, pushing her blond hair away from her face, holding a child in her other arm.

“Father, I’m sorry—”

“Admiral!” he explodes suddenly, rising to his feet. His face is a web of veins, popping and red and violent. He raises a hand and I close my eyes, tense for the blow. If this is the only way I can prove my manhood, I will. I won’t run, I won’t cry out, I’ll take every last bit of punishment he has to give me for my weakness two yars ago.

But the blow never comes and when I open first one eye, and then the other, I find he’s turned away and is looking out one of the portals. “You could have saved her,” he says to a bird that’s hopping on the railing outside.

I know he’s right because he was there—he saw everything. I saw it too, but I just can’t quite…if I could only…

Remember.

It’s as if the word is spoken in my head, a soothing voice that sang gentle lullabies to me when I’d wake up in the throes of a nightmare. Now my nightmares are about her, so who’s going to sing to me?

Remember.

I can’t. I can’t.

Blood, frothing and churning. The image burns in my mind and I slam my eyes shut again, trying to dispel the bubbles, red with…no! No more.

My mother’s body, sinking beneath the surface, jerking as the sharp-tooths tear her to shreds.

Remember. No, dammit, I don’t want to! I don’t want to see you die again and again, never living, never a happy ending where I save you, where I become the man I’m meant to be now, pull you up, up, up, stronger than ten men, stronger than a Stormer’s horse, stronger than the raw pull of the ocean, embracing you and never letting go. Not ever again.

When I open my eyes my father is staring at me curiously, and I wonder why. His gaze drops to my fists and I follow it. My hands are clenched, splotched with red and white amongst the little freckles that are always there because of the sun and my fair complexion.

“Yesss,” my father murmurs, drawing the word out like the hiss of snake. “Yes, anger is good, but only if it’s controlled. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

I relax my hands and am surprised that they ache when I stretch them out. Specks of fresh blood dot my palm where my too-long fingernails cut into my flesh. I slide them behind me and out of sight.

“What now?” I say, keeping my voice as impassive as possible. One of his lessons comes back to me, finally. To show emotion is to be emotional. And emotions are for women and the weak. If men are to be cold-hearted vapid creatures, then that’s what I’ll become. I’ll do anything to prove myself. But isn’t anger an emotion?

I don’t have time to dwell on the question because the Admiral smiles, strides to the bed and sits on it, patting the bedcover beside him. Surprised at his sudden change in mood, I hesitate, but then join him, keeping a healthy gap between us. Although his expression has softened, there’s none of my mother’s tenderness in the hard lines of his face.

“Son,” he says. “I know things have been hard, strained even, between us. But I want you to succeed. I want you to become the man I know you’re capable of. You’re my son, after all.” He pauses and I search his eyes for the joke, for an insult, but there’s only truth in them.

“Then why are you sending me on the Mayhem?” I ask.

He smiles. “You should know me well enough by now,” he says cryptically.

And I should know. And I do know. From the moment I learned which ship I’d be assigned to, I knew exactly why. I just didn’t want to admit it.

(Because I’m scared.)

“A test,” I say.

He doesn’t reply, but doesn’t deny it either. He sighs, and for the first time in my life my father looks tired. What I thought a moment ago were his hard lines, look more like age lines now, deep canyons in his flesh cut from rivers of weariness and grief and disappointment.

“What do I have to do?”

—to make you proud.

—to earn your forgiveness.

—to prove myself.

He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Your task is to turn the Mayhem into a ship we can all be proud of, a ship where the best sailors in the fleet will beg to be stationed, to serve. Captain Montgomery is a…strange man, but a good captain. He needs your help, as do I.”

I shouldn’t believe him (because it feels like punishment), but I do, because I want it to be an opportunity. That’s all I want. A chance to make things right. A chance to forget the past, live in the present, and look forward to the future.

“Aye, Admiral,” I say, standing, a flattened hand raised in salute. “What advice will you give me?”

He raises an eyebrow and I can see I surprised him. A boy rushes into action and failure. A man asks questions on the way to success. Another of his lessons tumbles through the void.

“Two things,” he says, waving away my salute with a casual gesture. I drop my hand to my side. “One. Earn the respect of your seamen by being one of them and above them.”

I frown. “But how can you be both?” I ask.

He wipes my question away with another wave of his hand. It’s part of the test, I realize. Making sense of his advice. Learning from experience.

“Two. Beware the bilge rats,” he says, and my face reddens because at first I think it’s a joke, a dig at my failure from before. But his face is deadly serious. “They’re not like us. They’ll do anything to bring you down, to make you as low as they are. Don’t trust them. They are tools to be used, nothing more.”

With that, he stands, ushers me to the door, and I leave his chambers for maybe the last time, off to seek my fate.





~~~





Small wooden boats carry us to the shore, borne on the backs of midshipmen with heavy oars. Choppy waves bounce us around, occasionally bandying together to propel us forward from behind.

Cain sits beside me, staring out at the long line of white-sailed ships standing sentinel, as if they’re guarding the entrance to the ocean. Down the line—way down the line—stands a ship with yellowing weather-stained sails, frayed and full of holes. The eyesore of the fleet: The Sailors’ Mayhem.

My test.

Cain reaches down and lets the water rush over his hand. Instinctively I reach to grab his arm and pull it away. Because of the sharp-tooths. Sticking a hand in the water around here is a good way to lose it. But I stop, because I’m being stupid. Normal procedure has been followed. Fish guts and carcasses would have been emptied in our wake, giving the deadly predators something to keep themselves occupied with—and the spear guns would have scared off the rest. They’ll come back, of course, because they always do, but for now we’re safe.

Cain looks at me strangely, but lifts his hand, now dripping with saltwater, flicks his fingers in my face. “Hey!” I say, but I’m not angry, and I splash him back, smiling.

Having informed me of my orders and offered his advice, my father will remain on the ship, as Admirals’ do. I don’t mind his absence—it relieves some of the pressure building in my chest.

Hobbs glares at us from the other end of the boat. I wish he was absent, too.

“Don’t mind him,” Cain says. “I heard he hasn’t spent the night with a woman in months.” He laughs loudly and I join him, although I don’t exactly understand what’s funny about it. Hobbs can’t have heard what Cain said, but he extends a gesture in response anyway, which only makes us laugh harder.

“I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” I say to Cain, and even to my own ears my voice sounds high and boyish. Right away I wish I could unsay it.

Cain’s smile fades and he slaps me on the back. “Soon enough there will be another fight to fight against the Stormers, and we’ll see each other then.”

“Aye,” I say, growling the way I’ve practiced since I was only as tall as my father’s knees.





~~~





We say our goodbyes. My friends, Jobe and Ben and Thom, wish me luck and say they’ll join me as men soon. Then we can all fight the Stormers together. The thought sends excited-nervous ripples through my skin, but I just pull them into hardy half-hugs and it’s a promise.

Cain loops an arm over my shoulder and walks me away from the beached boats and the water, up a slope to a grassy patch. My legs wobble slightly with each step, because the land is solid, unmoving, a stark contrast to the ebbs and flows of the ship’s deck. “You can spend as much time up here as you need to prepare,” he says. “We set sail when you’re ready.” I nod.

“Go with honor,” I say, using the traditional farewell between officers.

“And you with the comfort of the sea maids,” he returns, using an old favorite joke. I smile, but I can’t hold it, because Cain’s been the older brother I never had, and I can already see it’s time for him to go, and I’m not ready—I’m not—but I know lingering isn’t an option.

Not wanting to look childish, I extend a hand.

He looks at it, and I swear he’s got seawater in his eyes and on his face from our splashing in the boat earlier, but then I do too, because he takes my hand and pulls me to him, hugging me in a brother-worthy embrace. “Take care of yourself, Huck,” he says.

Fighting off a sob, I say, “That’s Lieutenant Jones to you,” in my best Admiral Jones impersonation.

He laughs and I do too, and he slaps me on the back because we both need something solid and strong to feel. Sticking out his jaw, he nods, winks, and turns, leaving me to decide when to board the Mayhem.





Chapter Eight


Sadie





I run.

The smart thing to do would be to run back the way I came, all the way to the camp to alert my mother, who would tell Gard. And then the Riders would ride forth to meet the Soaker’s in the first battle in a long time.

And that’s what I start to do, but then I stop, look back at the shadows on the horizon. Consider my options. What will I tell my mother? I saw ships. What were they doing? she'll ask. And I won’t know anything. Just that they’re there, anchored.

I have to get closer. A Rider would try to get closer.

So I do run, but in the other direction, toward the ships. I cut an angled path up the beach, stumbling slightly when the sand rises up onto the grass, which rolls away from me in mounds broken only by the occasional tree or bush.

On the grass I could run much faster, but I remain cautious, vigilant, pushing myself down each hill with speed and then slowing on the rises, creeping over the crests, looking for Soakers.

If they spot me I’m dead.

Rise and fall, over a hill and down a valley. Again and again and aga—

I drop flat on my stomach when I peek over the next hill, cursing silently, because I didn’t expect to reach them so soon. Distance can play tricks on you sometimes, especially near the ocean; the ships were much closer than I thought.

My heart pounding in my chest, I edge my head—just my scalp and eyes—over the hill, half-wondering whether I was seeing things, if maybe I’d imagined it.

No. Because sitting on the top of one of the grassy mounds, just a hill over, is a Soaker. Not a big one, but a boy, with dirty-blond hair pulled into a ponytail and a forlorn and thoughtful expression. He’s half-turned toward me, as if he wants to look at the land but can’t seem to pry one eye off of the ocean. They say the ocean constantly calls to the Soakers, which is why they never stay on land for long. Seeing this Soaker boy makes me believe them.

A dozen ships are anchored in the sea, but it’s like the boy refuses to look at them, preferring to take in the vast blue ocean beyond.

I look past him, to the sand, where men and boys scramble around small boats—landing vessels my mother calls them—manhandling them into the water, the waves crashing at their knees, and then they clamor onboard, using thick sticks with broad, flat ends to push forward. Back to the ships.

Leaving this boy here alone.

Except for me, who he’s not even aware of.

But then I notice: not everyone left. There are a few men down the beach. And one closer. One Soaker, a man, stares up the rise at the boy. From this distance, I can’t make out his expression, but something about his posture makes me shudder. He’s lean and wiry, but stands with a slight hunch. I can almost imagine him slinking in the shadows, sneaking from behind, his fingers curled around a dripping knife.

Soakers.

They killed my brother. They’ve killed many of my people. Countless souls sent back to Mother Earth before their time, buried on the plains of storm country.

We’ve killed them by the hundreds, too, but we were provoked. We didn’t start the fight so many years ago, but we will finish it. When I become a full-fledged Rider, I swear I’ll finish it.

Starting now.

This boy is only one, alone and unthreatening, but one day he’ll be a man, he’ll bear children. Children who will kill my people.

Paw’s face flashes in my mind, the way I want to remember him. The bravest four-year-old in the camp, my mother still says when she talks about him. And I’d follow him anywhere.

I don’t have a weapon, but I don’t need one. This is a mere boy and I’m a Rider.

On my hands and knees, I veer right, start to circle the inland side of the mound so I can come up behind him. Sweat pools under my arms and in the small of my back. Something winged flutters in my stomach. Anticipation of my first kill.

I gasp when someone grabs me from behind, covering my mouth with a dark hand.





~~~





I struggle against my captor, try to scream, but he’s strong and has the element of surprise on his side.

“Shhh,” he hisses sharply in my ear, his exhalation a hot burst. “It’s me. Remy.”

I freeze, both because I couldn’t be more shocked if a bolt of lightning struck me in the head, and because it’s Remy, and he’s…touching me. Well, not really touching, but locking me up from behind, holding me back.

But still…he feels warm and strong and I could so easily relax and just melt away…

“Mmmhhh,” I murmur through his hand, trying to speak, my body remaining as rigid and stiff as a long-dead corpse.

“You’ll be quiet?” he asks, his lips so close to my ear that it tickles.

I nod against his grip, and he relaxes his arms, pulls his hand away from my mouth, rolls over next to me, staying low. Our heads are side by side—there’s no stall wall to separate us now.

I glare at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I whisper.

He raises an eyebrow. “Saving your skin,” he says, peeking over the mound. I do the same, watching as the boy stands, turns so his back is completely toward us. That’s when I notice what he’s wearing: a clean blue uniform, slightly wrinkled, but other than that, unmarked. An officer’s uniform.

“I didn’t need saving,” I whisper, wanting to hit him for wasting my opportunity. This boy—an officer?

“They’d have killed you,” Remy says.

“Not if I killed them first,” I mutter under my breath.

“Hurry your bloody ass up!” a gruff voice bellows from somewhere below the mounds.

Remy and I duck our heads even lower, pressing our cheeks to the grass, stare at each other with wide eyes.

“Cain said I could take as long as I wanted,” a voice returns. The officer boy.

“It’s Lieutenant Cain to you, and he ain’t bloody well around now, is he? Now move it before I have to make you.” A challenge. Will the boy answer?

There’s a deep sigh of resignation. “I was ready to go anyway,” the boy says.

“Aye, sure you were,” the gruff voice says, laughing. Footsteps fade away and silence ensues.

I realize I’m still staring at Remy, although I haven’t been seeing him. Heat floods my cheeks and I look away, crane my neck over the mound’s crest, watch as the officer boy and the gruff-voiced man stride through the sand, back toward the water.

Remy’s head bobs up next to me. “What are you doing her—” he starts to say.

“Shhh!” I hiss, as the two Soakers change course before they get to the water. They move down the beach, away from us. One small boat remains, manned by a dozen oarsmen. A tallish man wearing a black cap and a blue officer’s uniform stands waiting.

“Is that a…” My voice fades away as Gruff-voice hands something to the tall man. A thin tube.

“A captain’s hat,” Remy finishes for me. “That man is the captain of one of the ships.”

His tone is almost reverent, and I glance at him. His eyes serious, he appears enthralled by the scene unfolding before us: a captain greeting a new lieutenant who looks more like a boy.

“I could have killed him,” I say, standing, watching as the small boat leaves the shore, riding the waves along a sunlit path of sparkling ocean, all the way to a ship that looks strangely as if it’s been left for decades to rot and weather away.

My father’s words ring in my ears:

Sometimes the more important choice is not when to take a life, but when to spare one.

But this wasn’t my choice—it was Remy’s. I hope it was the right one.





~~~





“We have to tell someone,” Remy says for the fourteenth time.

I shake my head. “Who? Your father?”

“My father, your father, one of the other Riders…anyone.” The more worked up Remy gets, the more his hands do the talking along with his mouth.

We’ve been walking for an hour, slowly working our way back to the camp.

“And what will you tell them?” I ask.

“That we saw the Soakers and…” His voice drops away sharply, like a knife blade disappearing into the sand.

“And what?” I prod.

“And nothing,” he says, stopping. “You’re right. There’s nothing to tell. When the ships left, they sailed away from us, which the Riders already know. We’d just get in trouble for being this far south.”

I stop too. “My mother lets me run as far afield as I want,” I say, pride pulling at the corners of my lips.

“And look where that got you. You almost got yourself killed today.”

Anger rises in my chest. “You don’t know anything,” I say. “I swear to Mother Earth I’d have killed that boy.” I push Remy away because he’s gotten too close.

“Maybe,” he says, laughing. He sits in the sand, looks out to sea. “But that man would’ve killed you for sure. I saved your life.”

“You did not,” I say, every muscle in my body going tight. “I can handle myself. I’ll be a Rider before you.”

Remy laughs again, and this time it sounds so good I can’t help but relax the tension in my body. I slump down next to him. “What the hell’s so funny?”

“You are already a Rider,” he says, mimicking my tone from earlier, when I’d said the same thing to him. He looks right at me, and the sun, which is arcing back toward the horizon, lights up his brown eyes.

I roll my eyes, but I can’t stop the smile that forms on my lips. Turning away to hide it, I say, “You followed me like you were hunting a jackrabbit. Why?”

“Look at me.”

“No.”

He grabs my arm and I feel the same warmth, the same breathlessness that I felt before, when we were close together atop the mound. It’s like when the sun breaks through the clouds on a warm summer’s day, and you feel it on your skin, melting together with the breeze and becoming a part of you. I grimace, as if a nest of biting ants have slipped into my pants.

I look at him and my breath catches in my throat. The intensity in his expression takes me by surprise. “You seemed upset when you left the stables. I wanted to make sure nothing happened to you.”

Although I feel a flutter in my chest, I scowl at him, shake off his hand, stand. “I don’t need you looking out for me,” I say. “Don’t follow me ever again.”

I run, refusing to look behind, although I can feel Remy’s grin on my back.

I run the entire way back to the camp.





Chapter Nine


Huck





The captain of the Mayhem is a big man, broad-shouldered and bearded, not unlike my father.

The similarities end there.

His silver medals are smudged and rusty, the exact opposite of my father’s, which are polished every morning before he pins them to his shirt. His uniform is wrinkled, faded and dusty, like he’s been keeping it in a corner of his cabin, only bringing it out when absolutely necessary. He blinks twice too often, like he can barely keep his eyes open.

“Is this my new lieutenant?” he asks in a booming voice as we approach.

Hobbs strides forward, pushing a scroll forward toward the captain. “Here are the boy’s orders,” he says.

Ignoring Hobbs’ verbal jab, I hurry to catch up and step past him and his scroll. “Lieutenant Jones, at your service,” I say, extending a hand, trying to look confident, although my legs are shaking. I lock my knees and look the captain in the eye, like my father taught me to do. Always look a man in the eye when you meet him. Not only will it prove your strength, but you’ll discover much about theirs.

The captain locks on my gaze, his blue eyes red and swollen. I’m not sure about this man’s strength, but he didn’t get much sleep last night. But neither did I, so I guess that makes us even. The thought brings a smile to my lips.

“Captain Jebediah L. Montgomery, the Third,” the captain says. “But everyone just calls me Jeb,” he adds with a red-eyed wink. Turning to Hobbs, he snatches the scroll and says, “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

I expect Hobbs to leave, but he stands there, unblinking, his usual scowl blanketing his face. I think Captain Montgomery expects him to leave, too, because he says, “Thank you, Mr. Hobbs,” again.

“Read the orders, Captain,” Hobbs says, looking out to sea absently.

“Are you giving me a direct order, Lieutenant?” the captain says, his voice taking on the shape of anger, but not quite reaching the thickness of it.

“Just read them,” Hobbs says, still staring at the ocean, ignoring the captain’s question. A show of disrespect like that to my father would earn him a week in the brig, or worse. I’ve seen my father send a man into the sharp-tooth infested drink for looking at him the wrong way. A ship is only as strong as the men that occupy it, he used to tell me. And the admiral must be the strongest of all.

This’ll be good, I think. I wait for it, for the explosion, for Captain Montgomery to order his oarsmen, who are waiting to launch the landing boat into the water, to bind Hobbs, to send him back to The Merman’s Daughter to be dealt with by my father.

His eyes narrow and his nose turns up, but he doesn’t say anything, just calmly unties the blue ribbon from the scroll, unfurls the brittle pages, and reads the long, elegant script that I recognize as my father’s handwriting. I try to read along, but the tall captain is holding it too high for me to see much more than a few words.

Thankfully, he mutters parts of it as he reads: “Captain Montgomery…I hereby present my son…a lieutenant on The Sailors’ Mayhem…improve efficiency, morale, order…” He looks up at me at that part, chewing on his chapped lips. Before I can stop myself, I look down at my feet, trying to count the grains of sand on the toe of one of my boots. I’m not sure what that says about my strength, but it can’t be good.

Only when the captain continues reading do I look up. “Lieutenant Hobbs is ordered to oversee Lieutenant Jones as he becomes acclimated to life on a new ship.”

“What?” I say at the same time as the captain. Both of us turn to look at Hobbs, who ignores us.

“There’s no room for another lieutenant on my ship,” the captain says.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say. Especially not one like Hobbs.

“They’re not my orders,” Hobbs says to the sea. “The Deep Blue knows I don’t want this anymore than you do. The admiral insisted.”

“No,” the captain says, and the soft breeze of relief washes over me. It’s the captain’s ship—his rules.

“The admiral said you’d say that,” Hobbs says, finally looking away from the ocean, meeting the captain’s stare. “He also said his decision is final, and if you make me call him off his ship, well, let’s just say you don’t want to do that…” Sometimes the implied threat is more effective than the threat itself, or even carrying out the threat. This whole meeting is becoming a demonstration of the lessons my father taught me growing up.

The captain’s face is getting redder by the second, and I swear he’s about to burst into flames, but then he turns away stiffly, making a show of stomping toward the boat. “Get in,” he says over his shoulder. “Both of you.”

I’ve barely just met the captain, and yet, because of Hobbs, he hates me already.





~~~





I’ve never seen a ship like the Mayhem.

Just like on The Merman’s Daughter, there are men and women everywhere, but they’re not all working. In fact, I don’t think half of them are working. As I scan the decks at mid-ship, I spot a dozen people lounging, men and women alike. To my left, a fat, grizzly man is slumped against the side of an overturned barrel, his hand tucked beneath his belt. On my right, a skinny fellow with a long, curly mustache snores loudly, his arm around a sleeping woman with a top so tight and low my cheeks flush. With each exhalation, the hairs of his mustache flutter.

Above me, the sails open, but not in an orderly fashion, one at a time, like on my father’s ship, but almost all at once. The wind catches them despite the numerous holes and tears in the thick cloth, and the ship lurches forward. I grip the splintery hand rail to stop from falling over.

“A damn, bloody mess,” Hobbs mutters from beside me. For once, I agree with Hobbs.

But something’s strange, too. Despite the distinct smell of stale grog and fish that lingers in the air like a cloud, and the strange array of men and women working and lounging, the decks appear to be clean, well-scrubbed and free of clutter. The contrast is stark.

That’s when I notice them. The bilge rats. There are only four of them, compared to the dozens that work the decks of my father’s ship, but they’re scrubbing away at the lower decks like their very survival depends on keeping the wooden planks clean. Like all bilge rats, they’re brown-skinned and skinny, but muscular, too, because of all the scrubbing, I guess. Two are boys about my age, maybe a few yars younger, with sunken eyes and a wiry hunch to their bony shoulders. Another is an older bilge rat man, probably the oldest bilge I’ve ever seen—maybe nineteen, twenty. Usually the bilge don’t live that long, not with the Scurve running through their small, dirty living conditions like a crashing wave.

The fourth rat is a girl who looks around my age with long, dark hair, almost to her waist, braided tightly down the center of her back like a black spine. She’s on her knees, raking the brush back and forth across the deck with a tenacity and fervor at least twice that of any of the boys working beside her.

I’m dimly aware of Hobbs stalking across the deck, following the captain. Someone says my name, but the world has melted away, and all I can see is this bilge rat, working harder than I’ve ever seen anyone—rat or sailor, oarsmen or deckhand—work. For what? For the ship that’s the red, swollen pimple on the fleet’s backside?

And then she suddenly stops and turns, as if sensing my gaze.

And she sees me, looks right at me, her braid swinging behind her, her legs pushing her to her feet. Her eyes are a beautiful shade of brown, almost creamy, the perfect accent to her sun-kissed skin. But they’re flashing with something I didn’t expect. Not wonder, interest, or admiration—nothing good like that. They’re narrowed and burning, almost like the sun is in them, shooting rays of heat at me. She speaks.

“What the bloody scorch are you lookin’ at?” she says, and I’m not sure what I’m more surprised by, the tone of her voice or her words. On my father’s ship, a bilge rat speaking like that to one of the sailors would be thrown overboard, no questions asked. And I’m no ordinary sailor. I’m an officer and the son of the admiral.

The world that had melted away like a puddle of candlewax in a frying pan returns with a whoosh, as a burst of wind whips over the hull and across the deck, from starboard to port. The only motion is from the men manning the sails, who continue to struggle to get the right tension and direction. Everyone else is frozen, as still as human statues, watching.

The other three bilge rats have stopped scrubbing and are sitting cross legged, brushes and hands in their laps, their eyes wide. Those of the sailors who aren’t asleep have stopped whatever they were doing. They’re looking at me and then at the bilge rat, back and forth, back and forth, probably wondering who will flinch first.

Captain Morrow is standing on the quarterdeck, staring down at me with interest. Hobbs is halfway up the steps, arms crossed, frowning. My father’s spy. For why else would he be here? And this is my first test, whether by chance or design, and I’m totally screwing it up. I’m looking around me like a scared little boy, hoping someone will come to my rescue—

“Well?” the girl says, tapping her foot.

—but I’m a lieutenant,

“Are you gonna answer or what?” she adds.

—son of the admiral,

“Or are you too scared?”

—and she’s nothing more than a servant, one of the rats that come from nowhere, to scrub our decks and clean our clothes…

But she’s kinda pretty, in a she-looks-like-she-wants-to-punch-me-in-the-face kind of way.

And I don’t want to cause trouble on my first day, not when trouble seems to have such a knack for finding me.

In the silence, my boots are like hollow thunder as I walk across the deck. I know where I should be walking, where Hobbs would walk: toward the bilge rat to teach her some manners.

Feeling shaky, I reach the steps to the quarterdeck and climb them, brushing past Hobbs and ignoring the captain’s eyes following my every step.

“I’d like to see my cabin,” I say, my voice coming out high and weak.





~~~





Hobbs sneers, looking at me with no less distaste than he would if I was a rotten fish on his supper plate.

“A bit of grog and a shiny new officer’s uniform don’t make you a man,” he says, spitting out the word man.

I have a hundred comebacks planned, clever words that would put him in his place, teach him some manners, shut him up and make his face go red, but as I try to speak, they jam in my throat, a jumble of disjointed words, tangled, turning to ash, choking me. My mouth is dry, and whatever threads of pride and dignity I had left this morning have been snipped by the scissors of fate and my own weakness, worthless except to a scavenging bird seeking to build a nest.

Because I walked away from a rat. A rat who insulted me (with pretty eyes), who made me look like a child in front of the men I’m meant to lead. I know what my father would’ve done. Strutted up to her, slapped her hard across the face, probably kicked her to the deck, and had her thrown to the sharp-tooths. Made an example out of her.

The bilge rats will respect you if they fear you, he once told me after I’d just watched him manhandle a new rat who wouldn’t stop crying. The boy was no older than me at the time, seven yars old. A child.

And his words from earlier: Beware the bilge rats…They’re not like us. They’ll do anything to bring you down, to make you as low as they are. Don’t trust them. They are tools to be used, nothing more.

It’s almost like he knew I’d have trouble with them. It took me all of a few seconds on my new ship to fail at the hands of a bilge rat.

Lost in my thoughts, I’ve forgotten about Hobbs. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself, boy?” he says, stepping forward, so close I can see the dark tobacco stains on his teeth.

I feel tears coming, but I hold them back, determined not to fall further into the deep sea of embarrassment than I already have.

Hobbs draws his sword and my eyes bulge out of my head, because this close it’s so shiny, so sharp, gleaming and glinting in the sun, glittering silver against the sandy backdrop.

Something doesn’t make sense. Where’d all the sand come from? It’s all around me, churning like waves, grabbing at my legs, pulling me under. I’m sinking.

Sinking, sinking, until the beach is up to my waist and I’m at the perfect height for Hobbs to—

He swings, his blade slicing through the air, right for my neck—

—and I close my eyes—

—and I scream—

—but no sound comes out and I don’t feel my head getting chopped off (can you feel your head getting chopped off?), and when I open my eyes I’m not on the beach anymore, and Hobbs isn’t there, and I’m laughing—of all things laughing—and gentle arms grip me from behind, holding me against the railing, letting the wind sweep over and around me.

My mother’s head slips in next to mine and she kisses me on the cheek. “You know I’ll never leave you, right?” she asks.

But I don’t know that, because she did leave me, and then it’s happening again—no, not again, please, please, please…

The ship lurches and she stumbles and the railing is too low to stop her momentum, cutting her at the waist, the heaviness of her upper body pulling her over.

In my desperation I grab at her hand, feel my fingers close around hers, every last bit of the weight of her muscles and bones pulling against me, hating me, angry that I’m trying to thwart their plans of pulling her into the sea.

I’m crying out, yelling for help—Get me some bloody help!—but no one’s close enough, and I’m not strong enough, and she’s slipping, slipping, slipping away from my sweaty hand and my straining arm muscles, and when I look to the side, along the rail, he’s standing there, close enough to see but too far to help.

My father. Darkness in his stare, because he knows.

He knows.

I’ll fail him, like I always do.

But I won’t—not again. I grip her tighter, and try to stand, to get some leverage. I reach out my other arm, because if I can only grab her with that one, maybe two arms will be enough to pull her up, or at least hold her until help arrives. Surely my father will come.

I reach, and I’m almost there.

(Could I really save her this time?)

And that’s when she slips from my grasp.

And I scream.

And I won’t watch this time, not ever again, so I look away, right at my father, who hasn’t moved to help.

His eyes burn me, set me on fire, the flames hot and everywhere and on my clothes and skin. And again, I scream.

Someone grabs me and I try to fight them off, scrabble with my hands, swing at them, but they’re strong, too strong, and they hold me down, saying “Shhh, you’ll hurt yourself more than you’ll hurt me, lad.”

I keep straining, but not as much, and only because I don’t know the voice.

Eventually, however, I relax, slump on something warm and soft, open my eyes.

Daylight streams through the glass portal above my bed, warming the plump pillow beneath my head. I squint, seeing spots, red and blue and orange, like the fire that nearly consumed me in what I now know was another nightmare. My father’s fire.

Firm hands continue to press against my arms, holding them at my sides, but not hurting me. “’Twas a dream,” the voice says. “Nothing more.”

Blink, blink. My mother slipping, falling: blink her away. My father glaring, burning me: blink him away, too.

A face appears, hazy at first, but then crisp and defined around the edges. Lined but no older than my father. Late thirties, maybe forty. A beard, uncombed and disheveled, brown and patchy like the hair on his head. Somber, gray eyes, like the clouds that encroach on the sea from storm country. A nose that’s bigger than most.

“Lieutenant Jones,” the man says.

“Who are you?” I say. It sounds a little rude, although I don’t mean it to be.

The corner of his lips turns up in amusement. I haven’t offended him. “Barnes,” he says, “although around here most folks call me Barney.”

“Why are you…” My voice fades away as I realize I’m being rude again.

“Here?” he says, winking. “Well, firstly, I heard you screaming like the Deep Blue had grown hands and was trying to pull you into its depths, and secondly, I sleep a cabin over. I’m your steward. I’ll be doubling as Hobbs’ steward, too—he’s a rather grouchy fellow, isn’t he?—because we didn’t expect him. I’m here to take care of your every need, so you can focus on leading the men.”

Everything comes tumbling back: the bilge rat’s challenge; my weakness; the captain showing me to my cabin, asking if I was ready to meet my steward. I had begged off, blaming the need for sleep, although I was wide awake. Pulling the covers tight around me, I had squeezed my eyes shut and held back the tears as long as I could, but eventually they’d broken free, coating my cheeks and lips.

But eventually I must’ve fallen asleep, and then—

“It was just a nightmare,” I say, lifting my chin, rubbing at my cheeks, half-expecting them to still be wet with tears. Surprisingly, however, they’re dry, although my skin feels grainy. I hope Barney can’t see the white tear tracks.

“I know, sir,” Barney says, releasing my arms.

“I have them sometimes.”

“We all do, Lieutenant.”

“What time of day is it?” I ask. (What day is it?) I flex my arms, which have gone numb.

“It’s tomorrow,” Barney says with a grin. “Morning still. Not early, not late. Breakfast is still available. Would you like some?”

“Can you bring it to me here?” I ask, realizing right away how that sounds. Like the spoiled son of an admiral. Like the coward who’s scared to leave his cabin.

“Of course, sir,” Barney says, unblinking, although I can hear it in his voice: he heard about what happened yesterday. He knows the sort of man I am.

With a quick bow, he leaves, closing the door behind him, leaving me to my thoughts and the strained and scared face of my mother, which flashes in and out of my memory like a signal beacon from a passing ship.





Chapter Ten


Sadie





“Your father had a vision,” Mother says, and then I remember why I ran out. My interest, my curiosity piqued at the mention of the Soakers as my father started to tell us about what he’d been writing on the strips of bark. Then of course I just had to dredge up age-old memories of Paw’s death, which led to our fight and my abrupt exit into the storm. My run to the ships.

When I returned, they didn’t say anything, as if I’d never left in the first place. Mother held a blanket up so I could change my clothes, and Father prepared a warm, herbal tea. Although I could see the question in his eyes, my father didn’t ask me where I’d gone, probably because my mother had forbidden him from asking it. It’s all part of her approach to my training. She grants me a lot of independence—and based on what Remy said, more than some of the other Riders get—and I don’t abuse it, use it only to further my stamina and strength.

“A vision about the Soakers?” I say.

“Yes,” my father says solemnly. “There will be a battle.”

I roll my eyes. There’s always a battle. That’s the dramatic vision from the Man of Wisdom? I look at the tent wall.

“Sadie!” my mother snaps, and my head jerks back to her. She rarely raises her voice at me.

“What?” I say, knowing I’m about to tread over the line of insolence, but not caring. “I’ve heard this all before. His visions, scribbles on countless pieces of bark, tales of blood and bones and how the world’s ending.” Although I won’t look at him, at the edge of my vision I see my father’s head dip, his eyes close. The truth is hard to hear sometimes, but that doesn’t change that it’s the truth.

My mother’s hand flashes out so fast I don’t even have time to flinch before it snaps across my face. My head jolts to the side and I grimace, but don’t cry out. Showing pain is weakness.

Slowly—ever so slowly—I turn back to face my mother. My cheek stings and my pride feels bruised, but I don’t cry, don’t so much as let my eyes water.

There’s hurt in her eyes, but I know it’s not regret at having slapped me, because I can still see the anger in her pursed lips. Anger at me. For not thinking very much of my father, the so-called Man of Wisdom.

I pretend like I don’t see the hurt or the anger. “What sort of battle?” I ask grudgingly.

My father’s eyes flash open and he smiles thinly.

“One where…” He pauses, as if searching for the words. There’s blood, and lots of people die, and the world as we know it is destroyed, I think, regurgitating my father’s usual predictions. “…you will have a choice to make,” he finishes.

My eyes narrow. “Me?” I say. “I’ll be stuck here with you.” I don’t mean for it to sound so angry, but I guess lately that’s what I am.

Father nods, but doesn’t elaborate, which means that’s all he wants to tell me. Is it a trick? A way for him to convince me to stay in the tent the next time there’s a battle?

“Tell her the rest,” Mother urges.

Father looks down, clasps his hands in his lap, runs his thumb over his forefinger. Sighs. Slumps his shoulders. Why does he look so…is it sadness? Exhaustion? No, it’s not one or the other—it’s both. He looks defeated.

“Father?” I say, allowing a hint of compassion to creep into my voice. Just a hint.

He lifts his head but his eyes are closed and he doesn’t stop at eye-level. His chin keeps tilting until he’s facing the tent roof, and only then does he open his eyes. Almost as if he can’t look at me when he says whatever it is my mother wants him to say. And in his eyes…

There’s defeat.

And I realize he’s not looking at the tent roof. No, he’s looking well beyond it, seeing something that we can’t—the moon or the stars or the black-cloud-riddled sky. Something beyond.

“It’s time to ride against the Icers,” he says to the heavens, and for a moment I don’t comprehend any of his words, because how can I? They’re so unexpected and make so little sense that I have to close one eye to even get my brain headed in the right direction.

“This must not make much sense to you,” my mother says. It doesn’t take a Man of Wisdom to read my face. I shake my head. “Reason it out,” she says, like she has so many times before.

I used to get so excited when my mother would say those words—that she had so much confidence that I could puzzle through a problem and figure it out on my own. But now her challenge just frustrates me, because I want to know right now. Why the Riders would go to the Icers; why my mother seems more intense than she normally does, so focused on my father’s vision that she’d slap me; why my father refuses to lower his gaze from the stars, invisible behind the cloth of our tent.

From experience, however, I know: she won’t tell me the answer.

So I think about everything I know about the Icers. They live in ice country, obviously. It’s really cold there, colder than when it’s been raining in storm country for two months straight, the wind lashing the rainwater to our clothes, to our skin, chilling us to the bone. From what I’ve been told, the Icers are a private people, preferring the solitude of their strongholds in the mountains. They’ve never tried to trade with us.

And they have a secret.

Only we know about it, because our scouts witnessed something they weren’t supposed to. A band of men, pale-white skinned and heavily armored, carrying razor-sharp axes and long-hilted swords, driving a group of brown-skinned children to the sea. They were met by a landing party from the jewel of the Soakers’ fleet, The Merman’s Daughter. The children, who we assume were Heaters from fire country, were forced onto a boat and sent to the ships. We can only assume they’re being used as slaves.

In exchange, the Soakers gave the Icers large sacks that looked heavy, but which could be easily lifted and carried by the ice country soldiers. When our scouts examined the area where the trade had taken place, they found prints of heavy boots and small bare feet. The prints were littered with fragments of dried plants, the kind that sometimes wash up on our shores, green at first, but turning brown over time. Weeds of the sea.

Why would the Icers trade children for dried plants that are as readily attainable as blades of grass or leaves on trees? And how did the Icers get the Heater children in the first place? Did the Heaters sell their own offspring to the Icer King, the man they call Goff, or did the Icers steal them away?

Not even my father knows the answers to these questions, but ever since the scouts learned of the child slave-trade, the tension between us and the Soakers has escalated. Although some say the Soakers’ trade with other countries is not our concern, the majority would have us put an end to it. My mother’s voice has been one of the strongest in this regard.

“We cannot sit on our hands while great injustice is carried out on the borders of storm country,” I murmur, remembering my mother’s words from a speech she made to the camp a day after the scouts returned with their account of the Soakers’ treachery.

“Yes,” my mother says.

“It is time?” I say.

“It is,” Mother says. And suddenly I know why my mother is so serious and my father so sad:

The Riders are going to war with the Icers.

And it’s my father who’s sending them.





~~~





I rise early because I can’t sleep. My father’s still in bed, snoring, as I dress in my training gear: dark pants, my thin, light boots, and a light black shirt that will allow my skin to breathe if I sweat. Training almost always means sweat, especially when my mother’s involved.

We didn’t schedule training for today, but given the fact that my mother’s not in the tent, an impromptu early morning session is a good bet.

I step out into a dark, brooding morning, intent on finding her.

Fog rises from the ground in cloud-like waves, as if the rain from yesterday is returning to its sky masters high above the earth. There’s a chill in the air, and for a moment I stop and consider dressing in something warmer. I shake my head to myself. Regardless of the temperature or what I’m wearing, at the end of a training session with my mother I’m always hot and wishing I was wearing less.

This early, the camp is quiet. There’s activity, yes—a few cook fires glow warmly, shining off black pots hovering over them, emitting the mouthwatering smell of cooked coney; a black-robed rider strides across the camp on his way to the stables; one of the fire-tenders carries a bundle of wood to the Big Fire, which has dwindled to a few crackling flames—but it’s quiet activity. If anyone speaks, it’s in dull murmurs or low whispers. Until sunup, we respect those sleeping.

My mother will likely be one of three places: the stables; beyond the northern edge of the camp, doing her own training while she waits for me to join her; or on the seaside, waiting for the sun to rise. She says the sunrise is Mother Earth’s most beautiful gift to us.

But today it’s too foggy for a good sunrise. That leaves the stables or training grounds. I head for the stables, where I can at least see Shadow, even if Mother’s already passed through.

I move across the dark camp, careful not to step on anything that could turn my ankle, a rock or a stick or a swathe of uneven ground. Every step must be perfect. The feet are the key to a fight. Two of my mother’s favorite sayings, hammered into my skull so that even a normal walk across camp turns into training. When I realize, I groan inwardly and try to relax.

As I walk toward the Big Fire—which is growing already as the fire-tender adds sticks of wood one at a time, positioning each one carefully, delicately, like the placement is a matter of life or death—I admire the symmetry of the camp. Everything is ordered, even, mirror images of each other. From the fire, the tents radiate outward in concentric circles, each successive ring growing larger and containing more tents. The tents of the Riders and the Men of Wisdom, of whom my father is head, make up the innermost circle, while the circle furthest from the fire is for the camp watchmen, those with keen eyes and stout hearts. There are ten rings in all, over two thousand Stormers.

Neither the fire-tender nor I speak as I pass, content to let our brief eye contact convey a well-mannered good morning.

I pause as I reach the edge of the first ring of tents opposite ours, because I sense movement in one of the shelters, one I know too well, because a red flag flutters wildly above it. Gard’s tent. The Rider war leader. My leader. It’s not Gard, however, who steps out.

Remy.

His black skin’s a shadow against the brown of his tent. Through the fog I catch his smile.

Moving on.

I turn to continue on to the stables, angry at the clutch of embarrassment I feel in my gut after running from him yesterday.

His hand on my arm stops me. “Let go,” I hiss.

His hand darts back and his smile fades, but then reappears seconds later. “Heading to the stables?” he asks.

“No.” Yes. Argh. Why does he continue to follow me around? “Sorry, I really don’t have time to talk,” I say.

“Let me guess, training,” he says, the warmth of his smile quirking into a smirk.

I frown. “Yeah, so,” I say. “Riders may be born, but great Riders are made.” Another of my mother’s sayings, one I’ve always loved, have always believed in, but which now sounds ridiculous on my lips.

Remy raises an eyebrow. He thinks I’m ridiculous. “Don’t you ever stop training, you know, to just be a girl?”

My frown deepens into a scowl. “No…and I’m not a girl, I’m a Rider.”

He laughs loudly, breaking the code of morning silence just as the edge of the sun breaks the horizon, spreading pink to the east and graying the dark clouds overhead.

Instinctively, we both look up. When we drop our gaze once more, he says, “Trust me, you’re a girl, too.” I don’t like the way my hands sweat when he looks me up and down.

“I’ve got to find my mother,” I say, turning away from Remy and toward the stables, striding away quickly.

“I thought you weren’t going to the stables,” Remy says, pulling up alongside me.

Right. So much for my sharp mind. “I’m not,” I lie. “Not really. I’m just seeing if my mother’s there.”

“Well, Sadie-who’s-not-going-to-the-stables, I’ll walk with you while you don’t go to the stables,” Remy says, flashing that annoying smirk of his once more.

“Fine,” I say, “as long as you don’t speak.”

Ignoring me, he says, “What do you think about your father’s vision?”

I can’t stop myself from flinching. Was I the last to know? Probably, considering the first time my father tried to tell me, I started a fight with him and ran away.

“I’m going with them,” I say, snapping my mouth shut as soon as the words come out. Why did I say that? I don’t even have a horse yet. I haven’t finished training.

“You are?” Remy says. “But I thought your ceremony wasn’t for another few months.”

“They’ll make an exception,” I say, firming up my voice, as if I’m on my way to discuss it with Remy’s father right now.

Remy laughs, grabs my hand, stops me. “You’re so full of horse dung, Sadie. My father doesn’t make exceptions.”

I grit my teeth and wrench my hand from Remy’s grip. Anger bursts through me like a crashing wave.

Because I know Remy’s right.





Chapter Eleven


Huck





When I finally leave my cabin, full of brown gruel that tasted even worse than it looked, the sun is well beyond its peak, the sky a dark bloody red. Right away, I wish I hadn’t hidden in there for so long.

It only made things worse. Now everyone stares at me as I walk along the quarterdeck, trying to look like a leader. But no matter how high I raise my chin or how straight I keep my back, I feel like a boy pretending to be a lieutenant, all the way to the clean, blue uniform, which feels more like a costume than a sign of my position.

A test, I remember. Maybe my last chance to prove myself to my father.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hobbs watching my every move, his usual frown-smile plastered on his face.

I ignore him and look around, taking it all in. The scene is consistent with when I arrived: men and women alike, sleeping, some sipping bottles of grog, some telling jokes, laughing and slapping their knees. One woman struggles to clip wet clothes to a line strung up between two masts. A few men are working, too, swinging the tattered sails around to catch the wind properly, but they’re struggling because the wind is swirling, changing direction so quickly that using sails is a near-impossibility. Why doesn’t anyone say something? I wonder. The captain, one of the other lieutenants, somebody…

“Where’s the captain?” I ask myself.

“In his favorite spot,” a voice says from behind.

I shudder and turn quickly.

Barney stands nearby, looking off at the far end of the quarterdeck, near where Hobbs is standing, still watching me. But my steward isn’t looking at Hobbs, his gaze is locked on a swinging bundle to the left of him. A salt-yellowed hammock rocks back and forth in the wind, wisps of smoke curling up from where the captain lays, pipe in his mouth, eyes closed, either oblivious or disinterested in the complete lack of competence on the decks of his ship.

Ignoring Hobbs’ dagger-stares, I march on up to the captain and tap him on the shoulder. He awakes with a start, his pipe falling from his lips and onto his grungy uniform. He scrabbles for it, manages to pluck it off his chest, but not before it leaves a black circle burned into his shirt.

“What in the Deep Blue?” he says, his tired eyes flashing to mine. So he was asleep, setting a good example for his men. “Something I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

“Well, I, uh, I just thought…”

“Spit it out, boy!” he says, not too nicely.

When he calls me boy, something snaps in me, something that evens my words out, allows them to flow with confidence. “We’ve fallen behind the other ships,” I say. I add, “Sir,” as an afterthought.

“And?” he says.

Dumbfounded, I gawk at the captain in his hammock, not a care in the world, except maybe not getting burned by his bloody pipe. We sail for our livelihood, to fill our nets with fish, to reach our next safe landing zone to find fresh water to sate our dry throats. We’ve done it for years, since the time that the first Soakers constructed the first ships out of driftwood, broken from homes during what everyone believed was the end of days. We sail to survive. Doesn’t he understand? Doesn’t he care?

“And…we need to catch up,” I say.

“Then catch up!” he says, sticking his pipe between his lips before rolling over.

I want to kick him, to pound my fists against him, to tell him he’s the worst captain ever and that his ship is the laughingstock of my father’s fleet. But that’s the tantrum of a child. For the first time in my life I wonder if it’s all worth it—the ships, the sailing, the fishing. We could settle down somewhere, like the Stormers, live off the land. There’s plenty of uninhabited land along our fishing route. We could pick a spot and just take it, leave the ships behind forever.

But even the thought sends my heart sinking into my stomach. Leave the ships? Leave the sea? Settle down? It’s just not in us—it’s not in me. My people were made for the sea and I know we’ll never leave it. So that means…

I glance over at Hobbs, who’s laughing. He makes a crying motioning with his fists against his eyes. The captain’s words ring in my ears—Then catch up!—while Hobbs’ mocking burns in my chest.

If they won’t do anything, then I will.

I stomp across the quarterdeck, down the steps, enjoying the sound my boots make on the wood. Solid, confident. My footsteps have never sounded like that before.

I ignore the sleepers and the drinkers—for now, anyway.

First, I approach one of the men struggling with the sails. “Seaman!” I holler.

The man, a wiry fellow with yellow teeth that are showing as he exerts himself, stops suddenly, snaps around. “Are you talkin’ to me, boy?”

The burn in my stomach, in my chest, grows into a huge bonfire, not unlike the ones we build whenever we land on the beaches of storm country. Except the fire’s in me, crackling, burning, fueling me. I wonder if this is how my father feels all the time. Powerful.

“You will address me as Lieutenant or sir, or you will be sent to the brig, seaman!” My voice sounds different, almost like it’s coming from somewhere else, but the way it vibrates in my neck proves it’s me. I feel strong.

“We ain’t got a brig,” the man says. He breaks into a crooked smile, his whole face lifting and his eyes sparkling like the ocean. And then he laughs, right at me, like I’m some sort of a joke. (Am I?)

I feel my fire start to go out, as if someone’s dumped a bucket of water on it. Clenching my fists, I force the heat to rise again. I draw my sword.

“What’re you gonna do with that little toothpick, boy?” the sailor says, spitting a wad of tobacco at my feet. “Clean my teeth?”

What am I gonna do? Do I even know? Am I even in control anymore?

I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, but my feet march me forward, my arm whips back, and for a moment—just a moment—there’s fear in the man’s eyes and it feels so bloody good to be feared rather than mocked. The powerful, not the powerless.

I hit him. Hard, with the broadside of my sword.

Smack!

Right in the upper part of his leg, where it’ll hurt and bruise but won’t do any permanent damage.

There’s a commotion behind me, but I don’t turn to look, because the man isn’t too happy. He’s cursing like I’ve never heard anyone curse before, even in my thirteen long yars living amongst sailors.

Clutching at his leg, he says, “You shouldn’ta done that, boy. I’ll kill you.” He reaches down and slips a knife from his boot, tosses it from hand to hand. The way he wields it leaves no doubt in my mind: he’s killed with this knife before. Although the blood’s probably been cleaned away long ago, I can almost still see the stains on the shining metal blade.

I should be scared, terrified—of getting cut open, of dying—but I’m not. Peace washes over me, borne by the warm breeze that continues to swirl around us. If I die today, I’ll see my mother. And anyway, there are worse things than death—like my father’s disappointment.

“I warned you, Seaman,” I say, trying out the deep voice again, remembering words I’ve heard my father speak. “You have disobeyed a direct order by your superior officer, and therefore, you are sentenced to a day in the brig without food. Now give me your name, so it can be recorded in the ship’s annals.”

The man stops tossing the knife, stares at me like I’ve grown a merman’s tail, and then laughs again, but this time it’s less boisterous, almost forced. “Yer one crazy little boy,” he laughs. “I’ll give you something to stick up yer annal.”

He starts to lunge forward, and I’m already leaping back, when someone shouts, “Webb!” which stops the man dead.

He looks behind me, but I keep my eyes on him, my sword raised, ready to defend myself to the death if necessary. “Who said that?” he growls. “I’ll kill whoever said that.”

The same voice rings out again, and I realize it’s that of a woman. “Aye, aye, yer always saying you’ll kill everyone, Webb, but yer all talk. You only pick on those weaker than you. Yer just pissed our new lieutenant put you in yer place. Now take yer punishment like a man.”

The man now has a name: Webb. Simply having that knowledge makes me feel like I’ve got the upper hand, like there’s power in knowing he’s not just a mysterious, knife-wielding, yellow-toothed sailor, but a man named Webb.

It seems he feels the same thing, because his arm drops, and he releases the knife, which clatters to the wood. “This ain’t over,” he spits, glaring at me.

“This ain’t over, sir,” I say, meeting his eyes. “You just earned yourself another day, sailor.” Finally, I turn to the crowd, almost dropping my sword when I see how many people are gathered behind me. Men and women and children, all watching, some smiling, some with wide, surprised eyes and raised eyebrows, other with flat, unreadable lips. I point at three strong-looking men standing near the front. “You, you, and you, please take Mr. Webb to the lowest decks and find a safe place for him to stay. Preferably a place with a lock.”

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” the man in the middle says, saluting.

Lieutenant. The word echoes in my head. By speaking that one simple word, this seaman on the Sailors’ Mayhem has changed my life.

I smile as they escort Webb away.





~~~





“Pull!” I shout, grunting with exertion and exhaustion, but not even close to giving up.

As usual, my father’s words are tearing a hole in my head. Earn the respect of your seamen by being one of them and above them.

This is the “being one of them” part. Definitely not as fun as the other part.

I push the oar forward as hard as I can, perfectly in sync with the other oarsmen. “Pull!” I shout, wrenching the wooden pole back into my chest where it smacks my uniform with a heavy thud.

The ship lurches forward and although we can’t see the bow cutting across the waves, can’t feel the wind through our hair, can’t watch the shores of storm country float past, there’s satisfaction in knowing the ship’s riding on our backs, on the strength in our sore muscles.

A few hours ago, when I ordered a few men to close and lash the sails, and all other men below deck to man the oars, there were more than a few grumbles and whispers, but grudgingly, the men complied. Two of them stank so badly of grog and couldn’t walk in a straight line, so I sent them to sleep it off in the newly established brig. I’ll let them out tomorrow with a warning to not show up for work drunk again.

“Pull!” I shout again, almost automatically as I start the motion back toward my chest. My throat is sore and my muscles burning, but I won’t stop, not while my men continue to toil. I’m not as strong or experienced as many of them, but I will work every bit as hard as I make them.

Do I have my father in me? Do I have what it takes to lead? For the first time in my life, I think maybe I do.

Another shout, another motion.

Footfalls clop down the steps. A face appears. A boy, a couple of yars younger than me, with hair as white as the sands on the beaches. Jacob. I’d ordered him to stay with the wheelman, Marley, who’s responsible for steering the ship while the captain focuses on dreaming the day away. Jacob’s job is to periodically tell me how things are looking above deck.

His last ten reports have been, “No change, sir.” And each time he’s reported, my muscles have ached just a little more than the last time.

“The fleet has stopped!” he shouts, all smiles.

A shiver of excitement runs through me, and although I’m already past the point of exhaustion, I manage a smile. “Halt!” I cry, and I’m surprised when amongst the creaking and clattering oars, a cheer rises up from the men. They’re as excited as I am.

I stand, ready to slap a few backs, to congratulate them on a job well done, but my smile vanishes when I see the looks on most of the faces: grimaces and glares. A few of them mutter under their breaths as they stomp past, brushing by Jacob as they slowly climb the stairs.

I just stare at them as they go, wondering what I did wrong.

“You made them work,” a man says. He’s not much older than me—maybe three or four yars. Long, lean, sinewy arms. Short dark hair. A thin beard. He’s smiling.

“That’s their job,” I say. Isn’t it?

The man laughs, extends a hand. “Norris,” he says. “I man the foremast sails. The men aren’t used to working, that’s all.”

I take his hand, which crushes mine in a firm shake. I try to squeeze back but his grip’s like iron. “Huck,” I say, forgetting myself. “I mean, Lieutenant Jones.”

“You did well today, Lieutenant,” Norris says, looking me in the eyes. “They’ll come around. They just have to get used to you. There are a few of us who’ve been waiting for someone like you.” He motions to three other men behind him. “Meet the real crew,” he says.

I shake each of their hands in turn, squeezing hard to avoid getting my fingers crushed. Budge, Ferris, and Whittle.

Budge is meant to be an oarsmen, built like an anchor, heavy and compact, but usually he can’t even get enough men to join him. Until today, that is.

Ferris is a lookout, small and thin, and apparently very good at climbing. The crow’s nest is his post.

Whittle stinks like tobacco and has a face that only a mother could love, with dozens of scars and pockmarks, and she’d have to be a pretty understanding mother at that. He manages the bilge rats, which is evidently one of the reasons they seem to do such a fine job keeping the ship clean.

“There’s no one to command us,” Norris says, “so we pretty much run things ourselves, with very little help from the rest of the crew. You’re very welcome here.”

I nod firmly. Although it feels good to have a few early advocates, I get no warmth from it. I’ll need the support of every man and woman if I’m to turn things around.

“Thank you, seaman,” I say. “If I could ask you a question. Who was the woman who shouted Webb’s name today?”

I’m surprised when Norris and the other three snicker. “She’s a real jibboom, alright. That was Lyla, my sister. She’s about your age. She’ll love you for putting Webb in his place. He’s hated by most of the women, always leering and groping at them. Sending him to the brig will have gone a long way with the ship women.”

My cheeks burn because of the way he says it, all wagging eyebrows and smirking. “Fine. Thank you, seaman,” I say.

I turn and head for the door, only now realizing what’s coming next.

It’s time to see my father.





Chapter Twelve


Sadie





I’m so angry I march right through the stables without stopping to see Shadow.

Remy’s right—too right. There’s no way Gard will let me ride to ice country with my mother.

Mother’s not there, so I skirt the edge of the camp, taking my normal route to our training area, along the western border, where Carrion Forest is but a stone’s throw away. The heavy clouds comb the green manes of the trees, turning them a deep shade of gray. The squeal-grunt of a wild boar shrills through the air. Perhaps he stumbled upon one of our traps. My father says the forest is an evil place, full of dark magic and sorcery, but I see it only as the place where we get our food. Conies and boar and plump fowl live there, the latter roosting high in the branches of the trees, where a well-placed arrow or a good climber can reach them quite easily. The forest is the lifeblood of my people.

We refuse to eat from the sea like the Soakers. My father says eating the sea creatures leads to madness.

A few of the men and women in the watch tents offer greetings as I pass, but, afraid that after my encounter with Remy my voice will come out filled with venom, I offer only a nod in response to each of them.

When I reach the broad, grassy area, I stop abruptly.

Mother is there already, as I suspected, and she’s practicing her sword work by herself. I duck behind a tent so I can watch without her knowing. Every motion perfectly fluid, like running water, she moves with a grace and litheness that cannot be taught. Again and again, her sword flashes out and back, blocking and attacking an invisible foe.

Paw’s killer, maybe?

Her feet are always perfectly balanced as she dances, spins, leaps around. If she is imagining herself fighting Paw’s killer, or some other Soaker enemy, you can’t tell from her face. Her cheeks are hard with concentration and her eyes flash determination, but there’s no anger to be found. Anger is weakness, she’s taught me. Of all her sayings, that one scares me the most, because I feel angry so often. At my father’s weakness, at the Soakers, at whichever one of them took Paw’s life before it really got started. How do I thrust off the anger?

I watch for a few more minutes, my awe growing at the perfection that is my mother.

When I step out of hiding, she spots me, stopping in mid-swing. I’ve just saved an invisible Soaker’s life. Pity.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” she says, which makes me lift my eyebrows. Why wouldn’t I come?

When she sees my confusion, she explains, “Because I slapped you.”

Oh. That. To be honest, I’d pretty much forgotten, but now the embarrassment comes back with the speed of a flash storm. I raise a hand to my cheek, remembering the sting. “I deserved it,” I say, meaning it. I was acting like a child, being exceptionally disrespectful to my father.

“You did,” she says with a smile, making me smile too. “But that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”

And just like that, all is forgiven and forgotten. “Mother, do you think Father is right?” I ask.

“Defend!” she says, leaping forward with her sword. My blade is out before her feet touch the ground, blocking her attack, the swords ringing out in the early morning, as if welcoming the sun to the sky.

Excitement and energy courses through me as we battle across the plains, sword fighting, circling, jumping, kicking, swinging, faster and faster, until the world becomes only me and my mother, condensed into a circle around us, everything else a blur, melting away.

I deflect a blow to the right, to the left, above my head, backing up swiftly from my mother’s onslaught. And then she does something completely unexpected.

She ducks and dives, right at my feet, grabs me around the ankles, knocking me off balance. I whirl my arms and tumble to the ground, where she points her sword at my neck, breathing heavily, but laughing.

“New lesson,” she says. “Do something unexpected, surprise your enemy.”

I nod. “Again?” It’s a question I ask each time she defeats me, until she eventually has to decline, or we’d fight all day and all night.

She never says no after one fight.

“No,” she says, grinning.

“But, Moth—”

“Our orders are to burn as much of ice country as we can, to send a message, but to spare the innocents. Kill only the king and his men,” she says, cutting me off.

“And this is all because of Father’s prediction?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Have you forgotten your question?”

I have. “What question?”

“You asked whether I think your father is right.”

“And then you attacked me,” I say, grinning.

She laughs. “I needed time to think,” she says, which makes me laugh. While I’ve been completely focused on beating her, her mind’s been a million miles away, coming up with what to say to me.

“So do you…think Father’s right?” I ask.

“He’s never been…” Her voice catches, like she’s got something stuck in her throat. There’s a faraway look in her eyes, one I’ve never seen before.

“Mother? What has he never been?” I ask, sitting up.

“Wrong,” she says, more firmly. “He’s never been wrong.”

Although her words come out stronger this time, her eyes are filled with the morning fog, not scared, but uncertain.

And that scares me the most, because I’ve never seen her unsure of herself.





~~~





The Plague took another life today.

Jala, a Man of Wisdom, like my father. When my father lit his funeral pyre, his eyes were red and wet. Although I’ve been to many death ceremonies, this one hit me harder than most. Emotion swelled in my chest, and I felt like crying. I didn’t, but I felt like it.

I didn’t know Jala well, but I haven’t seen Father cry since Paw died, and though I’ve given him a hard time lately, between his crying and my mother’s uncertain words from earlier, well, I’m out of sorts.

There’s tension and sadness in the air as I carry two buckets of water to the stables. Men and women are scurrying about everywhere, helping the Riders prepare for their long ride and for battle.

As soon as I enter the stables, the walls and roof seem to close in around me. For the first time in my life, I feel uncomfortable around the horses. While I water Shadow and place a thin black cloth on his back, which my mother will mount, my unease grows and grows, until I want to scream. I spot Remy preparing his father’s horse, Thunder. He smiles at me but I don’t smile back, because seeing him reminds me of our conversation from earlier. I hate being told what I can’t do. To hell with waiting for my sixteenth age day.

Finished with Shadow, I rush from the stables, brushing past Remy when he steps in front of me. “Hey!” he says, but I don’t stop.

Even the open air outside the stables doesn’t ease the heaviness that is now draped over me like a pile of blankets. The air smells of rain, earthy and green and moist. A heavy storm might delay the Riders’ departure, but the darkest clouds are still miles away, so I can’t count on the weather. I pass Gard, who looks like a mountain next to me as he stomps by, his thick, black robe swirling around his feet. He wears a frown, but that’s not unusual for him. Frowning is expected of a war leader.

Just as I arrive at our tent, my mother emerges, wearing her own dark robe, which is open at the front as she clasps her sword belt around her waist. “Mother, I—” I start to say, but then stop when I see the expression on her face when she notices me approaching.

She looks sunken, like the earth has pulled every part of her face down a little. There are shadows under her eyes and tearstains on her cheeks. I’ve never seen my mother cry. Never. Riders don’t cry. She told me that herself. One of her many lessons. And now she’s crying, like some scared little child. She’s fought the Soakers a dozen times in her lifetime. Are the Icers so powerful they would scare my mother to tears? This woman, who I’ve idolized since the day I was born, who’s supposed to be the strong one, the person I want to be like, driven to tears by fear?

I can’t help the seed of anger I feel in my belly. It’s small at first, but then sprouts a stem, which shoots upward into my chest, splitting into several branches which yield red, hot leaves and burning fruit. The fruits of rage.

I’m so angry I’m trembling.

Her belt clasped, she reaches for me, both arms extended, beckoning me into their folds. “Mother, no—why are you doing this?” I say, backing away a step.

She flinches, as if surprised by my reaction to her affections—but she has to know how ridiculous she’s acting. “I want to say goodbye,” she says, her voice weaker than someone stricken with the Plague.

“Why were you crying?” I demand, my hands fisted at my sides.

She shakes her head. “Your father—he got upset.”

“Riders don’t cry,” I say, dimly aware that people are watching us now.

“It wasn’t—I wasn’t—”

“I thought you were strong,” I say. My voice comes out as a plea, and I feel the burning fruits of rage dropping like pinecones, bursting into a flood of emotion, welling tears into pools just behind my eyes. I grit my teeth and hold them back. My mother may be weak, but I won’t be. I’ll be better than my master.

“I am, Sadie,” she says. “You don’t understand.”

But I do. I do. “I’m coming with the Riders,” I say, keeping my voice even.

The most unexpected expression flashes across my mother’s face, there and then gone, like a falling star in the night sky. Not anger, or sadness, or surprise; no, none of the emotions that would make sense.

For her expression showed only one thing:





Hope.





~~~





The hope I see in my mother’s eyes is no more than a flicker of light on a distant horizon.

“No,” she says, and she’s back, my mother—the Rider. The wind has dried her tears and I’ve hardened her jaw, and she doesn’t reach out to me again.

This is my master, the woman who can’t be argued with, the woman with the power to give and take away. As much as I want to go with her, I don’t try to argue, knowing full well it’d be fruitless. “Be victorious,” I say, using the standard pre-battle Rider words.

“I will go with honor and strength,” says my master, who’s now also my mother again.

At arm’s length, we clasp each other’s shoulders. “I’ll train double for you while you’re gone,” I say.

She laughs, but it’s more airy than usual, more high-pitched too, but her face and eyes are still strong, so it might just be the water in the air. “Keep your father safe,” she says.

“I will.”

I watch her go, the last of the Riders to make their way to the stables.

“Come inside, Sadie,” my father, who’s emerged from our tent, says behind me. I turn, take in his wet face and bleary eyes, and I have to look away, because his sadness suddenly hits me like a punch to the gut.

I never realized Jala was such a good friend to my father.





~~~





With the rain misting down around me, I watch the Riders go, galloping north under heavy black cloud cover, dark shadows against the plains.

Just when I’m about to return to the camp, one of them turns, looks back. A fist squeezes my heart and my throat constricts, because I know—

—without a doubt in my mind—

—I know.

It was my mother.

I’ve watched her ride into battle many times before, and she’s never turned around.





Chapter Thirteen


Huck





“Captain Montgomery,” my father says with a warm smile as he steps across the planks between The Merman’s Daughter and The Sailors’ Mayhem.

The two men shake hands like old friends as I watch from afar, standing next to Hobbs, Barney closer than I’d like on my other side. Although there’s no way my father wouldn’t be able to see me, he doesn’t offer even the slightest glance in my direction.

“You’ve improved your ship’s speed, I see,” my father says. “You were still the last ship to arrive, but we didn’t expect you until nightfall.”

Jeb smiles broadly. “I’m glad you noticed, Admiral,” he says. “Sometimes the only way forward is through threat and punishment. We sent three men to the brig just today.”

A heavy wad forms in the back of my throat. How dare he—

I take a step forward, fully prepared to set the record straight, but Hobbs stops me with a strong arm across my chest. “It would be unwise to interrupt,” he says. “Do not fear, Lieutenant, I’ll provide a full report to your father. You’ll get credit for what you’ve accomplished.”

I look up at Hobbs’ scarred face, my eyes wide with surprise, both because he’s going to vouch for me and because he called me Lieutenant for the first time. I offer a smile but he just glares down. “You can wipe that smile off your face, boy, you’ll also get credit for what you haven’t done.”

My smile fades and the face of the bilge rat girl appears in my mind. Letting a bilge rat—and a girl at that—mock me without repercussion won’t impress my father in the least. I can only hope that my leadership with the oarsmen will be enough to overshadow my weakness.

I stand at attention as my father finishes his formalities with Jeb. The captain steps aside and pretends to busy himself with giving orders to a few of the men who’ve stopped to watch.

My turn, I think. I watch my father approach, his every move commanding attention.

Not once do his eyes touch upon mine.

“Lieutenant Hobbs,” he says, standing right in front of me. “Will you walk with me?”

“Aye, aye, Admiral,” Hobbs says. They break away, cross the main deck, and climb the stairs to the lofted quarterdeck.

I’m invisible.

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant Jones,” Barney says, “Lieutenant Hobbs will tell ’im what you did.”

I nod vaguely in Barney’s direction, but I don’t say that Hobbs telling my father everything is exactly what I’m worried about. Then, looking down, I stab the tip of my boot at the spotlessly clean deck, seeing the pretty face of the mean bilge rat in the shine of the wood. Why didn’t I stand up to her like I stood up to Webb?

“Is that the Lieutenant Jones?” a faraway voice shouts.

I look up excitedly when I hear the familiar voice. “Cain!” I say, not caring that my overzealous reaction is likely not becoming of a lieutenant.

Cain’s dark hair is tied in a ponytail, leaving his face visible save for the beard that’s grown slightly longer in the two days that’ve passed since we parted ways. He leaps from the plank and embraces me, slapping my back hard with his palm. “How’s life on the dreaded Mayhem?” he whispers sharply, looking around with comically wide eyes, as if there might be sea monsters lurking in the shadows.

I laugh, look up at him. “Not as bad as I expected,” I say.

“The rumors are flying already,” he says with a wink.

“What rumors?” I ask, following him across the deck.

I match his stride as he makes his way to the fore decks. A white-winged gull passes overhead, catching my attention. As I walk, I follow its flight to the main mast, twisting my neck around. A brown bulge hangs on the thick wooden column. The gull continues flying, but I settle my gaze on the brown lump. Not a lump, or a bulge—a person. A brown-skinned bilge rat, clinging to the mast with one hand, bare feet wrapped around the wood cylinder, her other hand clutching a brush, scrubbing at the salty mast as if cleaning it might save her very life.

Her long, dark hair hangs down in waves, billowing under the strength of the breeze. She looks down and sees me, and our eyes meet, and I know I’ve stopped walking while Cain continues on, maybe answering my question, maybe not; I don’t know, I don’t care, because the bilge rat smiles at me and she’s really very pretty, with striking features that I can’t seem to look away from.

I smile back, despite how she mocked me in front of my men, how she ruined any chances of me winning my father’s respect, because something about her just makes me want to smile.

She raises the hand with the scrub brush and my smile drops, though I don’t know why. And I’m frozen to the deck, watching the smiling girl, waiting for her next move, captivated by her.

She whips her hand back and throws the wooden brush, and I know I need to get out of the way, because it’s coming hard, end over end, and her aim is good, but still I can’t seem to lift my legs, because she’s still smiling—behind her act of violence she’s smiling.

I try to cover my head with my hands, but it’s too late, and the wooden brush handle cracks me in the forehead, knocks me back into something, the railing or a barrel or something else.

My minds whirls and explosions of light pop and burst before my eyes and then all goes black.





~~~





The wind whips my hair over my ears and around my face. The salt stings my cheeks but I’m smiling because I’m going to meet my mother on the fore deck. She’s promised to watch the sunset with me. Already the sky is changing from red to deep purple, splashing orange and pink around the pillow-like clouds.

But wait.

Mother’s already leaning on the railing, but her gaze is downward, into the sea, rather than up at the breathtaking colors of the water country sky. All that lies in the churning whitecaps is death.

And I know.

I know.

Because I’ve been here before—and it’s what some of the men on the ship call “salty memories”, when you see something for the first time, but it’s like you’ve seen it before, maybe many times, and it hits you so hard it’s like a punch to the face. And I want it to stop—please stop—because I know how this one ends—how it always ends—how it has to end.

Blood in the water.

The smile fades from my face and my lips and jaw feel sore, like they’ve smiled too much and need to rest.

I’ve tried running, leaping, grabbing my mother just as she topples over the handrail, willing myself to be stronger with each subsequent effort. And each time he’s there to watch, my father, unwilling to help, disgusted by my failure as my mother meets a wet and silent doom at the hands of the sharp-tooths and the Deep Blue.

I can still save her—can’t I? Why else would I have chance upon chance? Somehow I know it’s the only way to end this nightmare, to gain my father’s respect once and for all.

Save her.

Be faster.

Be stronger.

Be smarter.

I realize I’ve been going about it all wrong. And it’s another one of my father’s lessons that marks the change in my thinking: “Speed and strength only get you so far. Brains set you apart from the common sailor.”

I’m wasting time and any moment the big wave will hit the bow and my mother will be thrown off balance and she’ll fall down, down, down.

But I don’t move because my brain tells me not to. I stand, watching. Waiting.

And the wave never comes. Minutes pass and still she stares into the murky waters, which are quickly darkening to black.

I’ve done it.

I have.

I walk toward her on tiptoes, afraid that my very footfalls might cause the ship to lurch, to buck her from its back like a Stormer’s horse.

She turns and her eyes are red and wet.

Somehow she falls, her eyes glittering with moisture as they catch the last rays of the dying sunlight. I’m too far away and, anyway, my feet are frozen to the planks, and all I can think is I saved her, didn’t I? but the answer comes from the side, when a shadow steps into view. Although the shrouded cloak of night has fallen over the ship like a storm cloud, my father’s eyes are clear and blazing in the darkness. They speak to me, and they say one thing:

You failed me.





~~~





“What happened?” the disappointed voice says.

I’m awake, but I keep my eyes closed, careful not to twitch. Two memories twist and spiral through my mind: My mother’s wet, red eyes pinch at the back of my head, causing a deep ache that makes my neck feel like dried, salted meat; the brown-skinned girl’s brush spirals through the air, thudding into my skull again and again, until my forehead throbs and throbs like waves crashing over me. Two memories of very different kinds of pain.

My father is nearby and I can’t face him like this.

“Uh,” Barney says.

“You’re his steward, aren’t you?” My father again, his voice laced with venom.

“Well, yes, but—”

“So you should’ve been nearby, right?” Not a question—an accusation.

“Of course, but—”

“And yet you didn’t see anything, is my understanding correct?” My father’s question hangs above me like a knife. With each moment that the question goes unanswered, I can sense the blade drawing closer and closer, until its sharp edge cuts into my throat and I have to hold my breath. Barney will tell him everything, and the bilge rat with the pretty, brown eyes and the unpleasant disposition will be chucked overboard quicker than a big-chin catches a fish.

“No, Admiral, I didn’t see anything,” Barney admits. I release my held breath out my nose, careful to keep it even and normal. Why I should be so concerned with the welfare of my attacker, I do not know, and I wonder whether the knock to the head has permanently dulled my senses.

She’s safe for now, and so am I.

“Lieutenant Cain—what do you have to say for yourself? I understand you were with Lieutenant Jones when it happened.”

No.

“I was,” Cain says, his voice firm and sure.

No.

“How did Lieutenant Jones end up unconscious with that mark on his forehead?”

Throb, THrob, THROB! The pounding in my skull, which moments ago was dull, albeit it ongoing, begins cracking like a hammer, and a wave of nausea passes through me. I feel my lips start to quiver as I strain to choke down chunks of undigested food while maintaining the ruse of being asleep.

“I don’t know,” Cain says, and my eyes almost flutter open in surprise. Surely he saw.

Surely.

“I was walking ahead of him, and when I looked back he was flat on his back, his forehead already starting to swell.” Could it be? No one saw what happened?

“We must conduct a full investigation,” someone growls. Hobbs. “A vicious attack on an officer cannot go unpunished. The result would be mutiny.”

THROB, THROB!

There’s a scratching sound and I can picture my father stroking his beard. “And you will conduct this investigation?”

“I will,” Hobbs says.

THROB!

“It will take a well-orchestrated team,” Cain says. “I would be pleased to assist, if you agree, that is.”

“You’re suggesting my top two lieutenants remain on the Mayhem indefinitely?” To my surprise, my father’s tone—which has all the evenness of stating a fact—doesn’t match his words, which imply disbelief at such an impossible suggestion.

“Admiral,” Cain says, “you know as well as anyone that The Merman’s Daughter could sail with half as many men. With some effort and a bit of luck, we’ll have the investigation wrapped up in a few days, at which time I can return to my post.”

“I really don’t think—” Hobbs starts to say.

“Done,” the admiral says. “Catch the attacker and bring him to me.”

The door slams so loudly I swear it’s right next to my ear. My head pounds with the force of a ship carried onto the rocks by a water country storm.

The world drifts away once more.





Chapter Fourteen


Sadie





Sweat and burning muscles and sore bones are nothing compared to waiting.

I’d train for a million more hours if it would mean my mother’s return. Barely a week has passed since the Riders left, but already my mind is past the point of distraction. When I eat, when I speak, when I rest, my every thought is of my mother.

Is she alive? Is she fighting yet? Is she thinking of me?

Although I know these questions are unfit for the mind of a Rider-in-training, they rise up again and again until I can’t concentrate on anything else.

My father isn’t helping. He barely speaks, barely eats, barely sleeps. He’s meditating when I lay down to sleep. When I awake, still he sits, eyes closed, hands extended, soft hums and deep breathing rising from his throat. Did he sleep? Has he slept since she left?

When I try speaking to him, his eyes remain closed, and he waves me away with a hand.

I am alone when I’m with my father.

I don’t spend much time in our tent.

Outside isn’t much better. It’s as if the camp is in mourning, the hush so loud I want to scream. When anyone does speak, it’s in whispers and with barely parted lips, the unidentifiable words deafening in the abject silence.

I don’t spend much time in the camp.

When I throw myself into training, it helps, but only for a day, until even the aches and pains are insufficient to drown out the questions in my mind.

Although gray clouds swarm above, it hasn’t rained for two days, as if the sky is gathering up every last raindrop, hording them for some unknown purpose.

As I walk along the beach, the sand is soft and cold and foreboding under my bare feet. I burrow a small hole, well back from the water. Today I fear the chill of the Deep Blue on my skin—which usually feels invigorating and life-giving—could have the opposite effect, carrying the Plague in its wet entrails. As if touching the water would make me shrivel and die.

I stare across the fathomless ocean until my gaze meets the deep, red, cloudless horizon. A drop of water splashes on my cheek, and I look up, sure that the clouds are about to open their overflowing gates.

A face smiles over me, tipping a water jug just enough to spill a drop at a time. Another splash, this time on my forehead.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I demand, rising to my feet in one swift motion, facing off against Remy, whose smile falters for a moment before springing back into shape.

“Thought you could use some water,” he says, shrugging, one foot aimed toward me and the other back toward the plains. He holds the jug in my direction. An offering. An apology?

I shake my head. What does he have to apologize for? After all, he was right. There was never a chance of me going with the Riders.

I stare at the jug, considering whether taking it would be the same thing as me apologizing.

My tongue is as dry as the sand, my mouth sticky. In the end, it’s selfish need that makes up my mind. “Thanks,” I say, grabbing the jug and taking a swig, wondering how he knew I was down by the water. Did he follow me?

Without answering, he sits next to my hole, gazes across the waters, not unlike I was doing. “Did you find what you’re looking for?” he asks, his eyes forward.

Chewing on the now-moist inside of my lip, I ease down beside him, trying to determine what he means. I take another pull of water to buy time, but when I glance back at Remy, his hand is out and he’s looking at me.

When I hesitate to return the jug to him, he says, “I hope I didn’t give you the impression the entire jug was for you. My mouth is rather dry too.”

Heat warms my cheeks, and it might be anger, but it might not be, which only serves to make me angry. I take a third drink, and the jug is beginning to feel light, but before I empty it completely, I pull it away from my lips and thrust it at him.

He smiles and accepts it, hurriedly pushing the vessel to his lips as if the water is slipping out the bottom. For some senseless reason, watching him drink from the same jug, watching his lips touch the same place that my lips just touched, makes me blush again, as if the moment is more intimate than it seems.

It’s only a water jug, I remind myself.

“Mm. Water tastes so much better when you’re thirsty,” Remy says, licking his lips.

I look away, don’t answer.

“Are you worried about your mother?” he asks, shoving the now-empty jug into the sand.

I glance at him sharply, and say, “Riders don’t worry.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you always this defensive about everything?” And then, before I can respond, he says, “I know, I know, you weren’t being defensive,” and I almost laugh, because he stole the words right out of my mouth, disarming me before I could attack.

“It’s the only way I know,” I say.

“Not everyone is trying to hurt you, you know,” he says, pushing a pile of sand forward with his foot, which is clad in a heavy, black boot.

“How would you know?” I say, and an echo ricochets off the empty places in my mind. PAW, Paw, Paw. And again, despite my objections to the contrary, I know I’m being defensive.

“Because I’m not,” he says softly, digging a heel into the sand.

“Do you think they’re alive?” I blurt out, jerking my head sharply away from him as soon as the words are out, trying to hide my shame. And what I really mean is: Do you think she’s alive?

To my surprise, I don’t feel his piercing brown eyes on me, and when I look back, he’s looking in the other direction, as if he’s ashamed to be having this conversation too.

“I…” he says.

I want to look away from him, because I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, and because I can see the worry lines on the side of his face, and because he’s guilty of feeling weak and helpless and un-Rider-like. Just like me. But I don’t look away, because seeing him like this makes me feel better about myself.

When he looks back at me, I flinch, because the shame and guilt I was so sure was plastered on his face wasn’t real, and the whole time he’s been smiling, grinning like a wildcat. “Let’s go swimming,” he says, and there’s such excitement in his voice you’d think we weren’t at war with the Icers and the Soakers, and that we were all about to sit down together to a giant feast.

“Swimming?” I say, unable to hide my astonishment at his suggestion.

“Why not?”

“It’s cold.”

“Not that cold.”

“There are monsters in the water.”

“Not this shallow.”

“It’s wet,” I say, wishing I could think of a better excuse.

“The water’s wet? Now that’s a strange idea,” he says, mocking me with both his words and expression.

“It’s getting dark,” I say, but it’s really not, despite the best efforts of the pregnant clouds.

“We’re going swimming,” he says, and this time it’s a statement and I get the feeling that he’ll try to carry me in if I don’t agree. I’d like to see him try, I think.

“I won’t force you,” he says, as if reading my mind. “But I’ll never forget how you were scared of a little water.”

And with that, he’s gone, whooping as he sprints for the ocean, running right out of his boots, tossing his shirt aside, and nearly tripping as his pants fall around his ankles. It all happens so fast that I barely catch a flash of his dark, bare skin before he dives into a wave, disappearing beneath the surface.

A moment later his head pops up. He delivers a smile that would rival the bottom quarter of a crescent moon. He gestures for me to join him.

I stand, suddenly feeling tingly in a way that both angers and delights me. Surely I can’t follow a naked boy into the ocean. Can I?

But my mother’s not around and my father’s lost inside himself and I’m feeling reckless, not in search of self-destruction but for a way to keep my mind off of the mission to ice country, and, well, this is as good a way as any.

I walk toward the water.

Remy’s smile grows bigger as he splashes in my direction.

I step into the water, feeling an instant buzz through my body as the coolness fills me from the bottom up.

“Your clothes are going to get all wet,” Remy says, a gleam in his eye.

“Keep dreaming,” I say, taking another step.

“I’ll turn around,” he says, demonstrating by whirling away from me. “And I won’t peek.”

Surely I can’t. Surely.

My mother’s face burns through my mind and I clamp my eyes shut against it but still it remains, flames licking at her hair and her eyes and her lips, and I can’t make it go away.

I can’t.

Unless…

It’s crazy, but—

I pull off my shirt, holding it across my breasts, watching Remy for any sign that he might turn his head. The wind licks at my skin and instead of cold, it’s warm, and exhilaration swarms through my head and chest. My mother’s face is gone, I realize.

Remy stays facing away and I toss my shirt aside, well out of reach of the rising waters. My pants are next and I discard them quickly, pushing forward into the water and slipping below before even the circling gulls can see me.

The ocean washes away all my fears.

“Are you in?” Remy says when I surface.

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you for not looking.”

Remy turns, his short, black hair shiny and speckled with water droplets. “That’s two thank yous in one day,” he says. “I must be growing on you.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I say, splashing him, feeling foolish even as I do it. And yet, even as a fool I feel better now than I did sitting alone on the beach with my dark thoughts.

I can tell he’s about to splash me back, and I’m already turning my head and closing my eyes—

—and then I hear it. A shout. A cry. First one, then two, then a chorus.

I don’t know if Remy splashes me or not, because I’m already facing the shore, searching for…

The Riders.

Black and shadowy and riding like the wind across the plains, and there’s something wrong, because…

There are so few of them.





Chapter Fifteen


Huck





I’m tired of dreams, because most of the time they turn into nightmares—nightmares from my past.

For once I wake up and I’m not in a cold sweat, not holding my breath in terror, not clutching at my pillow like it’s a lifeline. Sadly, I’m smiling, because my dream was not of my mother falling from the ship, but of her holding me, watching the sunset like we planned, telling stories and laughing, laughing, laughing…

And the boat lurches—

And I know it’s time for her to go, for me to fail, for the blood in the water, for my father’s dark and unforgiving stare—

But my mother just stumbles against the rail and holds on and laughs.

So I wake up smiling, sad that this beautiful dream is the biggest lie of all, further from reality than blue sky or peace between the Stormers and Soakers.

A beautiful lie.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” a voice says, startling me. Barney. Watching me sleep, or awake, or both.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, squinting, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes with a fist. When I can see again, the yellow of Barney’s smile is like a lantern in the semi-darkness. If anything, his brown beard and hair are more unkempt than the last time I saw him.

“I’m your steward, sir. It’s my job to stay with you. And since Lieutenant Hobbs has dismissed me from his service, I guess my every waking moment will be spent catering to your every need. Sir.”

I sit up, rest my back against the wall. “Why would Hobbs dismiss you?” I ask.

There’s a twinkle in Barney’s eyes that’s somewhat disconcerting. “Since your father ordered Cain and Hobbs to conduct the investigation into your attack, Hobbs doesn’t want any distractions. And apparently I’m a distraction.” There’s no anger or frustration in Barney’s voice, despite him being released from Hobbs’ service. If anything, I sense humor, like it’s all a big joke.

With his words, everything comes screaming back. Getting knocked out by the girl, how neither Barney nor Cain saw what happened, how Cain and Hobbs volunteered to investigate. The brown-skinned girl—one eyewitness or piece of evidence away from being chucked overboard to the sharp-tooths.

Which is probably what she deserves, right?

Then why does the thought send shivers up my spine and acid roiling through my stomach?

“I’d like you to monitor the investigation,” I say softly. “Inform me if they find anything.”

Barney nods thoughtfully. “I thought you might show some interest in the apprehension of your attacker,” Barney says, winking. “The first day yielded no promising leads, sir. Perhaps tomorrow will be more fruitful.” There’s something in his tone that tells me he doesn’t think so.

Wait. A day? “How long have I been asleep?” I ask.

Barney chuckles and the hairs around his mouth dance and bob. “If you count the time when you were pretending to be asleep while your father questioned us…”—he laughs even harder when he sees the frown that creases my lips—“…you’ve been out for near on a few days. Sir.”

That long? I absently lift a hand to my forehead and feel a bulge. The wooden handle on the brush packed quite a wallop. And the bilge rat’s aim was near-on perfect. Why shouldn’t I turn her in?

“Did you want this, sir?” Barney says, reaching out to hand me an object, flat and hard on one side and rough and bristled on the other. A brush. No. The brush. The very one that hit me, obvious only from the specks of dried blood on the handle. My blood. Evidence.

Barney lied to my father. He lied to the admiral. Right to his face, knowing full well I was awake and listening.

“Why did you—” I start to say.

“It wasn’t my choice to make,” Barney says, still holding the brush in the palm of his hand.

I shake my head. The attack, Barney lying, the investigation: it’s all too much to think about. Just when I thought I was starting to instill order on the Mayhem, the ship reverted back to its namesake with one thrown scrub brush.

“Shall I hand over the brush to Hobbs?” Barney asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No!” I say, louder than necessary given our close proximity. “I mean, no, just, um, just toss it overboard.” I close my eyes, wait for Barney to laugh at me, to reprimand me for being a silly boy, to mock me with sarcastic sirs and Lieutenants.

“Aye, aye, Lieutenant,” he says, his words firm and respectful.

And when I open my eyes he’s gone, having opened and closed the door to my cabin so quietly I didn’t hear it.





~~~





From the shadows streaming through my porthole, it’s clear night’s upon us already, so I don’t leave my cabin.

The ship lurches and rolls and I know we’re moving—have probably been moving for a while now, the last ship in the fleet, falling behind the others already.

Barney brings me supper an hour later, and although the baked waterfowl looks, smells, and tastes delicious, I pick at it, unable to stomach such a hearty meal with my head still pounding between my ears.

“Is it done?” I ask between nibbles.

“Is what done, sir?” Barney says, but his smile doesn’t match his words. The blood-flecked brush is on the bottom of the ocean, or in the stomach of a sharp-tooth. And if Barney is the only witness…

“Will Hobbs and Cain find anything else?” I ask.

“I cannot predict the future, sir,” Barney drones.

“I want to go on deck,” I say, but each word cracks like a hammer to my skull.

“You should rest, Lieutenant.”

I push the plate away, clench my fists in frustration. I was gaining respect from the men, improving the ship’s performance, instilling work ethic…and then a bilge rat—and a girl no less—had to go and mess it all up. If I can just find her, talk to her, ask her why she did what she did. Try to understand. And if I don’t like her answer, maybe I’ll throw her over the rail myself. I laugh inwardly at my thoughts, knowing full well I wouldn’t have the stomach for that sort of thing.

“Bring Cain down if he’s available,” I say.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Barney says, opening the door. Over his shoulder, he asks, “Shall I invite Lieutenant Hobbs, too?”

“No. This will not be in regards to the investigation.”

“Very well, sir.”

I sit in bed for a few minutes, chewing on my lip and thinking, but eventually my eyelids grow heavy and I slump onto my pillow once more. I hear the door open and, behind my eyelids, see the room darken as someone blows out the lantern.

“Goodnight, Lieutenant,” Cain says. “I’ve spoken to Barney. Don’t you worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

And my last thought before sleep takes me: He knows.





~~~





I’ve been watching her for a week. And she’s been ignoring me, going about her business as if I don’t exist. But I know she knows I’m watching her, because yesterday she walked right past me carrying a bucket of soapy water, and “accidentally” sloshed it over the side and onto my boots. She didn’t look at me, but I detected the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. The nerve of this girl!

She has to know I hold her life in my hands, that with a simple accusation I can make her life worth less than the new scrub brush she’s been using to scour every inch of the ship.

And yet she continues on with her disrespect and subtle insults. Even now, as she uses her extraordinary and unique climbing ability to scrub the main mast so hard it’s like getting the salt off is an offering to the Deep Blue, I can see the rebellion in the lines of her hard jaw, in the way her eyes smolder each time they flash around the mast, piercing me with hot anger. I know she wants to throw another brush, perhaps to add a matching red bulge to the opposite side of my forehead, but thus far, she’s restrained herself, either fulfilling a deep need for self-preservation, or simply due to the multitude of witnesses on deck.

As I keep the bilge rat girl on the edge of my vision, I curl my nose when a putrid scent fills my nostrils.

“Why does it always smell like fish?” I ask, sniffing the air.

Beside me, Barney laughs. “It’s Stew, the cook. He thinks fish heads keep away the demons. He stashes them everywhere. No one can stop him or find them all, so we’ve all just learned to live with it.”

Typical Mayhem mentality. “Tell him that I order him to stop with the fish-head-hiding,” I say, shaking my head. “Or I’ll send him to the brig.” Since recovering from my head injury, I’ve used the brig as often as possible. Although the ship is still the worst-performing in the fleet, our speed has improved by double and you won’t find a single midshipman lounging on the deck under the warmth of the afternoon sun. Everyone works.

“If you send Stew to the brig, we’ll all go hungry,” Barney says.

I’m finally getting used to Barney’s awkward sense of humor, so I don’t bat an eye. “If I’m forced to send Stew to the brig, you’ll take his place as cook.” Although I say it with a light tongue, I’m not joking.

“I’ll inform him immediately,” Barney says, scurrying off.

As I watch him go, I feel the hairs prick up on the back of my neck. I glance at the bilge rat to see if it’s the strength of her glare that’s raising my hackles, but she’s no longer clinging to the mast, having slid to the deck in search of something else to clean. A presence looms behind me.

Hobbs. “What do you find so interesting about the bilge rat girl?” he asks.

Good morning to you too. I stand, look him in the eye, try to conceal the fear I still feel when he’s near with a steady gaze. “I’m concerned with everyone on my ship,” I say. “A watchful captain is a ready captain.” When my father taught me that expression he had just forced me to watch as a young boy was horse-whipped for stealing bread from the kitchen. I’m still not sure what watching a beating prepares anyone for, but the lesson stuck with me, so maybe that was the point.

“It’s not your ship,” he says.

“Is it Captain Montgomery’s?” I ask, motioning to the opposite end of the quarterdeck, where Jeb swings back and forth in his hammock.

Even Hobbs, with his rules-are-rules mentality, doesn’t have an answer for that one. He frowns. Score one for me.

“How’s the investigation going?” I say, changing the subject without ever really changing it.

“None of the women saw anything,” he says. “And Lieutenant Cain is questioning the last of the men as we speak. We may never find your attacker.”

I nod absently, watching as, right on cue, Cain crosses the mid deck. A handful of bilge rats do their best to get out of his way. In his wake, I see the girl, angry and brushless, her scrubber discarded on the deck, issuing what appear to be whispered rebukes. Is she berating them for having been in Cain’s way in the first place, or because they were so quick to move aside for him? In any case, even her own friends seem to be scared of her wrath. Strange.

We meet Cain at the top of the steps. “Anything?” Hobbs asks.

I try not to hold my breath, but I do anyway.

Cain’s gaze flickers to me before settling on Hobbs and his question. He shakes his head and I push out my breath slowly. “Nothing. No one saw a bloody thing.”

Hobbs curses, lifts a fist to his mouth where he bites on his knuckles. “The admiral will not be pleased,” he says through his hand. “I’ll tell him at first light when we drop anchor.” He stomps away so loudly that Captain Montgomery snorts out a throaty snore and rolls over, his eyes flashing open for a moment before fluttering closed once more.

“Huck, we need to talk,” Cain says when Hobbs is out of earshot.

“I know,” I say. Although on multiple occasions I’ve felt compelled to ask Cain to explain exactly what he meant when he said my secret’s safe with him, I haven’t broached the subject as of yet. Secrets are better kept if they’re left unspoken.

“My cabin. One hour,” he says.





Chapter Sixteen


Sadie





The world flashes by in blurs and blustery whispers. There’s dark skin and pulled-on clothing, and I should be embarrassed by mine and Remy’s exposed nakedness, but I’m not, and we’re not even looking at each other anyway, because…

There are so few Riders returning from the mission. My mother—his father: Are they among the survivors?

I’m breathless and frantic, and I can tell Remy’s in a similar state because he keeps stumbling as we run side by side back to camp, hearts pounding.

The Riders are already there when we scramble between the borders, past the circles of tents, and into the center. Dark horses stamp and snort, their hides crusted with dark-red dried blood. One of them falters, its legs giving way, crumbling beneath its weight. The young Rider atop the horse tumbles off, clutching her side, red staining her fingers. It’s not my mother, but familial bonds don’t matter now.

I rush to her, help her put pressure on the wound, which is deep and gaping, her robe shredded to the skin. “Help!” I scream. Her name is Aria, but the Riders call her Demon Blade due to the quickness with which she wields the duel daggers that are her weapons of choice.

But no amount of deft knife-work can save her now as I press my palm against her wound, my flesh the only thing keeping her insides from spilling out.

Remy’s at my side, mouth agape, yelling for help, too, but his voice, like mine, is lost in a chorus of men and women with similar pleas.

Aria’s eyes roll back as blood trickles from the corners of her lips. She stops breathing at what seems like the exact moment her horse does. I want to cry for them both, but I can’t because my mother might be out there, and because I’m a Rider and I have to be stronger than the common Stormer.

Remy clutches at Aria’s robe and I remember that she was like a sister to him growing up, that when her mother and father died of the Plague, Remy’s family took her in as one of their own, clothing and feeding and training her.

I grab his hand and pull him to his feet, slap him hard across the face. The time for mourning will come.

He stares at me with blank eyes, but lets me pull him away from Aria, away from his pain, which, based on his expression, tries to cling to him like mud on a rainy afternoon.

Through the chaos we move like skeletons, stiff and numb and searching. Dark-robed Riders stride here and there, some spattered with blood, some clean because they weren’t sent on the mission. All carrying the injured, trying to get them into the hands of the Healers, who are visible due to the white robes they wear.

We force ourselves to look at the faces of everyone who passes.

Eventually we see Gard, as upright and gregarious as ever, bellowing orders and pulling the wounded Riders from their horses, carrying two at a time to the area that’s been set aside for healing.

“Father!” Remy shouts, but his voice is a whisper. He releases my hand and runs to Gard. The bubble of joy that bulges in my stomach is popped instantly by the dozens of needles of jealousy and fear that prick my skin and dart through my insides like tiny hunters.

He’s found who he’s looking for and I’m alone again. I start to turn, anger and frustration and sadness burning in my chest, when I hear him say, “Have you seen Sadie’s mother?”

I whirl around, shocked.

Gard places two groaning Riders on the ground next to a line of five other groaning Riders. Two waiting white-clothed Healers immediately begin cutting their clothing off to inspect their wounds. He looks past his son, sees me, and I know—I know. His face is grim and he shakes his head, but then he says something that makes me gasp. “I brought her back myself—she’s in her tent,” he says, answering his son’s question but speaking directly to me.

And I’m gone and leaping over the body of a dead horse, my bloody hands churning at my sides. Our tent is wide open and I dive inside, nearly colliding with the Healer who’s tending to my mother.

Her head is up, held by my father, who’s squeezing drops of water from a wet cloth into her mouth, whispering words that sound eerily similar to ones spoken while he’s in his deepest meditation. The front of her robe is cut away and ragged on the ground next to her, revealing her wound.

Her wound.

It reminds me of Aria’s wound, a deep chasm spilling endless streams of blood and showing pink tube-like parts of her that were never meant to be seen.

I choke and the tears are hot flashes of lightning in my eyes that burn and blind me. “Save her,” I croak out, as if it will empower the Healer to perform miracles that only Mother Earth is capable of.

But my words don’t have power. And my tears are for nothing.

Because there, in our tent, my mother’s eyes find me, her lips part, and she says, “Listen to your father, for he is wise,” and then she dies.





~~~





The clouds will forever be darker, the rains harder, the lightning brighter, and the thunder louder. For my anger is in the sky, in the air that we breathe, in my every act and my every word. It washes the sadness away to a place where no one will ever find it.

“You knew!” I scream at my father. “You knew and you didn’t try to stop her!”

The heavy rain pounds our tent, but I can feel every drop on my skin, as if I’m one of the dead lying in the center of town, awaiting the passing of the storm before they can be burned atop the funeral pyre. Like my dead mother.

He says something, but I can’t understand him because he mumbles into his hands and the anger-infused thunder booms at just that moment, drowning him out.

“Why?” I scream. “Why did you let her go?”

I’m standing and Father’s cowering. His cheeks are wet with tears and mine are dry. I allowed myself the weakness of tears for half a day, my head buried in my pillow like a child, until I could take it no more. When I wiped away the wet and salt, the anger swallowed me in red and black and questions. I won’t cry ever again.

Not ever again.

“It wasn’t my choice,” my father says, and I think he’s repeating what he said a moment ago, when the thunder overwhelmed his grief-stricken voice.

I shudder as a burst of cold finds its way through our tent. “She knew?” I ask, my voice losing a small measure of its sharpness.

He nods, buries his face in both hands.

I look away, at the wall of the tent, which is dancing with shadows. Our shadows: anger and grief.

“Tell me everything,” I say to the tent.

My father’s shoulders are shaking, convulsing, his tears spilling between his fingers like rivers through cracks in the rocks. Like blood through flaps of torn skin.

“Tell me,” I say more firmly.

His shaking stops, but the tears keep dripping off his hands. I should go to him, comfort him.

I don’t.

A few minutes pass, and when he finally looks up his face is shiny black and puffy. “Sadie, I—”

“You owe me the truth,” I say through my teeth. “Tell me what you should have told me from the beginning.”

He tries to speak, but his voice falters. He stops, takes a deep breath, starts again, his voice clearer this time. “I had a vision, Sadie.”

“Of a battle,” I say, not trying to hide the frustration in my voice. “That much you told me.”

He shakes his head. “There was more. Another battle.”

What a novel idea! Of course, why didn’t I think of that? I close my eyes, count to ten, try to breathe. “What other battle,” I say, eyes still closed.

A pause. And then: “One you were fighting in.”

My eyes flash open, meeting my father’s, which are red and swollen, his tears drying around them in white circles. “Me?” I say, finally feeling like I’m talking to a human and not a Man-of-Wisdom parrot.

He nods. Then shakes his head. “I’m not saying this right. Before the battle that you were fighting in, was the battle with the Icers. Their king had gone mad, was taking children and selling them to the Soakers. This much we knew. It was—”

“Our duty to stop them,” I interject quickly. “Did the Riders kill him?”

“I haven’t been able to confirm with Gard yet, but if my vision was correct, then yes, the Icer King is dead.” The way he says it leaves me wondering whether it was a Rider that killed him. But that doesn’t matter. Not when my mother is dead.

“And in your vision you saw Mother die?” I surprise even myself with how steady the words come out, like I’m asking about the weather, or what’s for the evening meal. I wince when I realize I don’t feel sad anymore. Everything is hot.

Father closes his eyes, dips his chin, nods. “And you sent her anyway,” I say disgustedly.

His eyes open and his face contorts into an agonized crunch of skin and expression and fresh tears. But he doesn’t deny it.

He doesn’t.

But even in my anger I know the truth: He couldn’t have stopped her if he wanted to. Because my mother is like me—she doesn’t fear pain or death. Not is—was. Not doesn’t—didn’t.

I move on, still hating him for his weakness. “The other battle?” I say.

He sniffs, wipes away the tears with the back of his hand. “My second vision was more muddled,” he says. “I didn’t understand everything. There were many Soakers, hundreds—fighting the Riders.”

“And I was a Rider?” I ask. “Like a real one—with a horse?”

“Yes.”

“Then your vision must be of events further into the future. There are still months before my training is complete.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I cannot be sure.”

I stare at him for a moment and then motion for him to continue.

“There were others at the battle, too, some with brown skin.”

“Heaters?”

He nods. “I believe so. And two with pale white skin and beards. Young men from ice country.”

I rub my hands together, for once appreciating one of my father’s visions. A chance to not only fight the Soakers, but to avenge my mother’s death. Revenge must gleam in my eyes, because my father says, “Bloodlust can destroy a person.”

“So can weakness,” I say.

I’m surprised when his gaze holds mine, steady and tear-free. Normally a comment like that would send his eyes to his hands.

A memory tumbles through my mind. “When you told me of your vision before,” I say, “you said I would have a choice to make. What did you mean by that?”

He sighs heavily, as if a deep shot of hot air might be just the thing to change the future. “In my vision there was a boy…no, a young man.”

“One of the Icers?” I ask hopefully.

“No. A Soaker, clad in officer’s blue.”

My thoughts immediately pull up images of the officer boy atop the hill, his contemplative expression, my attempt to kill him—stopped by Remy. “What about this boy?” I ask.

“He was in the fight, but he seemed unsure of himself.”

“Weak and pathetic,” I say.

“No. Not like that. More like he was deciding whether to fight, and who to fight.”

“And I’m there?”

He nods. “And you have to decide.”

“Decide what? Whether to kill a Soaker officer? Like that’s even a decision.” Heat courses through my veins just thinking about seeing the Soaker boy. Why did Remy have to stop me? If I had killed him then, before my father’s vision had come to pass, would that have changed the future? Would it have changed his first vision, which ended in my mother’s death?

Remy’s face joins my father’s in my mind, surrounded by Icers and Soakers—the officer boy. My mother’s assassins.

“First Paw, and now Mother,” I say, choosing my words like you choose a knife—the sharper and longer the better. The pain that flashes across my father’s face proves the strength of my choices. A tear drips from one eye, then the other.

He extends his arms, beckoning. “Mourn with me,” he sputters.

There’s no kindness left in me, no forgiveness. My scoff is my response.

I push through the flap and into the storm.





Chapter Seventeen


Huck





The man in Cain’s cabin is Webb. The same Webb who I sent to the brig for insubordination. Yellow-toothed and crooked-smiled and chewing a thick wad of black tobacco that mixes with his spit and dribbles down his chin, getting stuck in his brown stubble.

“What’s he doing here?” I ask, glancing at Cain, who seems very tired all of a sudden.

Cain remains silent while Webb says, “I’m a witness, sir.” The last word is spoken with a mockery that contradicts the very essence of the word.

“A witness to what?” I ask, but then my eyes widen when it dawns on me. Inadvertently, my eyes close. He saw.

Webb spits on the floor and Cain kicks him hard in the back of the legs. Rubbing himself, Webb says, “I mighta saw a certain brown rat chuck a filthy ol’ brush at the admiral’s son. How embarrassing.” He spits again and this time Cain doesn’t kick him, although I can tell he wants to.

“What do you want?” I ask.

He smiles wickedly, the corner of his lip upturned into a sneer. “Just my due,” he says. “A bigger cabin—like this one.” He motions with a hand around Cain’s temporary living space. “Oh, and a small promotion. Lieutenant should do just fine.”

My jaw drops. Either request is impossible, would raise too many questions, would call into question my ability to lead, to make wise choices. But if I don’t…

“You’re bluffing,” I say.

“Try me.” And I know I can’t try him. After I sent him to the brig, he’ll spill the beans without giving it another thought, maybe directly to my father. And then he’ll kill the girl. The only thing keeping Webb from shouting the crime from the tops of the masts is the dream of promotion.

Cain says, “You’ve been kicked off of every ship you’ve been on, Webb. I’ve asked around about you. The rumors aren’t good. They said you’ve killed people—bilge rats.”

“Bilge rats ain’t people,” Webb says, spitting again. I bite back a retort, wait for Cain to continue the questioning.

“There’s talk of a little girl, too. Found raped and murdered.” I stop breathing, for just a second. I knew Webb was bad, but has he really done all this?

Webb wipes a bit of black drool from his lips. “No one can prove anything,” he says.

“So you’re saying you’re not scared of the other men—the ones who think you did it?” Cain asks, staring at Webb.

“They’re just rumors,” Webb says with a sneer.

“People talk about it like it’s the truth,” Cain says. “I think I have enough witnesses and testimony to end you.” My heart gallops two beats forward. Will this really work?

But Webb doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t back down, even leans forward a little. “You try and I’ll tell Admiral Jones all about what really happened to Lieutenant Huck here. I’ll have nothing to lose.”

I look at Cain and I don’t need to read his thoughts to know what he’s thinking. There’s only one choice, one destiny for the murdering rapist standing before me. But I can’t, can I?

“I think we can work something out,” I say, faking a smile. “Let’s discuss the details above, on the quarterdeck. You should get used to the view from up there anyway.”

Webb’s smile widens, the bottom half black with tobacco.

As we climb the steps, I rationalize the decision I’ve already made. If I do nothing, Webb will run right to Hobbs or my father, and the girl will die. She’s done nothing to deserve my help, but I can’t watch her die, not when I need to know why she is the way she is, why she hates me so much. There’s more to her story than a life in servitude.

We reach the quarterdeck, where night has descended on the Mayhem.

“Right this way, future Lieutenant,” I say, extending a hand toward the ship’s helm.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Webb says eagerly, finally showing me some respect. All it takes is giving him what he wants.

When we approach the helmsman—who’s illuminated by the soft glow of three lanterns—he turns, his eyes widening in surprise when he sees us. Still holding the steering wheel, he nods in our direction. “Lieutenants,” he says. He frowns when he notices Webb.

“Your shift at the helm is over early tonight,” Cain says.

“I just started.”

“Then take the night off.”

The helmsman shrugs, allows Cain to take the wheel, and walks away, probably already planning his evening activities now that he doesn’t have to work.

“I want you to feel the power of the ship,” I say to Webb. “This is the best place to feel it. A lieutenant must know the ship under his command.” I’m stealing my father’s words again, from a lesson when I was barely ten. More and more, his lessons seem to be all I know.

Webb stands next to me, his legs planted firmly, as he seems to take my request very seriously, more seriously than anything I’ve said previously. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“Do you feel it?” I ask.

Webb nods, his eyes full of life. “Yes, sir. I feel it. It feels like a storm.”

I nod back. “Good. Now take that power times ten, and that’s what you’ll feel at the very front. Come.”

I lead the way to the front rail, feeling his presence behind me like an unpleasant growth on my rear. Without turning, I say, “My father did this with me long ago.” I lean forward on the rail, stare out into the blackness of the Deep Blue, let my feet lift off the deck until I’m balancing on my arms, the ship churning through the waves beneath me. One unexpected lurch and I’ll lose my balance, fall forward. The wind pushes my long, untied hair behind me.

After a moment, I rock back, feeling the steadying kiss of my boots on the sturdy wood.

“Your turn,” I say, finally meeting Webb’s eyes again. They’re wide and full of wonder, like I’m imparting secrets known only to a fleet’s admiral.

Can I?

(Can I?)

Behind Webb, Cain’s got the wheel in a tight grip, his knuckles white. He’s looking past me, into the Deep Blue, maybe searching…for what? Answers? Questions? My soul?

Webb steps forward and I step back.

Is there another option? I could send him below again, to the brig, keep him there indefinitely. But no, that will only kindle his anger, make him shout the truth to anyone who might hear him. Eventually—maybe not right away, but in time—the rumors will turn to gossip will turn to truth. And then there’ll be questions and my father won’t sleep until there are answers, and then they’ll kill her.

And Webb’s an awful human being, a murderer, a rapist. It’s a wonder he’s survived this long.

One of my father’s lessons springs to mind: There’s no right, no wrong, only action. Is he right?

Webb leans on the rail, mimicking my movements, pausing for a moment to get his arms in position. And then—

Can I?

—he lifts off—

Will I?

—his worn and dirty boots hovering above the deck—

Must I?

—his life at my mercy, just like the life of the bilge rat girl was at his, just a few minutes earlier.

I do.

(I do.)

Without thinking, I grab his feet and raise them up, ignoring his startled exclamation—“What the—”—and throw him overboard, his shout drowned out by the splash of the ship on the waves and the wind in my ears.

There’s only one punishment for murder and treason: death.

Now I have the blood of two on my hands: Webb’s and my mother’s.

And despite the exhilaration and the fear and the sick feeling in my stomach, I know.

I know.

Today my life changed forever. Today I chose a bilge rat over a seaman.

And when I look out over the rest of the ship, I spot her right away. A pair of eyes clinging to the mast in the dark.

Watching me.





~~~





Cain gets me drunk that night. And himself too. He’s more experienced in the ways of death, but from the sourness on his face, I think he knows as well as I that grog isn’t the answer to anything.

But soon death and life and blood in the water pass out of mind, because I feel warm and there’s music playing from a few midshipmen with harmonicas and banjos and the night is clear and starry and what could ruin it?

(Surely not a single man overboard.)

(Especially not a man like Webb.)

On the Mayhem, the men are rougher, less polished, more uncouth. Their songs are about fighting and plunder and women and drinking. Norris, Budge, Ferris, and Whittle teach me the words and I sing along with them, a chorus of men’s and women’s voices.

Yo ho, we drink the grog harder,

Yo ho, with Stormers we barter,

Their blood for our lives,

Their men for their wives,

Yo ho, like lambs to the slaughter!

My people.

We dance and we sway and we drink away Webb’s death, Cain and I. The women move in ways that are foreign, but also exciting, to me.

Eventually, however…eventually, the world blurs and I feel myself falling, falling, and something soft cushions my fall.

I dream, my eyes fluttering open into a fog, thick as Stew’s fish soup, but I’m not alone. She’s watching me, a lovely brown face with earnest brown eyes, devoid of anger and hate and all the things I’ve come to know her by. The bilge rat, my enemy, looking down at me, watching. Her pink lips open. Thank you, she mouths.





~~~





My second ever grog-headache is worse than the first, worse than the pain caused by the girl’s well-hurled brush. Severe.

“Get up!” Hobbs shouts, kicking me in the ribs.

I groan and roll over, relishing the sharp tweak in my bones that distracts me from the hammer blows to my skull.

I look up to see Hobbs’ face against a clear, red sky, the sun already a quarter of the way to its midday peak.

“Where am I?” I say absently, intending the external question as an internal thought.

“In water country—on the Mayhem—on the planet Earth—in Hell—take your pick,” Hobbs says, kicking me again.

“What day is it?” I ask, still not learning my lesson. Questions mean getting kicked.

Hobbs kicks me and I groan. “Well, it’s supposed to be the day we lay anchor with the rest of the fleet, meet with your father, discuss our next moves in the war with the Stormers…any of that ring a bell?”

“What’s the problem?” I ask, earning a stomp to the chest. I gasp, clutch at myself, try to breathe.

“The problem is that the brave lieutenants, Jones and Cain, made a brilliant decision to lay anchor last night so the men could have a party. While you and the rest of the crew drunk yourself sick, the rest of the fleet moved further ahead. We’ll be lucky to catch them by the turn of the day.”

I groan again, but fearing Hobbs’ heavy boots, I manage to clamber to my feet, swaying for a moment before getting my legs under me.

I take in the scene before me. The bilge rats are out in number, tidying up after the previous night’s events. The rest of the crew are up and moving, too, albeit slowly and like zombies, going about getting the ship ready for sail.

Norris and Budge are pulling on their shirts. Ferris and Whittle are rubbing their eyes and yawning. But all that hardly seems important now.

A man died last night. Because of me. I killed a man.

It seems no matter what decision I make, there’s no right answer. Only pain. Only death. Am I wrong? Is it me who’s to blame?

I killed a man.

The realization comes back like a lightning strike on the plains of storm country, fierce and jagged, twisting my insides, cutting, cutting…but then I see the girl’s brown eyes, stunning and mysterious in the fog, her mouthed Thank you, and my actions don’t feel so…wrong.

Would my father agree? Not a chance.

I push past Hobbs, suddenly eager to do the only thing I really, truly know how to do: be a sailor. The orders fly out of my mouth without thought: “You four, Norris, Budge, Ferris, Whittle—raise the anchor!” “Hurley, Key, Toadstool—raise the sails!” “Breakfast can wait, you dogs. We have miles to make up!”

Although the words feel good and right and like the words of a lieutenant, it’s not until the men snap to attention and begin scurrying about the ship that I realize: I’m one of them and they know it, and they’ll work for me.





Chapter Eighteen


Sadie





Torrents of rain lash my skin, soaking my clothes through in an instant. But I don’t turn back—won’t turn back.

I have everything I need to avenge my mother’s death: the anger, spilling through me and around me and out of me like a molten stream, scorching my words and my actions; the strength, coursing through my lean and toned body, built for fighting, for killing—my mother ensured that; and the opportunity, foretold by a Man of Wisdom whose visions have come to pass time and time again, in the form of a battle that will include Soakers and Icers, my two most hated enemies.

There is only one thing I’m missing: the horse. To be a full-fledged Rider, the war leader must grant you a horse and declare your training complete during the Ceremony of Lightning and Thunder. All I want is the horse. Surely Gard will understand that?

The bodies are in neat rows, blanketed by thick coverings usually used to build tents. Despite the heaviness of the rainfall, the dead will remain dry tonight. Too bad the dead don’t care either way.

I give the corpses a wide berth, gritting my teeth as I count down two rows and across five bodies, the location of my mother, which I memorized earlier. Under the sheet, she’s just a bump, but in my mind I can still see her spouting blood from the mortal wound in her side, her head cradled in my father’s arms. And I can still hear her last words to me: Listen to your father, for he is wise.

Not that, Mother. Anything else, please.

Hunt down my killers and avenge my death.

Fulfill your legacy as a Rider, Sadie.

Become the strong woman I’ve taught you to be.

I can think of any of a number of things she might’ve said to me in her last breath, and I would’ve easily and gladly obeyed. But listen to my father? Already I’ve failed in that regard, storming out into the rain when he needed me the most, even asked for it with a soulful plea that extended into the lines of his arms.

And I walked away.

Is my father wise? If sending my mother to her death is wisdom, then he has the knowledge of kings. If running from the fight like a frightened child and letting the Soakers slaughter my brother is wisdom, then he is Mother Earth in the form of a man. No, my father is not wise, and though it tears me through to the very fabric of my being, I cannot obey my mother’s final desperate command.

Damn Father for putting me in this position!

Remy is outside his tent, sitting in a brown puddle, head in his hands. What does he have to mourn? Aria? She was like a sister to him, but not a sister, not really. He has lost no one who is tied to him by blood, while I have lost the very person whose blood runs through my veins. Get up! I want to scream. Be a man, be a Rider! Get your father! For tonight we take the first steps toward revenge.

But all I say is, “Is Gard inside?”

Remy looks up slowly, rainwater tears dripping from his eyelashes, his dark hair plastered to his forehead. The memory of him smiling, shedding his clothes, ducking beneath the cool ocean springs to mind. A lifetime ago, when we were both people we’ll never be again. “Sadie,” he says in a heavy tone.

“No,” I say, because I know what’s coming next.

“I’m so sor—”

“No!” I shriek. “You’re a Rider—start acting like it.” The shock on his face is something I’ve wanted to see for a while, but somehow it’s not satisfying, not anymore.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it, motions for me to enter the tent behind him.

When I step inside, I’m not sure what to expect. Something…bigger, more spectacular, full of maps and miniature horses and Riders and Soakers, all laid out like a game, with Gard pouring over it, seeking out the weaknesses in our enemy’s defenses. But instead, the inside of the war leader’s tent looks much like our tent. The edges are lined with bedding, neatly folded and ready for use. Animal skins hang from a line that stretches from end to end. Remy’s mother, a Healer, is notably absent, most likely working tirelessly to save the few Rider’s lives that continue to hang in the balance.

Gard is sitting cross-legged, eyes closed, his big hands in his lap, folded, like two animals sleeping. Although I’ve always known him to be a big man, seeing him in such a confined space magnifies the effect, as he takes up nearly half of the tent which is but a fraction of the size of what I would expect a warlord to command.

I stand before him for a moment, considering whether to disturb his meditation or sleep or whatever it is he’s doing.

I flinch when, eyes still closed, he speaks. “Your mother was a great warrior,” he says. “She died with honor. She slew many of the enemy before and after receiving her fatal wound.”

No apology, no whispered sentiments, no sadness in his voice. Only pride and truth. His words warm me and I’m surprised to feel tears welling up. Never again, I command myself. I blink the budding drops away before they can grow to full size.

“Thank you for telling me these things,” I say.

“You did not come here for these words,” he says, his voice deeper than thunder. His eyes flash open with the statement, two black orbs flecked with fireflies from the flickering lantern. “You want to ask me a question, yes?”

How does he know? Or is he just guessing? A quiver of fear runs up my spine and I stiffen, squeezing my muscles to burn away the coldness seeping into my bones. I won’t ask the question, won’t leave the matter open for his judgment. I can’t risk it. My words will be similar, but different. Stronger. My will.

“I will receive my horse tonight. I will be a Rider with your blessing or without.” A statement, there and gone, but the feeling from it still lingering in the silence, broken only by a thunderclap so loud it rumbles the very earth under my feet.

“Yes. You will,” he says, and I can’t help my lips from parting and sucking in a sharp breath of surprise. “You have your mother’s eyes. And her strength. You will be a great and formidable Rider.”

“Thank you,” I say numbly, holding back my pride. Gard stares at me, unblinking, and I can’t help but feel awkward and un-Rider-like under his intense gaze.

I move to leave the tent, but his words stop me. “Revenge is only satisfying if the right adversary is punished,” he says.

I turn, but his eyes are already closed, leaving me to wonder whether it’s a coincidence that his words sound so much like my father’s.





~~~





There will be two ceremonies on this night of nights. First is the presentation of the lost Rider souls to Mother Earth atop a funeral pyre. Because there are so many, they will be burned as one.

The soggy ground squishes under my boots as I shift from side to side, uncomfortable. Not so long ago I wore my grief on my arms, which covered my face, on my cheeks, which were wet with tears, in my curled up body, which was wracked with sobs of hurt and longing. My grief was a luxury I no longer have available.

My father’s sniffs and sobs are enough for the both of us, as he stands at my side, allowing the other Men of Wisdom to conduct the ceremony. He tries to put his arm around me but I shrug him off.

My mother was a great warrior.

The names are called and I wait, blinking with each one. Remy is at his father’s side, thankfully tear-free now. He glances at me a few times, but I pretend not to notice until Aria’s name is called.

A shot of warmth plumes in my chest when I see his reaction. He’s stoic. Although, like me, he blinks, but his face is free of emotion, his eyes dry, his arms hanging loosely at his sides.

A Rider must be stronger, more careful with their words and actions, a model of control of body and mind. Even from atop the burning pile of the dead, my mother speaks to me. I notice Remy’s head cock to the side, as if he hears her too.

When he looks at me, there’s understanding in his expression.

And yet I can’t forgive him. Not when he stayed my hand when it was raised to strike down the Soaker officer boy, the one from my father’s vision. The act that might have changed everything.

When Remy nods at me I look away.

My mother’s name is called and I shut my ears to my father’s wails, clench my fists, and watch her burn with the others, holding my breath to the charred odor of burning flesh.

When the names have all been called, I raise my head to the sky with the others, watch the souls rise to meet our Mother, to become the clouds that provide the water we drink, the food for everything that grows.

And when I raise a fist in the air, I don’t have to look to know that the other Riders are doing the same. My brothers and sisters.

My calling.

At least my father got one thing right.

The horses of the fallen—at least those which survived the battle—each receive a smack on the rump, and it’s like they know. They know. Their whinnies and nays keen the air, splitting it in half, and they run, free again, Riderless and lost.

Shadow is the fastest horse of them all.





~~~





The second ceremony will include every young Rider over thirteen years on this world. Although I’d like to think I influenced Gard’s decision, the reality is that he had already decided before I ever stepped foot in his tent with my demands.

We are beside the stables, as far from the human ashes as possible. The entire camp, save for the Healers and wounded, are here, waiting for Gard to speak. Hundreds of men and women and children. The night is unusually warm, as if the earlier bonfire has been infused into the air. Smoke curls above the camp, as if transporting the final lingering souls to the clouds.

I stand with nine others, my age or a year younger, in a line. Remy was already waiting when I arrived, and I chose a position on the opposite end. One of us is last and one first, depending on which direction Gard chooses to start from.

Gard begins by clearing his throat. “Stormers, we have faced a grave threat and have been victorious!” I stay silent while the camp cheers. “The Icer King is dead!” More cheers. “But the war is not yet won. Although we have cut off the head of the dragon that would deliver children to work as slaves on the Soakers’ ships, the true beast slides along the blue crests of the sea untouched. We have lost many Riders, our protectors, defenders of good and warriors against evil, but WE are not lost. Not while we still have breath in our lungs, blood in our veins, honor in our hearts.”

Gard pauses, scans the crowd. “We must replenish our numbers earlier than we’d planned, but that is no matter to us. Not when the next two generations of Riders are the brothers and sisters standing before you today.” He motions to us, and the crowd’s attention follows. Having this many eyes on me would normally be embarrassing, but tonight I feel as tall and strong as Gard, and nothing can touch me.

The people are a blur of faces, featureless, a mob of flesh and bone and responsibility. Mine to protect. Mine to honor. I cannot look any of them in the eyes knowing my mother’s death has gone unpunished.

And then one face rises above the others and it’s my father, weeping. Are his tears still for my mother? Or is it joy, because I’m finally taking my rightful place among the hero-filled fold, to a position he ordained for me fifteen long years ago?

He mouths something, and I think it’s Remember, but I can’t be sure, and I can’t possibly interpret his lips or the meaning of the word, not when Gard’s calling my name, and I’m realizing I’m first, and Remy’s last, for what it’s worth.

I pull my eyes away from my father’s wet face and phantom word.

Remember.

I walk across to Gard, kneel before him as the ceremony requires, having seen it done many times, each and every year since I was old enough to attend.

Remember what?

I feel his hands on my head, pressing down firmly, listen to him speak the sacred words—“The power is in you, let it speak. The strength creates you, let it build. The fire rages, let it burn. Fear nothing but failure. Seek nothing but victory. Find nothing but honor. You are a Rider, like you’ve always been. Claim your partner.”—feel the power and the strength and the fire roar through me with his words and his touch.

Remember my mother? Remember what the Icers did to her? Remember that it was the actions of the Soakers that caused it? Remember how my father ran the other way when Paw was murdered?

Remember, remember, remember…the word strikes me to the heart like a lance.

When the weight of Gard’s heavy hands lifts from the crown of my head, I look up and the war leader nods. I stand to cheers and thunder from stomping feet, stride toward the stables, invincible, where a horse is being led toward me.

With a sleek, black hide, long, black mane, and fierce brown eyes, she’s everything I always imagined she would be. Stamping her feet, pulling at the ropes, snorting heavy plumes of breath out of her flaring nostrils, she’s unbroken. It takes four strong men, Riders, to control her, and even then, she’s uncontrollable. Wild. Hungry. Mine.

As I approach, I notice a mar on the complete darkness of her coloring: A single patch of white sits high on her nose, almost between her ears, shaped like a butterfly. White wings.

Can she fly?

I’m still admiring her wild and untamed perfection, wondering where she was found, how hard it was for the Horse Whisperers to lure her close enough to capture her, whether she put up a fight, when one of the ropes are thrust into my hands.

Thankfully, I have enough sense to grab it firmly, to hold on, to remember the words my mother taught me, let them flow freely through my mind. I am yours, you are mine, we are one. A warrior and a steed become a Rider. Fight with me even as I fight with you. Separate, our strength is breakable, matched by many; combined, our power is above all, unstoppable.

The words roll over and over in my mind as I take the second rope, walking my hands up the thick strands, feeling them burn my palms as the horse bucks and strains against the bonds that are so foreign to a creature that has known only complete freedom while roaming wild on the plains.

Freedom is an illusion. I’m surprised to hear my father’s words in my head while I’m so focused on approaching my horse. I shake my head and resume my chant, this time out loud, first as a whisper and then louder and louder as I get closer and closer. The horse isn’t calmed by my words, but I know she hears them, because she’s completely focused on me now, and I’m oblivious to the ceremony that continues behind me.

Passion. The name occurs to me just like my mother said it would, right when one of the Riders are thrown down when the horse charges sharply to one side.

“Passion,” I say, and she stands perfectly still, matching the intensity of my gaze. “Sadie.” She snorts, as if my name is but a cricket under the stomp of her grand feet. And so it is.

I shouldn’t be this close, not at the first meeting. My mother told me, but it takes Passion to teach me.

She seems calm since I spoke her name. Her head even bows a little, and my mother said a wild horse will never do that. Already, our bond is special.

I reach forward to rub the white butterfly on her nose.

Her drooping eyes suddenly flash with anger and her head bucks as she leaps forward, butting me, throwing me backward, nearly stomping on my leg as I skid across the grass.

Passion.





Chapter Nineteen


Huck





Every day the performance of the ship improves. Norris has been undeniably helpful, urging the men to work harder and faster. Budge, Ferris, and Whittle have led by example, the first ones up and the last ones to bed, toiling as hard as I’ve seen any sailors work, even those on The Merman’s Daughter. Every man, woman, and bilge rat does their part, following orders almost before they’re given.

Well, almost everyone. There are still the odd few who want the old days back, when they could sleep away half the day and drink away the whole night. Those ones have made the brig their home, seeming to relish getting sent there again and again, despite the ever-increasing awfulness of the conditions down below.

I’m sure they’re the ones spreading the rumors about Webb. Barney keeps me abreast of the latest theories, how Webb is being held against his will to fulfill some fetish of mine, or how he’s gone crazy and is strapped to a chair, never sleeping, spouting predictions of death to all who sail on the Mayhem. Barney claims the men don’t believe these ridiculous stories, but I know based on the strange looks they give me, that some do.

The official story is that he drank too much grog and fell overboard, which is more plausible than the current rumors, if less interesting. It seems the official story was dismissed as fiction the moment it was issued. And so it is. The real truth is a heaviness on my soul that I scarcely bare.

(That I’m a killer.)

Because the sailors are doing their jobs, I’m finding myself with more and more time to observe, to walk the decks, to watch the girl.

Every day she climbs the mast to clean. And every day she pretends I don’t exist, even when I’m obviously spying on her. But then everything changes. She starts doing things to acknowledge me, when I least expect it, when I’m starting to think I’m invisible to her. Sometimes she spits in my direction, leaving a wad of bubbly white at my feet; or she fakes like she’s going to throw her brush at me again, causing me to flinch and her to laugh; or she makes a face at me, like just looking at me makes her want to throw up, but then her smile gives her away. She’s enjoying our distant moments as much as I am.

And I am, although I shouldn’t be. What am I doing exactly?

I’ve seen my father a few times, when the fleet stops. We’re in the middle of the pack now, not the best performing ship, but not the worst either, and although my father is annoyed and frustrated that Cain and Hobbs were unable to discover the identity of my attacker, he’s begun complimenting me on what I’ve been able to accomplish on the Mayhem. Always these accolades are issued in private, while publicly it’s Captain Montgomery who receives his praise, at least when he’s vertical enough to do so, but that doesn’t bother me as much as I’d expect.

In fact, my father’s praise seems to fall flat at times. It’s what I’ve always wanted, right? To feel his pride in my chest, hear it in my ears, washing away the day I failed him and me and my mother.

(It’s because of the girl.)

(Because of what he’d do to her if he knew what she did to me.)

As I wonder how I’ve reached this point, marveling at the strange series of events that have made it possible, the bilge rat girl scrubs ferociously at a mast that has to be wearing away under her daily assault.

I pretend to scan the horizon, to watch the ocean, to do lieutenant-like things, when really my attention is on her. Waiting, waiting, waiting, for her daily sign of acknowledgement. Something that’s become a ritual for the both of us, something to wake up for.

That’s when the ritual changes.

She looks right at me and I can’t pretend to look at the ocean anymore, not when she’s looking at me. And I wait for the sign—for the spitting or the faked brush throw or the vomit-face—but instead, she smiles and my heart stops.

(It really does.)

And then she slides down the mast, smiling the whole way. My heart starts beating again, faster, faster, faster, because she walks toward me. She’s heading toward another mast, surely, to climb and clean it, but I know it’s not true, and then she passes by the wood column and moves toward the steps to the quarterdeck.

She pauses for a moment at the bottom, but then takes the first step. Every man, woman, and bilge rat stops what they’re doing to watch her, because everyone knows you must be a lieutenant or above, or invited by one, to climb those steps. But she’s doing it, and I don’t know why and I don’t know what to do, because I don’t want her to be punished, but she’s forcing my hand and

(Because I’ve killed to save her life.)

The girl reaches the top. My heart races as she walks toward me. I stand, nearly stumbling on the crate I’ve been sitting on.

When she nears me, she stops. “My name is Jade,” she says, in a voice that’s much less rough than I expected. “I just wanted you to know that so you can stop thinking of me as the bilge rat girl.” I can feel the stares of the men on us, but at least this bold girl—Jade, what a beautiful name—is speaking low enough that no one else can hear her words.

And I have to do something or they’ll kill her and tell my father and it will all be over. The daily ritual, the shared secrets, my father’s pride: gone in an instant.

Jade nods, as if encouraging me.

“Huck,” I say, wondering why I don’t say Lieutenant Jones.

“What kind of name is Huck?” she asks, turning her head slightly, exposing her cheek.

I slap her, not soft and not hard, a quick snap of my wrist, not because she mocked my name but because she’s left me no choice.

I do it for her and it hurts me too.

She takes a step back, unsurprised, not so much as raising a hand to her reddened cheek. Her eyes dance with the smile she can’t show on her lips. “That’ll be a day in the brig for your nerve!” I shout, plenty loud enough for every man and woman watching to hear. “And the next time you dare to climb those steps you’ll swim with the sharp-tooths!”

But my words don’t match the smile I can feel in my eyes. Bowing slightly, she walks away, descends the steps, and allows herself to be marched to the brig by the two men who’ve stepped forward to carry out my punishment.

It’s all I can do to hide the mixture of astonishment and jubilation that stretches and pulls beneath the skin of my face.





~~~





Jade’s out of the brig and back on the masts. She won’t look at me. Is she angry with me for slapping her, for sending her to isolation? How could she be when she left me no choice?

There it is, a quick glance in my direction, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Not angry.

So I can keep on doing what I’m doing, right?

But what exactly is that? Stealing moments with the bilge rat girl—Jade…so you can stop thinking of me as the bilge rat girl—carrying on like we’re building some type of a friendship? I laugh out loud.

“What is it, sir?” Barney says, approaching from the side.

Trying to pretend like I was generally scanning the ship, rather than focusing entirely on Jade, who continues scrubbing, I say, “I was just having a chuckle at the pathetic disrepair of the sails. It’s a wonder we sail at all.”

“Mmm,” Barney muses. “I’ve wondered why your attention has been on the skies as of late.”

I give him a dagger-filled glance, but I can’t hold it when I see the curved-sausage smile on his fat lips. “You know, I have some experience repairing sails,” I say, “from one of my apprenticeships on The Merman’s Daughter. My father insisted that to be a captain one day I needed to learn every aspect of a ship’s management.”

“It would be unusual for a lieutenant to be seen repairing sails,” Barney says.

“Is there another?”

“Unfortunately, the sad state of the sails is a direct result of an unfortunate accident involving the previous sail climber. While performing his work he fell to his death. His breath stank of grog.”

“I must train a replacement immediately. Would that be acceptable to the men?”

Barney winks. “Given the need, I suspect that will pass the men’s scrutiny. Did you have someone in mind?”

I chew on my lip, wondering whether the words between my teeth are really as foolish as my brain is telling me they are. “The job is dangerous and I will not risk the life of one of the sailors. A bilge rat will do, someone good at climbing, like that nasty girl who’s always cleaning the masts and glaring at everyone. Bring her to my cabin when the sun is at its peak.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Barney says, the annoyingly contagious smile returning to his lips once more.





~~~





“Get the scorch offa me!” The shout is just outside my door and I can’t help but cringe when I hear it. It’s her. Jade.

And from the sounds of it, she’s putting up one helluva a bloody fight.

I’mafoolI’mafoolI’mafool. What was I thinking?

There’s a heavy thud on the door, and I suspect it’s from Jade’s foot, rather than one of my men’s hands. “Come in!” I shout.

The door is thrown open and a pair of sailors—Sid and Monty—carry her in, trying to subdue her thrashing arms and legs. Sid’s lip is cut and dribbling blood and Monty’s eye is already showing purple from what I expect was a well-placed kick, for it was he who apparently drew the short straw and was forced to carry her legs.

“You!” Jade screams when she sees me, and I want to step back at the ferocity of her verbal assault, but I can’t. Instead I step forward.

“Leave her to me,” I say to the men.

“Sir, I don’t think—” Sid starts to say, his knuckles white from pinning Jade’s arms to her side.

“Leave her,” I repeat.

When Sid hesitates for a moment, Jade twists her head back and tries to bite him. He yelps, dropping her. Because Monty is still clutching her legs, she tumbles face first on the wooden floor. Monty drops her legs and they both scuttle out of the room like crabs returning to their holes.

The door slams and I’m alone with her.

I reach down to help Jade to her feet, but she slaps my hand away, pushes up, kneels, and stands; shoves me back with a strength that’s disconnected from her slim build. Her eyes flash with the anger of a sea snake who’s been disturbed from its slumber.

The backs of my legs hit my bed and I sit down.

“What do you want with me?” Jade says, accusation in her voice. What does she think I’m going to do to her? Her eyes are flitting from me to the bed and back again. Oh no. She thinks I want to…that I’m going to try to…

“No,” I say. “It’s not what you think. I only wanted to—”

“To what? To make me another of your possessions? It’s bad enough that I’m chained to this ship. To be chained to you would be ten times worse.”

“No,” I say again, thinking of how to get this conversation back on track, if it ever was at all, but finding myself utterly at a loss for words.

“No what?” she says, glaring, her hands on her hips. “You have two big men drag me down here and you’re surprised I’m jumping to conclusions?”

“I only wanted to talk to you. Like when you climbed the quarterdeck stairs.”

“And you slapped me and threw me in the brig.”

“You left me no choice,” I say, annoyed at the pleading tone in my voice.

“You’re just like the others,” she says. Like who? Like my father? Like Hobbs? Am I? Should I be?

“Then why did you tell me your name?”

The question closes her lips, stops whatever retort or accusation that was flying up from her throat. She takes a deep breath, swallowing it like a bite of gruel, closes her eyes as if remembering something.

Eyes still closed, she says, “Why did you save my life?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly.

Her eyes flash open. “You should’ve let me die. There’s no life for me here.”

The despair in her voice surprises me. A girl so young, so seemingly full of life, shouldn’t sound like that. It reminds me of someone. My mother, I realize with a jerk. Before the accident she had started sounding like that, more and more with each passing day.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” I manage to get out.

She sucks in another deep breath. “Why am I here?” she asks, but this time there’s no accusation in her voice and she sounds almost defeated.

“I wanted to—”

“I know, I know, you wanted to burnin’ talk to me, but why else? What’s the cover story?”

“I’m going to teach you to repair sails,” I say.

She raises an eyebrow, as if surprised. “And what if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll leave you alone forever,” I say.

She lifts a hand to her brown forehead, massages her skin. Seconds tick by. “When do we start?” she asks.

I can’t hide my smile this time. “Immediately,” I say.





Chapter Twenty


Sadie





Nothing my mother put me through in training is as hard as taming a horse.

Especially when the horse is Passion, living up to her namesake with every stomp, every gallop, every barely thwarted effort to escape. The stables are nothing more than a challenge to her. Thrice now she’s smashed through her gate, come charging out of the stables, knocking stable boys and Riders out of her way, snorting and whinnying when she felt the light breeze on her nose.

And thrice we’ve brought her back.

Growing up training with my mother, I dreamed many times of the day I’d receive my horse, how I’d jump upon her and gallop off across the plains, wind streaming through my hair and her mane, connected by a bond as thick and strong as bone.

I haven’t even thought about riding Passion yet, and it’s been several weeks.

Sometimes she seems calm, almost tame, like when she drinks from the water trough, but then I blink and she’s kicking the trough over, spilling a lake of water through her stall, smashing into the wooden sides as if her freedom takes precedence over the wholeness of her body.

Freedom is an illusion.

Despite the silence that’s grown like a pregnant raincloud between my father and me, his words fill my mind more and more.

Listen to your father, for he is wise.

Is my mother right? Were her last words of advice more than just words?

To make matters worse, Remy is already riding his horse—a fully black stallion he’s named Bolt—the first of the new Riders to do so. Around and around they run, Remy whooping and hollering like they’ve been riding together their whole lives.

I look away from him and focus on Passion, who’s straining against the six ropes anchored deep in the ground that I’m using to keep control of her. If I had some help, I know I could tame her, but unfortunately, a Rider taming their horse is a solitary endeavor, part of the bonding process.

I approach her, hand extended in peace. “Shhh,” I say when she snorts, a sound full of heavy air and a warning. “I only want to talk to you.”

A change to my method is needed. I’ve tried brawn, pulling her with the ropes, futilely fighting her weight and strength. I’ve tried coercion, offering small morsels like apples and carrots to convince her to perform small tasks, like walking a short distance, or bowing her head, or strutting in a circle, but she seems immune to bribery. Most of the time she ends up knocking me over and taking the treats anyway.

I stop a few feet from her, speak to her. Not a command, sharp and demanding obedience, but soft and with meaning.

“You are perfection,” I say, receiving a low grumble that vibrates her lips in response.

Obviously, she seems to say.

“I am not.”

Again, her reply sounds like one of complete agreement.

“I need you.”

A soft whinny, her eyes blazing. I only need myself, is what I interpret.

“What if we were meant to be together?”

No response. Does she understand me? Has she really understood anything I’ve just said, or are the responses I’ve inferred just a child’s imagination?

Unfazed, I say, “What if our strength lies in our bond?” No response. “What if apart neither of us are really free, but slaves to not knowing what could have been?”

Her eyes, although as wild as ever, are fully focused on me. She has stopped straining against the ropes.

The wind, which was so strong a moment ago, has fallen silent, leaving us in a void of silence. Rider and steed. Sadie and Passion. In my mind, our names melt together until they are not worthy of the combined being we have become. No name is worthy.

“We can be invincible,” I say.

And I see it in her eyes: a change, an understanding, an agreement.

And she explodes forward, forcing me to jump out of her path as she pulls up each and every stake, shooting them into the air, galloping forward in a jumble of power and ropes and pride.

And I’m laughing and shouting and panting, watching her go. Watching her run across the plains away from me. Because I know.

She’ll turn around this time.

And she does.

She stops and turns, looking back at me with frustration. Although she thinks she wants to, she can’t go. Because now she needs me too.





~~~





Coming to a tenuous partnership with Passion doesn’t help things at home. Father is still Father, full of unwanted advice and long periods of silence while he meditates, seeing visions that will cost other sons and daughters their mothers and fathers. Calamity and fire and death and pain and fear and madness.

I’m becoming more cynical of the function of the Men of Wisdom with each passing day. Of what use are predictions of the future if you can’t change them?

Sometimes just looking at him makes my chest burn with anger at the dual losses I’ve suffered. My brother and mother. My playmate and master.

But we suffer each other out of necessity.

When I see love and caring for me in his eyes, I return it with a glare, not feeling bad about it until later, when Passion chastises me by throwing me from her back. She only seems to do that when I’ve been cruel to my father, as if she can sense the anger inside me.

“I’m sorry, Pash, but you don’t know the history,” I say, brushing grass and dirt off my black riding robe. I crack my jaw a few times, feeling it click back into place. Passion allows me to ride her now, but only on her terms, and if she wants to discard me she does so with vigor and without regret.

He’s your father, her snort seems to say.

“And he’s a coward.”

After that comment she won’t let me ride her for the rest of the afternoon.





~~~





That night our tent feels more like a prison, such is the tension between us, thick and barred, twisted with barbs and spikes.

When I make a move to leave, to go for a walk, my father stops me. “Sadie,” he says, his voice cracking.

I whirl on him, unable to hold back the clench I feel between my ribs. “Unless you’re going to admit your faults, the hand you played in Paw’s and mother’s deaths, I suggest you let me go.”

His eyes are instantly clouded with tears, full of shame and self-loathing. The truth is in the heavy mist, raining from his eyelids and quickly forming into filthy puddles made dark by his deep brown eyes.

The light flickers like an omen.

I turn and he says, “Wait.”

“Admit the truth,” I say, not looking back.

“Sadie, I can’t,” he says and I know the tears are falling, dripping from his chin, splashing his weakness in his lap.

“You can’t or you won’t?” I say to the tent opening.

“Both.”

He can’t because he’s pathetically weak. And he won’t because he’s ashamed of himself.

“Right,” I say. “Of course.” My sarcasm only adds to the tension.

“I have something I have to tell you,” he says, and a sharp breath whistles between my teeth. Is this it? Will he finally admit his wrongdoing, be a man?

“Does it have to do with Paw or Mother?” I ask.

Yes.

“No,” he says.

“Save it for someone who cares,” I say, pushing into the night.

“Wait,” he says again, but I don’t.

I’ve got no one to talk to. Remy’s tried to speak to me a few times, but I’ve ignored him, and finally he stopped trying. Passion will only give me a hard time about the way I’m treating my father and I’m really not in the mood for a lecture.

With nowhere else to go, I run for the beach, nodding to the watchmen on duty as I pass the last few tents in the camp circle. Although the air is dry, lightning crackles in the distance, warning of an impending storm. Bumps rise up on my arms and I hug myself, rubbing them away.

The ocean is surprisingly calm, and I sit for a while, watching it breathe. They say Mother Earth’s hand extends to the very edges of the sea, at which point the Deep Blue governs itself, but I don’t know if I believe that. There are too many signs of the good Mother’s hand in everything. She paints the clouds overhead, lifts the seabirds on gusts and bursts of wind, heats the ocean with her fiery sun.

If anything, the Deep Blue is a footman to Mother Earth.

The moon is bright tonight, rolling out a carpet of light across the ocean, shimmering anywhere the water pops up. A small wave rolls onto the sand, reaching toward me, sending crabs scurrying out of the way.

The hairs rise on the back of my neck and I leap to my feet, spinning around, ready to defend myself against the attack I feel coming.

Remy stands statue-still, eyes as wide as a full moon. “You’re not going to hit me, are you?” he says.

I’m surprised to feel contradicting desires in my heart. On one hand hitting him sounds like a pretty decent idea, but a more mysterious, less-controllable part of me wants to be close to him again, to have things be like they were before, when we were growing closer, back when my world wasn’t dead and burned, back before we were Riders. When we could swim naked in the ocean.

Has he come to make peace?

I shrug. “I’ll hit you if you want me to,” I say.

He laughs, and I realize how much I’ve missed it. My nerves, which have been so frayed and torn lately, seem to twist themselves back together.

Pain wells inside of me, gathering itself in bunches, aching like deep bruises.

“Would hitting me make you feel any better?” Remy asks.

Probably. “There’s a good chance,” I say.

“Then do it,” he says.

But I can’t, not when I haven’t even told him why I’m so angry with him.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“My father sent me.”

What? “Why?”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me. I went to your tent first and your father said you’d left. He seemed pretty shattered. Did something happen?”

If only. “Nothing happened,” I say. “Ever since my mother…” Why am I telling him any of this? “Should I go to see your father?”

“Yes,” he says, and there’s a hitch in his voice that tells me he wishes it wasn’t one of his father’s errands that brought us to speak again.

I have to tell him. I have to. Even if it fails to quench the flames of my anger, at least he’ll know why.

But I don’t. I walk away, leaving him standing on the beach staring forlornly at the moonlit ocean.





Chapter Twenty-One


Huck





The men, women, and bilge rats, although pretending to carry out their duties, are watching us. Jade climbs the mast easily, while I am forced to tether myself to the wood and inch my way up, up, up, for fear of falling to my death.

For the first hour we don’t really talk, don’t so much as look at each other, as we construct a series of rope walkways that reach the portions of the largest sail that are most in need of repair.

Eventually, the eyes get bored of watching, and we’re alone again.

Finally, I look at her, tired and hot from climbing and straining against the pull of the ocean. Her brown eyes are bright, her breathing normal. She doesn’t even look winded, and while I can feel the drops of sweat meandering down my cheeks, her face is dry.

Weird how I never noticed how beautiful brown skin could look on a bilge rat. Perhaps it’s because I never really noticed the bilge rats at all, I realize.

And why not?

I want to say it’s because my father told me they were meant to be invisible, working without being seen, but I know in my heart it was simply easier not to see them.

“What next?” she says, and I realize I’ve been staring at her for too long.

I pull away from her with an awkward jerk. “Uh, I guess we start sewing,” I say.

“You look like you need a bloody break,” she says.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you look searin’ exhausted,” she says.

I laugh at her honesty, but not so loud that we attract attention. This’ll be over in a second if Hobbs—who’s always lurking—thinks there’s something going on. Which there isn’t.

I pretend to lecture her, to instruct her on the finer aspects of sail repair, motioning to a particularly large tear. But really, I say, “What does searin’ mean? I’ve never heard anyone say that word like you just did.”

Now it’s her turn to laugh. “Then you ain’t never talked to any of the bloody bilge rats.” And I haven’t. Of course I haven’t. Well, except for her, of course.

I shake my head, admitting as much.

“It’s a mild curse word, not unlike bloody,” she says. “From my people, from my lands.”

I frown. “What people?” What lands?

While my eyebrows sink further down, hers lift. “Where they take us from,” she says. “Fire country.”

Although the ropes are secure, I grip the mast harder. My fingers start to ache. “Fire country? What’s that?”

Her eyes are giant orbs now, shockingly big, transfixed on me and what apparently is a ridiculous question. “Where do you think we come from?” she asks.

“From nowhere,” I say, parroting my father’s insistent answer, realizing as the words float off my tongue how silly they sound. “Or from the ground or the sky, or something,” I add, my cheeks burning.

“Everyone comes from somewhere,” Jade says. “We’re from a burnt desert called fire country. The Icers take us and sell us to your father.” A skeptical look flashes across her face. “You’re saying you don’t know any of this? That your father brought us here against our will from fire country.”

I feel dumb, but I can’t lie. “I didn’t know,” I say, not admitting I don’t know who “the Icers” are either. “But I don’t think my father would do that, not without good reason.”

She glares at me and I wish I had somewhere to hide. “I’m here, ain’t I? You saying I’m lying?”

I release the mast, letting myself dangle from the rope harness, hold my hands in front of me, palms forward. “No, no, not at all. I’m just wondering whether there’s more to it. Like did you commit a crime? Were you a prisoner?”

Jade’s glare softens, but remains. “You’re wooloo,” she says, which means as much as gobbledygook to me. “I was a child when my father said I was going on an incredible journey. One that was just for children.”

“Your father?”

She nods.

“Your father sent you here?”

Another nod. She looks at her hands. Is that…embarrassment? Shame? I’ve never seen either emotion on this girl before, and it doesn’t look natural. Why would a father send his daughter into a life of slavery? It’s the question I want to ask, but I won’t, not when Jade’s shoulders are slumped like they are now.

“Let me show you how to fix one of these tears,” I say, and her face brightens, like my change of subject was a gift.

For the next two hours we work, balancing on the rope bridges we constructed, using pre-cut squares of cloth to patch up the raggedy sails. And because we do it while the ship’s in motion, we don’t even lose any time.

When the sun begins to splash into the ocean, finishing its daylong arc across the red sky, we pause.

“There’s a lot more work to be done,” I say. “But it can wait for another day.”

“You know, you’re not much like your father,” Jade says.

A balloon swells in my stomach, pushing on my insides, making me feel slightly sick. “I’m not?” I say, wishing I was. Strong, fearless, a leader.

“Huck, it’s a good thing,” she says, and the balloon pops, though I’m not sure why; perhaps because I like the way she says my name—my real name—not Lieutenant Jones.

“Oh,” I say, wondering how being unlike the Admiral of the fleet could be a good thing.

There’s silence for a few minutes as we both rest high atop the decks. The wind blows strong and steady, brushing my hair away from my eyes. Jade begins braiding her dark hair into two tight plaits down her back.

Although it should be nice, hanging next to Jade, the silence wears through my skin like an abrasive material, wood-sanding paper or the like.

I breathe a sigh of relief when Jade finally speaks. “I don’t know why my father gave me away,” she says.

I look at her, but her gaze is out to sea, stretching across the fathoms of the Deep Blue. “Perhaps it was a trade,” I say.

“For what?” she says, her voice tight. “What could be worth his daughter’s life?”

“I don’t know,” I say, realizing I’m not helping her. “What about your mother?”

She looks at me, her hard stare softening like melting butter. “Mother was beautiful,” she says softly. When she’s like this it’s hard to believe this is the same girl who threw a scrub brush at my head. “And kind, and loving. No, she didn’t know what my father was doing. I don’t know what he told her.”

My hands are sweaty, not from the work, but because I have the sudden urge to reach out and touch her hand.

Instead I rub my head. “You’ve got a good bloody arm,” I say. “No, a good searin’ arm,” I correct.

She laughs and my heart swells. “I could teach you some other words if you want?” she says.

I nod, smiling. “But not here,” I say. “The men will hear if we talk too loudly.” I motion below.

“Where then?”

I point upwards, even higher. She follows my gesture. “The crow’s nest?” she says, eyes widening. “But I…” Whatever she was going to say fades away like the daylight.

“What?” I say.

“We can’t do this,” she says suddenly. “We’re not the same—we come from different worlds.”

She starts to slide down the mast. “Wait,” I say, but she doesn’t stop, doesn’t look up. Slides all the way to the deck and melts into the brown wood below.





~~~





Jade won’t talk to me after that, and I can’t actively pursue a conversation for fear that Hobbs will suspect my true motives.

And what are my true motives?

Bloody hell if I know.

It’s crazy, I know. A bilge rat and a lieutenant? They’ve chucked men overboard for less. And if it came down to it, my father would throw her to the sharp-tooths first, and leave me alive to shoulder the pain.

Although at first I watch her every free moment I get, eventually duty and bad luck draw my attention elsewhere.

The Scurve hits the ship hard. First it’s a woman, one of the laundresses, moaning and crying in the night, waking up half the ship. She dies a week later, alone because of the mandatory quarantine.

Next is an oarsman, whose newfound sense of honor leads him to request to keep working while he’s ill. When I find him, he’s soaked with sweat and burning with fever, clinging to his oar. The other men have all gone above deck, afraid of catching it. When I order him to the quarantine cabin, he cries, and a bit of me rips apart.

Everyone has to work harder to fill the gaps, and my energy is temporarily focused on keeping the ship running smoothly.

Another sailor dies less than a week later. And still we sail on, ever onwards, waiting for the fleet to stop.

I spend a lot of time with Barney, who seems unwilling to leave my side. We sit side by side, watching the sailors, considering how best to operate with the shortages in manpower. “What if I operate an oar while Hobbs mans one of the sails?” I suggest.

“You might as well ask your father to rig up the sails,” Barney says.

I bite my lip because he’s right. Hobbs would never stoop to such a position, even if doing so could save his life. And we haven’t reached that point yet anyway. “How about you?” I say.

Barney’s eyes widen. “Me? Sir, I can assure you, I’m not your man.”

“Can you walk?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Do you have hands?”

“Of course, but, sir—”

“Then you’re my man,” I say, smiling broadly and knowing full well that Barney would faint under a day of hard sailor’s work.

“I’m not exactly…fit for the job,” he says, rubbing his more-than-adequate belly.

I laugh heartily, stopping only when I realize: it’s the first time I’ve laughed in several days.

The ship lists from side to side while I continue to ponder our dilemma. In the end, no matter how many replacement workers we throw at the sails and the oars, with our holey sails we’re not going to be able to keep up with the other ships.

I have to fix them. Alone this time, it seems. The thought becomes a pit in my gut. A searin’ pit in my searin’ gut, I think, almost laughing in spite of myself.

I miss the way she talks, I realize. And the way she laughs and moves and looks at me. At least when she’s not glaring daggers in my direction.

The ships rolls hard to the right and something thumps on the lower deck.

Someone screams.

I stand, seeing a brown body crumpled on the wood. No! I think, already running, leaving Barney’s side and taking the steps two at a time.

Brown-skinned bodies are huddled around the fallen form. The rest of the sailors stand off to the side, just watching, offering no assistance.

Jade is one of the bilge rats standing in the circle. There’s a burst of joy in my chest and I know it’s mean (and wrong), because there’s a young boy, maybe two yars my junior, shaking on the deck, wheezing, stricken with the Scurve. Dying.

“We need to get him to quarantine,” I say, and the bilge rats turn to look at me, opening a gap in their circle. I feel Jade’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at her, can’t look at her, not when there’s a boy dying between us.

I step forward and lift him carefully. He’s all bone and muscle, still shaking, his body in full rebellion against the disease, but clearly losing both the battle and the war.

For a moment his eyes meet mine, and I think there’s clarity in them, like maybe he knows who I am, but then they roll back and all I see are the whites.

I step out of the circle, but stop when I come face to face with Hobbs.

“One of the rats got the Scurve?” he asks, although it’s pretty clear he’s not looking for an answer. Not the way his arms are crossed like an X across his chest.

I try to push past, but his arm flashes out and stops me. “Where are you going?”

“To quarantine.” Obviously, I want to add.

“Throw him overboard,” he says.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

I did hear him, all three words, like nails pounded into the frame of a new ship being built. “I’m taking him to quarantine,” I say more firmly.

“Are you disobeying a direct order from a superior officer?” Hobbs says, sounding almost hopeful.

I want to disobey him.

(I do, I swear.)

But I can’t. This boy is dying, and if I don’t do as Hobbs says, I’ll be demoted and removed from the Mayhem, and well, that can’t happen.

(Not when she’s still on board.)

Not when the ship needs me.

(Don’t they?)

I start to push the boy’s body into Hobbs arms, but he jumps back, as if touching any part of his skin will immediately transfer the disease. “You do it,” he snarls.

I’m helpless as my mother slips from my grasp.

I’m strong and evil and a murderer as I push Webb over the side with a swift shove.

Twice it’s been my doing, and this will make thrice. For some reason the number seems ominous.

I stride past Hobbs to the railing, the silence broken only by the click of my boots on the deck.

(Will she ever speak to me again?)

The boy’s body, although wracked with seizures and tortured with pain, is warm, his heart beating wildly against my own as I clutch him to my breast, bent in my arms. Alive, so alive, and yet…hurting, dying.

“Rest,” I whisper to him, low enough that Hobbs won’t hear me. “Go with honor.”

He slips from my arms.

Thrice.

I march straight to my cabin, seeing only his eyes, which flashed with recognition as he fell to the depths below.





Chapter Twenty-Two


Sadie





The war leader’s tent is dark when I arrive. I start to speak but stop when the opening twitches, shudders, and then parts, revealing Gard’s hefty form.

“Walk with me, Rider,” he says.

I fall into step beside him as he leads us to the center of camp, to the Big Fire, which crackles and snaps, devouring the tangle of stumps and branches placed by the fire tenders. One of them stands nearby, watching the flames.

“Leave us,” Gard says.

She departs with a short, reverent bow, slipping away like a shadow.

“Have you tamed Passion?” Gard asks, when he’s sure we’re alone.

It’s a rather mundane question that hardly requires a midnight meeting. The fire pops.

“She will never be tame,” I say. “But yes, I’ve ridden her.” Surely Gard already knows this.

He smiles, and I’m surprised how warm it feels coming from a man who could break me in two. Perhaps it’s just the heat from the fire. “That sounds like something your mother would say,” he says.

I should feel pride at the comparison, but all I get is a bulge of despair in my stomach.

I say nothing in response.

We stare at the fire together, watching as it snaps a branch in half like a broken bone.

My mother’s face is in the flames, but I don’t look away.

When I can’t look at her any longer, I turn to him and say, “You asked me here to talk about Passion?”

He continues to stare into the fire. “No,” he says gruffly, “but I suppose you already know that.”

There’s silence as I look away. Then what?

Another branch disappears in the red and orange.

“I want to talk to you about your father,” he says, and I hold my breath, trying not to show the tremor of anger that passes through me.

“What about him?” I ask, unable to hide the crackle of fire in my tone.

He cocks his head to the side, as if thinking, and then says, “Can I tell you a story?”

He’s the war leader, am I to say no? “Yes,” I say, centering my gaze on a tuft of grass outside the stone ring, blackened by the heat from the fire.

“You were three years old,” he says, and I close my eyes.

No.

“Paw was four.”

Stop.

“Our battles had always taken place on the beaches, well away from the camp. The Riders—your mother, me—we protected the rest.”

But not on that night.

“The Soakers had a plan that night. They wanted to cut us deeply, break our spirits. The landing party was a diversion, only a small part of their attack. By the time we realized it…”

“They’d reached camp,” I say, kicking the black grass with my toe. Though brittle, the stalks don’t break.

“Yes. The weak, the untrained, the sick, the children: that was their goal.”

The heaviness of his words presses on my shoulders and I can taste blood in my mouth, the inside of my cheek chewed away.

Stop, I will him again. To speak the word would be weakness, so I chant it over and over in my mind, hoping he’ll hear. Stopstopstop.

“When we struck down our foes on the beach and reached the camp,” he continues, “the tents were on fire, our people were dying. Many fought valiantly, but futilely, saving lives as best they could.”

But not my father. All he could do was run while Paw was murdered.

“Your father,” Gard says, but I don’t need to know the rest, not when knowing cuts deeper than a knife.

“Is a coward,” I say. “Despite my mother, it’s in my blood, I know. You want me to leave the Riders,” I say, realizing it at the same time I speak it. My head slumps to my chest.

“Sadie,” Gard says, but I can’t look up, not when the only thing I have left is about to be taken away. All because of him.

“Sadie,” he repeats, and I lift my chin with my hand, force my head to the side. My eyes meet his, which are dark and serious. “You’ll be a Rider for life. Doubt anything, but not that.”

I’m at a loss, my head spinning. “What are you saying?” I ask, probably a little too harshly.

“That your father is not a coward, not even close to one,” he says, one of his fists tightening. “To hear you say such a thing angers me deeply.”

His fist scares me, but not enough to stop my refutation. “You don’t know,” I say. “He left Paw to die. He sent Mother to die. You. Don’t. Know.”

He can hit me if he wants, and I’ll take it, and for a moment I think he will, as his knuckles grow white from the tension. But then his hand relaxes and he pushes out a deep breath. “Sadie,” he says. “I was there too. Are you sure you remember? You were very young.”

“Y-Yes,” I say, hating that my voice falters. My mother would never show such weakness.

“What do you remember?” he asks.

I close my eyes, strain against the memories that have been incomplete for so long. Fire. Darkness and shadows. Shouts in the night. White-skinned men. Harsh blades, cutting down Stormers indiscriminately. Paw’s scream.

Where was I?

My head hurts when I squeeze my eyes shut too tight.

“Father and I were inside our tent,” I say, remembering looking out into the night. Paw is standing alone, crying, scared and unsure, gawking at the carnage around him.

“No,” Gard says. “You were inside your tent. Your father was not.”

In my memory, I look around, searching for my father’s cowardly expression, his huddled form.

I’m alone.

Where is he?

A log falls in the fire, kicking up sparks, and I flinch, my eyes darting to the flames, which melt into the inferno in my memory.

“Where?” I say.

“Look outside.”

I do, and this time Paw’s not alone. My father tries to pick him up but it’s too late, a Soaker is upon him, brandishing a sword.

“No!” Father screams, grabbing a branch from the ground with one arm while using the other to push Paw behind him.

The Soaker laughs and slashes at my father, cutting the branch in two. My father throws the pieces at him, while yelling for Paw to Run!

The man slashes at Father, but misses. Paw’s halfway to the tent, and for a moment I think he’ll make it, but then Father’s down, his leg bleeding, his scream not for his pain, but for us, who he’s looking toward even as the Soaker comes at us.

And I can only cry. Because I’m scared. And I’m weak.

And the man’s sword slashes downward. At Paw.

He dies, not a foot from me. Not a foot.

And I’m next. The man sneers, and I hate him, and I want to rush from the tent and punch him, kick him, bite him. And I start to, but then Mother’s there, and she cuts the man open, and there’s so much blood, a lot of it Paw’s. I see Gard’s massive form behind her, watching.

Not my father’s fault.

But why?

Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t my mother tell me? Why did they let me hate him for all these years?

My memory is incomplete.

“What happened before Mother arrived?” I ask harshly.

“I wasn’t there,” Gard says.

Ignoring him, I ask, “Why was I in the tent and Paw not?”

“I wasn’t there,” Gard repeats.

“But my father would’ve told you,” I say.

“He refused.”

“But he would’ve told my mother,” I push, “and she would’ve told you.”

“She refused.”

None of it makes any sense. Why such a big secret? What could hiding the truth possibly accomplish?

“And what of my mother?” I say, frustrated with my missing memory despite having been only three years old.

“Do you mean the mission to ice country?” Gard asks.

I nod, running a hand through my hair. “Did my father know she would die?”

“Yes,” Gard says.

The anger swarms back through me, washing away my confusion. The world is right again, my father still to blame.

“Did you know?” I ask, my words burning with accusation.

“Yes,” he admits.

I’m afraid of myself, that I’ll hit him. I tuck my hands underneath me as a safeguard, take a deep breath. “And you did nothing?”

“No,” he says. “Your father came to me first, told me about his vision before he told even your mother. Begged me to forbid her from riding with the others. Said he’d ride in her stead.”

“But you refused him?” Another accusation, hurled like a stone.

“No.” Again, the answer surprises me. “I agreed, except for the part about him riding. Neither of them would go.”

I frown. “Then what happened? Why did she go?”

“We couldn’t stop her. She knew the truth and still she went. She said if we refused her she’d take her own life anyway. The threat was real in her voice. Your mother could be…stubborn.”

I have to close my eyes to stop my head from spinning. My father did everything in his power to stop my mother from riding to her death. He tried to sacrifice his own life to save Paw’s.

“I think I’ve made a grave mistake,” I say, my voice quivering as much as the dancing flames.

“It’s not your fault,” Gard says. “You didn’t know and no one told you.”

Which again begs the question: why?

“I have to go,” I say, standing quickly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You needed to know. Now more than ever.”

Gard saw the anger eating me away and was worried it would affect my performance as a Rider, is that it? Is that why he’s telling me? Something tells me there’s more.

I stomp on the blackened blades of grass as I walk away, feeling them crumble beneath my trod.





Chapter Twenty-Three


Huck





Heavy. That’s the only word to describe the feeling inside me. There are so many eyes in my sleep. Mother’s. Webb’s. The bilge rat boy’s. All staring, staring, burning holes of accusation through my skin. “He’s the one!” they say. “He killed us!”

Although the Scurve seems to be under control again, Jade won’t talk to me, just clambers up the mast each morning, dead set on repairing every last tear in the sails without further assistance from me. I could go up, work alongside her, but why force something that’s not there?

As I eat alone in my cabin in a silence broken only by the intermittent creaking of the ship, I mull over what to do. More pointedly, I consider the information Jade gave me just before we stopped speaking. Fire country. The bilge rats’ home. Taken, abducted, tricked: brought to a place where they’re dogs—no, less than dogs: rats—forced to slave away, day in and day out, obeying orders from men who can barely look at them.

Was she lying, trying to gain my sympathy? In some ways I hope she was, so my father’s not a monster, so the world can become right again. But in other ways I’ll be sadder if she was lying, because that means I’m nothing to her, just a boy to be manipulated.

There’s a knock on my door and I look up, surprised. I asked not to be disturbed, choosing to take my evening meal in my cabin, rather than with the men, needing time to think.

“Yes?” I say, stabbing a potato with my fork.

Barney pushes open the door, a strange expression on his face. It’s one I’ve never seen before, a mix of what appears to be glee, embarrassment, and concern. The glee is in his eyes, wide and dancing; the embarrassment is in the extraordinarily crimson flush of his cheeks; and the concern is in his bent eyebrows and pursed lips.

“I asked not to be—”

“I apologize, sir, but I was sure you’d want to hear this.”

I raise the potato to my mouth, think better of it, and set my fork down with a clink, uneaten starch still stuck to it. “Go on.”

“You should help repair the sails tomorrow,” Barney says uncertainly.

I stare at him. “Are you giving me an order?”

“More like a message,” Barney says, turning to go.

“A message from whom...” Although the question is completed, it dies on my tongue, twitching at first, and then still. Barney closes the door softly behind him.

She talked to him?

To Barney?

No, not a question. She talked to Barney.

And I’ll be climbing the sails tomorrow.





~~~





When the red dawn creeps over the horizon, I’m high above the ship to watch it. I couldn’t sleep, so I came up here, to the crow’s nest, to wait.

(For her.)

What does she want to talk to me about? Why now? Maybe she feels bad and wants to admit everything she told me was a lie.

More likely she wants to scream at me for throwing that boy overboard.

The wind shrieks around me as I peer over the wooden sides of the lookout platform. The men are hard at work, turning the sails, catching the wind at just the right angle. The ship cuts through the choppy waters with ease, trailing the Merman’s Daughter by only the smallest of margins.

Are we really the second fastest ship in the fleet? I wonder, marveling at how quickly things can change. Below me, the ship is alive, built with wood and sweat and human strength. And somewhere…Jade.

Later today we’ll lay anchor. If what Jade told me is true, will I be able to look the admiral in the eyes, pretend like I don’t know?

I shake off the thought when I spot her. If she sees me, she doesn’t show it, her expression flat and neutral. Jade crosses the deck, greeting the other bilge as she goes, reaching the main mast in long strides. Unlike me, she ignores the crow’s nest ladder, frog-hopping up the wooden cylinder with ease.

My hands suddenly feel sweaty and I rub them on my britches.

For the first time, she looks up, meeting my gaze with thoughtful eyes that seem to say, “You came.”

Three quarters of the way up, she stops at where there’s a gaping hole in one of the main sails. A major repair. One that could take all day.

She’s not coming to me, so I’ve got to go to her. I slip over the railing, stretching to take the ladder rungs two at a time. When I reach her she’s already positioning a white patch on the sail.

“Can I help?” I ask, and when she doesn’t turn to look at me, doesn’t reply, I wonder whether Barney’s message was really from her. Had I assumed too much?

But then she says, “I asked you to come because I needed…”—her statement hovers in the air, seemingly oblivious to the swirling wind, and I find myself holding my breath—“…your help—you know, with mending the sail.”

I let out my breath in a burst. “That’s a large tear,” I say. “I hadn’t noticed it before. Is it new?”

She shrugs, pokes a needle through the patch and begins stitching it to the sail, just like I taught her, with easy, practiced fingers. “New as of yesterday,” she says.

There’ve been no storms, no unusually high winds, no projectiles in the air. Nothing that could have caused such serious damage. And the fabric around the rip doesn’t appear to be old or frayed. In fact, the gash itself appears to be almost too clean, like someone took a knife and just…

I swing around the mast as I realize Jade created a large repair so we’d have to work on it together. “Slow down,” I say, amazed at how expert her fingers have become. “At this pace we’ll be done before the lunch bell rings.” I touch her shoulder and she stiffens, but her fingers slow.

I can feel the heat of her skin beneath the thin fabric of her old shirt, and I don’t want to pull my hand away, but I must, because someone will see, someone will tell Hobbs.

What am I doing? I think as I retract my hand sharply, as if I’ve been burned.

“Huck,” she says, and my name’s never sounded so good, so real. “Sear it, Huck!” When she turns to look at me there’s fire in the brown embers of her eyes.

“What?” I say.

“This. All of this.” She waves her hands around, meaning…the ship? Me? Repairing the sails? “It’s all invented. Made up. None of it’s real. You and me? Nothing more than a dream.”

Whose dream? I wonder.

But all I say is, “I know.”

She sighs, heavier than an anchor. “Then why?”

Why are you here? Why am I here? Why do we get up every morning, play the same old game, do the same old things, and then sleep to the same old rocking of the ship? Although I imagine her simple question to be filled with all of those questions, I know it’s not. Those questions are mine, but I can’t seem to pinpoint where they came from or when they entered my subconscious, burrowing in like mice, gnawing away at everything I’ve held true since the day I was born.

But even that’s a lie, because I do know. I do.

(Since the day I met Jade.)

And I can’t help but wonder why she’s speaking to me after everything I’ve done. “I’m sorry about that boy,” I say.

Her eyes narrow. “Are you?” she asks, but there’s no accusation in her voice. It’s just a question.

“Yes. I’m surprised you’re speaking to me after that.”

“You did what you had to do,” she says.

“Did I? By throwing a boy overboard? By killing Webb?” I’m surprised by my own words. I’ve barely thought about killing Webb, much less spoken of it out loud.

“You chose the lesser of the evils,” Jade says. “If you’d gone against Lieutenant Hobbs you would have been sent away and the boy would still have suffered and died. If you’d spared Webb, I’d be dead and your father would know you protected me. And trust me, Webb didn’t deserve life. He—the things he did to the bilge rats…” She trails away.

She says it is so matter-of-factly that I can’t think of a rebuttal. I change the subject. “Is what you told me before true?” I ask, wishing I didn’t have to ask, because I know it’ll only make her angry.

To my surprise, her eyebrows don’t furrow, her lips don’t tighten. “Yes,” she says, turning back to her work.

And in that single word is the truth and it’s good enough for me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, apologizing for having to ask the question and for my father.

Jade falls silent, her fingers pushing the needle through the fabric and pulling it back out, securing a corner of the patch to the sail.

I step onto the rope bridge, moving as close to her as I dare. Pluck my own needle and thread from my pocket. Start on another corner of the large patch. “What’s fire country like?” I ask, and although she doesn’t stop working, her eyes twitch in my direction.

For a few minutes the only sounds are from below: men shouting, whistling, singing; women calling for clothes to be cleaned, offering hot morning drinks; barrels being rolled, sacks being tossed, planks being scrubbed. There’s no awkwardness in the silence, and somehow I know she’s not ignoring my question, just thinking on it, like it’s one of the wooden puzzles my mother and I used to work on together, requiring a precise solution.

Finally, she says, “It’s home,” and although it doesn’t tell me anything about what her country’s like, I can feel what she feels for it in my bones, in my thoughts, in my heart. Warmth and security and familiarity—like The Merman’s Daughter has always felt to me.

It was all taken from her. No, not taken. Ripped from her little hands. Stolen from her.

By my father.

At that moment, something is unlocked in the memory of my mother’s death. She still falls; I still can’t save her, can’t hold on. I still fail her. But she says something, something I’ve never heard her say in any of my dreams, where all I saw was her terror and my failure and my father’s disappointment.

“Not your fault,” she says.

There’s a sharp pinch on my arm and I can see again, not because I’ve opened my eyes—which were never closed—but because the memory is gone, and I’m dangling in midair, not holding the needle, not holding the ropes, not holding anything. Jade’s hand is clamped on my arm, gripping me, bruising my flesh with the strength of her fingers.

“Huck,” she says, “I can’t hold you up all day. You’re heavier than tughide.”

Astonished, I curl my empty fingers around a rope, pull myself to an upright position. “Was I…”

“Falling? Yeah. You just let go and would’ve done a bird dive onto the decks if I didn’t grab you.” There’s no pride in her voice, no praise-seeking. Just facts.

“You saved my life,” I say.

“And you lied to save mine,” she says.

(And killed. It’s in her eyes, but thankfully she doesn’t say it.)

“Thank you,” I say, but she’s already back to stitching. Though I can tell one of her eyes is still watching me, just in case I let go again.

“Fire country is hot and barren and dangerous,” she says, as if we’re just continuing our conversation from before. “And beautiful and perfect,” she adds.

“Did you have any brothers or sisters?” I ask.

“I have two sisters,” she says. “Both older. Skye and Siena. They’re…amazing.” Her voice is full of grit on the last word, like it almost didn’t make it out of her throat. “At least they were…I think. It’s hard to remember. It was six years ago and I was so young.”

I finish threading my corner and begin working my way toward her, giving her time to compose herself and her thoughts, hoping she’ll continue.

Time passes like wispy clouds, silent and thin and full of imagined images.

Our threading fingers get closer and closer and still we’re silent. The air in my lungs refuses to satisfy me, leaving me short of breath, like I’ve just run a long way. I stare at my fingers, focusing on each pass of the needle, careful not to prick myself.

Closer.

And closer.

And then her hand brushes mine and it’s like lightning against my skin.

She looks at me, but I can only stare at my fingers. She breaks the thread from her needle and hands me the end, careful not to let us touch again. When she begins working on another corner I breathe a relieved sigh and knot my thread with hers.

When I start working on the fourth and final corner, I can still feel the sensation of our hands touching, but I try to keep my fingers steady.

“What happened when you almost fell?” Jade asks, her question coming like a random yellow cloud in a perfectly red sky.

Oh…that. “I was just daydreaming,” I say, keeping my voice low, even though no one below could possibly hear us.

“About your mother?” she says and my breath catches. How could she know?

I’m still trying to figure out how to respond, when she says, “I daydream about my family all the time. I don’t know if they’re dead or alive or happy or sad, but I picture them as alive and happy. My sisters miss me something awful, of course, but they’re still happy.”

“Well, I know my mother’s dead,” I say.

“I remember,” she says, and for some reason I’m surprised, although I shouldn’t be. “It’s all anyone talked about when it happened. Some say your father pushed her over, some say it was you, some say it was an accident.” I flinch and her eyes jerk to meet mine. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t be talking about any of this.”

I shake my head. “It’s okay. I didn’t push her, but it was my fault,” I say, hearing my mother’s words—“Not your fault”—in my new memory. Is it real or did I invent it?

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

“Thank you.”

We work our way from corner to corner, not stopping until we meet in the middle again. This time I’m careful not to let us touch as we approach. I tie it off and we work on the last two edges, ignoring the lunch bell in our sudden haste to finish the job.

When the patch is firmly in place, we dangle side by side on the rope bridge, our legs hanging through it, flexing our overworked fingers.

“I smuggled some extra bread from breakfast,” Jade says, reaching inside her pocket and sliding out a smallish loaf. She tears it in half and hands me the smaller piece. I offer her some water from the container hanging from my belt. We eat and drink until it’s gone.

The question that ended our conversation the last time rolls around my mouth, hot and warming my cheeks from the inside out. I won’t ask it again. I won’t. But what if she says yes? What if mending the tear was enough to mend whatever was broken when she slid down the mast and stopped speaking to me?

“Want to see the crow’s nest?” I blurt out.

She frowns. I’ve done it again. Spoiled things. Because she can’t see the crow’s nest. The bilge aren’t allowed up there. But if a lieutenant orders her to go, then surely the rules don’t apply, do they?

I rephrase. “Go to the crow’s nest.”

Her frown softens and she almost laughs. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

I smile, too. “Of course I can. I’m a lieutenant.”

“You’re a wooloo boy.”

It should sting, but it doesn’t, not when her lips are curled like that. “So you’ll disobey a direct order from this wooloo boy?” I ask.

“I could,” she says. “But I won’t. Not this time anyway. But you’ll have to lead so it’s clear from below that it’s your idea.”

I start to climb, raising my smile to the sun.





Chapter Twenty-Four


Sadie





Father is asleep when I return home. His breathing is loud and rumbling, something that would normally annoy me, but which only endears him to me tonight.

I’ve made a grave mistake.

For years I’ve treated him with frustration and disrespect at best, contempt and white-hot anger at worst. And he wasn’t to blame. Wasn’t a coward at all. Oh, no, no, no, he was the exact opposite. His every action was that of a hero, albeit a failed one.

I hate to wake him but I must.

I nudge his shoulder and he stirs. “Father,” I say.

His eyes flicker open, blinking away moisture. “Sadie,” he says, his tone infused with such joy and love, despite all that I’ve done, how poorly I’ve treated him. Do I deserve him?

You needed to know. Now more than ever. What did Gard mean by that?

“Father, I know,” I say and he closes his eyes, cringes. Opens them slowly, almost mournfully.

I wait for him to speak but he just watches me. Will he withhold the truth from me even now?

“You tried to save Paw,” I say. “Don’t deny it—Gard told me.” He nods. “You tried to stop Mother from riding.” Another nod, almost imperceptible. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shakes his head. “I—I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want you to…” He bites his lip, refuses to meet my gaze.

“Father,” I say, reaching forward to pull his chin back in line with mine. “Why was I already in the tent and Paw not? I remember some things. We were playing together, Paw and I. How did I make it back and not him? Why am I alive and not him?” My voice cracks and all I want is to let the waterfall of tears out of my eyes, but I blink and force them back. Holding them back hurts, but I’m still a Rider.

“Sadie, I’m—I’m dying.” His words are so unexpected, so fierce, so wrong, that I shrink back against them.

“What? No, you’re—you’re the only one who’s not.” Does he mean dying inside because he can’t tell me the truth? Does he mean emotionally dying after losing my mother?

“Sadie…” And when he speaks my name I know it’s neither of those things. It’s not a riddle, not a vague Man-of-Wisdom prediction that requires interpretation. For his previous words were the truth, as stark and bright as lightning in the night sky.

“No, Father,” I say. And again: “No.”

“I have the Plague,” he says.

“No.”

“I’ve had it for a while now.”

“No.”

“I love you, Sadie,” he says, and the floodgates open, and the tears bloom like flowers, falling from their stems and down my cheeks. Mother Earth can’t do this. Not now. Not when I’ve finally realized…

That my father’s a hero.

And then my head’s against his chest and I don’t know how it got there, and my tears are soaking through to his skin and I’m choking, sobbing like a child, as far from a Rider as I’ve ever been before. But I’m not ashamed—not this one time. Because every tear is an apology, and my father’s worth every one.

When the pain and the pride and the sorrow grow so big that I can’t feel them anymore, my body goes numb and I drift to sleep, my father’s arms wrapped firmly around me.





~~~





My father’s still asleep when I leave, his deep breaths sighing in my memory with each step. On one side the ocean screams at me, and on the other, the thick woods whisper and taunt. You have no one!

I make for the forest, because I know it’s the one place my father won’t come looking for me. Does he have days? Does he have hours? Why am I hiding from him?

Inside the cool shroud of the trees, I feel calm again. The tears are but a distant memory, washed away by a cupped hand in a small creek I find along the way.

My back propped against a thick tree, I watch a small animal drink from the water, unaware of my presence. I’m invisible so long as I’m still. Filled, the creature moves on, scurrying into the underbrush.

A bird chirps somewhere above me, tweeting out a joyful song that doesn’t match real life. Does the bird not know?

Life goes on around me as if nothing’s changed.

When he steps from behind a tree, I can’t hide my surprise. My father’s in the forest.

“Father!” I say, leaping up. “You can’t be here. You need to be resting.”

He’s bent over, which makes him look like an old man. The birds sing his arrival as he limps toward me. “Sadie, I don’t have long now,” he says, his voice full of cracks and crumbles.

“Don’t say that, Father,” I say, helping him to the ground, feeling how bone-thin his arms are. Thin even for him. “You can’t know how long you’ve got.” But I know my words are a false hope because: He’s never been wrong. A Man of Wisdom till the end.

“I had to…”—he coughs into his arm, swallows hard—“…had to see you again, Sadie. Before it’s too late.”

As usual, I’ve been selfish, running from my fear, hiding from my father in the forest. When he needs me most. Black clouds move overhead, thundering a warning. “Father, I’m sorry,” I say. For everything.

He shakes his head, coughs again, massages his forehead, which is etched with deep lines of age and decay. “No more apologies, my dear daughter. For you have been chosen for great things and deserve to know the truth.”

Great things? Like treating my father terribly? Like suffering the loss of my entire family? I say nothing.

My father’s face is red and melting—raging with a fever. Late stages of the Plague. Of course, he was right. He doesn’t have long. “I should’ve told you sooner, but I was afraid…”—he fights off a half-sob—“…afraid you would blame yourself. Afraid it would destroy you.”

“What, Father?” I say. “Just tell me.”

He nods, places a hand on my shoulder, as if to gain courage, or perhaps to comfort me. “That night, when Paw was taken…” He shudders as a heavy blast of wind hurls itself through the trees. Leaves fall like rain.

“Father, please. Tell me. Whatever it is, I can handle it.”

He nods again, squeezes my shoulder. “I know you can, Sadie. You are strong, so strong. I’m so proud of you.” His voice hitches and tears stream down his cheeks. I’m filled with emotion and love—so much love—but something’s changed in me. Something powerful, like crying last night wasn’t a sign of weakness, like I thought. It’s almost as if I’ve been cleansed, unburdened, strengthened. If only I could share that strength with my father.

I put my arms around him as he weeps openly.

The first drops of rain drum on the treetops. More leaves fall. And still I hold him.

“Tell me the truth, Father,” I say.

Eyes wet, he looks up at me. “I had a vision before you were born,” he says.

This I know. I’m thankful every day for that vision. “That I would be a Rider,” I say.

“Yes, yes. But that was only the beginning. You were riding your horse, black with a white butterfly-shaped marking on its nose.”

“Passion,” I say.

“Passion,” he agrees. “There will be a great battle with the Soakers. You will fight magnificently, maybe more so than your mother.” His voice is gaining strength, growing clearer. Maybe he’s not as close to the end as he thinks. “You will see him, the high-ranking Soaker boy in the blue uniform.”

“I know, you told me, Father. That I have to decide whether to kill him. But why wouldn’t I? Where’s the choice?” My voice sounds unnaturally high. I lower it. “If we’re fighting the Soakers, why would I show mercy to one of their officers?”

“I don’t know, Sadie,” he says. “I just know that it’s your choice and your choice alone. And that it will change everything.”

I look to the sky, which is a black blanket between the leaves. The rain is falling harder now, seeking to soak us through the gaps in the leaves, but failing, drumming all around us. We are dry.

“I don’t understand, Father. How can saving or killing a Soaker boy change things? What impact could it possibly have?”

Father’s eyes shimmer with tears and knowledge. “That is for you to discover, my daughter.”

We sit for a moment, listening to the rain, waiting for it to pour down upon our heads. I wonder at my fate. You have been chosen for great things. Even the words make me feel small, unworthy.

“I had another vision before you were born,” Father says suddenly. He reaches a shaking hand forward and I take it, hold it, try to calm it.

“Tell me,” I say.

“It was of the night Paw would die,” he says.

“You knew?” I say harshly, and the familiar heat surges through my blood. I take a deep breath. I can’t waste a moment of the time we have left in anger. “Why didn’t you take us away from there? Why didn’t you stop it from happening?” I have to understand.

He laughs, but it’s a wheezing, coughing laugh that breaks my heart. “If there’s one thing I’ve been taught over and over again, it’s that you can’t change the future, only how you’ll respond to it.”

“But what about my choice?” I say. “If the future is set in stone, do I even have a choice? Or is my choice preordained?”

“A wise question,” Father says. “One I’ve pondered often. But I don’t choose what future I see. It’s a gift from Mother Earth. And in this case I can only see to the point where you face the Soaker boy. That is the future that cannot be changed. What comes after, that is up to you.”

“And Paw’s future? That was set in stone?”

His chin drops to his chest and he closes his eyes. His voice comes out as a whisper, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain, which continues to thrum on our leafy door, almost begging to get to us. “I saw the night of the attack. I didn’t know how the Soakers would break through, just that they would. I saw you playing with Paw, laughing, having so much fun. I remember smiling even as I was graced with the vision. And then they came. I saw you in the tent and Paw on the ground. I knew he was dead.”

“Then why didn’t you do something? You say you can’t change the future, but I don’t understand. You could’ve hid us in the forest, taken us away somewhere safe, somewhere they wouldn’t find us.” You can’t change the future. Just how you respond to it. My response has always been anger and condescension.

“I tried,” Father says. “We started for the forest, but Paw said his stomach hurt, and then it was his leg, and then he was scared of the lightning flashing in the distance. He refused to walk. When I tried to carry him, he kicked and screamed and fought me every step of the way. But I persevered, brought you to the edge of this very wood. We tried to enter it, but every path we took was blocked, by brambles or thickets, or trees packed so tightly you’d swear they were a fortress.

“We could have stayed at the edge of the forest, but I already knew they’d find us. By the will of Mother Earth, they’d find us anyway. And then you wouldn’t be in the tent like in my vision. I thought maybe they’d get you, too, Sadie. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you took us back so Paw could die and I live?” I can’t keep the pulsing, throbbing anger out of my voice this time. There had to be another way. We could’ve started running and not stopped until we were far, far away.

Ignoring my question, he continues. “So we went back. I put you both in the tent, sat you in the corner, watched you. But you were so fidgety, so squirmy, two little worms unwilling to be tethered. You insisted to go outside and play your game, with the rocks and the sticks. I told you no over and over, but you wouldn’t give up, until finally I relented, because at that point I knew: you would be in the yard playing when the Soakers showed up. No matter what I did, you would be there; even if Mother Earth had to work magic before my very eyes and cause you to disappear from the tent and reappear in the yard, you would be there.

“So I let you go, but stayed with you, right next to you, watching you play. You were so happy. So happy.” His voice falters and he looks away, reaches out a hand, palm up, as if trying to catch the rain. When he pulls his hand back to his lap it’s dry. “When they came, I grabbed you both, one under each arm. I ran for the tent. Because I could stop it from happening. I could change the future. They’d have to kill me to get to either of you.”

He pauses and I realize my fingernails are digging into my legs. I’m fighting with my father’s memory, every step of the way, trying to remember. Trying…

“And then suddenly he was gone. Paw. One second he was under my arm and the next he was on the ground. Before I even knew he was gone, I’d run another few steps. The tent was so close, but when I looked back, Paw was watching us, laughing, as if something was so funny. And I made a choice, Sadie. If I’d gone back you might’ve been killed, too. So I ran the last few steps to the tent, put you inside, and went back for him, tried to protect him. But they pushed me aside, knocked me down, and they—they…”

“Shhh,” I say, touching his face. “No more. No more, Father. You’ve said it all.”

“No,” Father says. “Sadie, he was always going to die. Always. He had to die so you could live. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. I thought it would destroy you.”

Too much. It’s too much. “It should’ve been me,” I say.

“No, Sadie. You have to go on. You have to be strong. You have to change things for us all.”

And in that moment, I know I will. Whatever my destiny is, I’ll live it for Paw, for Mother, for Father.

“I love you, Father,” I say, feeling his body shake with pain and the Plague as I hug him.

“I…love you…too, Sadie,” he says, his voice getting weaker with every word. And I hold him and hold him and hold him until the shaking slows and slows and slows, even as the rain falls harder and harder and harder, and then his body goes still, so still.

And the rain falls and the ground around us grows wet, but we are dry; in a perfect circle around the base of that tree, no rain can fall.

And in that circle, a great man dies.





Chapter Twenty-Five


Huck





We talk until the sun sets, and I pretend to motion to the sails, as if I’m teaching her about the finer art of sail repair. I’m conscious of the occasional stares from below and very aware when Hobbs pays us an inordinate amount of attention for longer than normal. But today I don’t care.

She teaches me about fire country, about strange spiky plants called pricklers that are filled with juice and that have skin that’s tough until you cook it. She tells me stories of the Hunters, of the enormous beasts they would bring back, of wild animals called Killers, with razor-sharp teeth and monstrous claws. I could listen to her stories all day.

But eventually she tires of talking and begins asking me questions about life on The Merman’s Daughter. How it’s different than the Mayhem. What it was like growing up as the admiral’s son. About my mother. I tell her about the pride I used to feel marching around with my father, like I was somebody. How listening to him barking orders to the men, laying down appropriate punishment and dealing out deserved praise, would stir my heart in such a way that I wanted nothing more than to be just like him, to follow in his footsteps.

“And now?” Jade asks.

Now? “I am following in his footsteps,” I say. “I’m a lieutenant. I’m running a ship.”

“And me?” she asks, and I finally realize where she’s going with it. Would he approve of me talking to a bilge rat as I would speak to a friend?

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I just don’t know anymore.”

She nods. “Thank you for not lying.”

Her arm’s so close I can feel the hairs on her skin touching mine. I shiver as the last rays of sun flash red and then orange and then purple before disappearing below the horizon.

“Why does your father send children here?” I ask, before I can stop myself. And in my mind: Why did he send you here?

She swallows hard and I see I’ve upset her. Her fingers squeeze the wooden railing. “It has something to do with seaweed,” she says.

Ready to laugh, I look for the joke on her face, but her expression’s as flat as the deck planks below. “Seaweed?” I say. “You mean the stuff we’re forced to eat almost every day?”

“Yeah, but not the weeds we pull from the ocean, the stuff that washes up on shore and gets all dried out in the sun.”

“They make tea from that, don’t they?”

“Some of it,” she says. “But the rest they put in huge bags. There’s a lot more than what they need for tea.”

I scratch my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what that has to do with bilge rats.”

“Why do you call us that?” she asks sharply, pain apparent in her eyes. “We’re humans, you know. Not searin’ rats.”

I feel a flush on my cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“You didn’t think, did you?” she snaps, and the old Jade is back, the one who throws scrub brushes as well as she throws glares.

“I didn’t. It’s just what we’ve always called…”—I pause, struggling to find a way of saying what I mean without being offensive—“your kind of brown-skinned people from fire country,” I spew out in an avalanche of verbal diarrhea. I freeze, hold my breath, watching her glare from the corner of my eye.

Then, to my absolute shock, she laughs. “You can just call us Heaters from now on. But you better not do so in front of your father or he’ll know you know the truth. And if I ever find out who came up with the name bilge rats, watch out.” I picture a hailstorm of brushes raining down from above.

“So back to the seaweed…” I say. “How is it linked to…the Heaters?”

She squints, although there’s no sun left to be in her eyes. “I’m not sure exactly. All I know is that sometimes when we’re anchored, a few men leave with the big bags of dried seaweed and then come back with a new lot of children.”

“And the seaweed?”

“They never come back with that.”





~~~





We make it down from the crow’s nest just before we lay anchor. Jade goes first, sliding all the way to the bottom in a show of remarkable grace and agility, striding off in search of food from the ship’s stores as if a day spent with me was nothing to her.

(Was it nothing?)

I climb down more carefully, using the ladder, happy when my feet are back on solid wood, relishing the gentle rock of the moored ship beneath me. We’re the second ship to arrive, and a plank has already been secured between us and The Merman’s Daughter. My father wastes no time crossing it. Hobbs is waiting for him, but to my surprise, he greets me first. “Lieutenant Jones. Son. What do you have to report?”

I’m taken aback by his sudden show of respect. Hobbs steps forward. “Sir, if I may, we’ve made significant prog—”

“Let me be clear, Hobbs, you’re here to observe. Any progress made is the result of the leadership of the captain and his lieutenant, my son. Understand?”

Hobbs nods, but then glares at me when my father turns away from him. I almost laugh. “Admiral, as you can see, the ship is performing better than it ever has before. The men and women are working hard, doing their duty, and should be rewarded accordingly. Under my supervision, the sail repair work is moving forward rapidly, which has greatly increased the ship’s speed.”

“You and the bilge rat seem to be getting on rather well,” Hobbs says.

“Bilge rat?” my father says, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve trained one of the…a girl…to repair the sails. She’s a good climber and a quick learner. Much of the credit goes to her.”

“There seems to be more talking than repairing going on up there,” Hobbs sneers.

Ignoring his comment, my father says, “Credit? To a rat? Surely the credit is yours, Son. The…girl you speak of wouldn’t know a patch from her ass if it wasn’t for your leadership.”

Something flashes in my chest. I’ve got several less diplomatic responses available, but all I say is, “Thank you, sir. We’ll continue with the effort until every sail is in pristine condition.”

“Very good. Hobbs,” he says, turning to the fuming lieutenant. “Are you still needed here? Do you have more to report or can I safely assume that the transition of Lieutenant Jones to the Mayhem has been an outright success?”

His words are the ones I’ve been waiting for my whole life. I should be proud. I should be swelling with happiness and confidence right now. But instead I feel sick, as if his words are sour, full of bitterness, because…well, because, as Jade said, “…your father brought us here against our will from fire country.”

“I should give you my full report in private,” Hobbs says. “Then you can decide whether I should stay on.” There’s a glint in his eye.

“No,” I say, balling my fists. “You can say whatever you need to in front of me, Lieutenant. I’m here to learn.”

“I don’t think—” Hobbs starts to say, but my father raises an arm to stop him.

“No, my son’s right. Say what you will,” the admiral says.

Hobbs closes one eye, his other never leaving mine, as if calculating something. What is he going to say? How can he possibly shed a negative light on what I’ve accomplished on the Mayhem?

“I fear your son is falling in love with a bilge rat,” he says.





~~~





The fallout ain’t pretty. “Follow us,” my father says to Hobbs. Then he grabs my arm, drags me up the steps to the quarterdeck, and shoves me down the steps to the officers’ cabins. We nearly crash into Captain Montgomery, who has just exited his own cabin, looking exceedingly groggy.

“Admiral, I wasn’t aware you were here. I was just getting some shut eye after a long, hard day.” Of sleeping and drinking and smoking, I think.

“Come with us,” my father orders.

He jostles me into my cabin, where a very surprised Barney is just finishing making up my bed. “Hullo, Admiral,” he says.

“Out,” is all my father replies. Barney scurries on out of there, leaving me in a very crowded cabin with my father (red-faced and rock-jawed), Hobbs (smiling cruelly), and Captain Montgomery (still blinking away a long nap).

“Speak, Hobbs,” my father commands when the door is shut.

Hobbs cracks his knuckles, as if he’d rather punch me than talk about me. “Well, Admiral, your son”—he points at me as if no one in the room knows who I am—“has been spending a significant portion of his time with a bloody bilge rat girl.”

“And?” my father says.

“And…I think that shows there’s something going on between them,” Hobbs adds.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? Huck…Lieutenant Jones admitted himself that he’s training her to repair the sails. That would require time, would it not, Lieutenant?”

Hobbs shifts from foot to foot, his toothy smile wiped away by the strength of my father’s words. “Well, aye, but—”

“So you have no further evidence?”

“Well, no, but surely Captain Montgomery has noticed too,” Hobbs says, trying to direct my father’s heavy stare to the captain, who looks like he’d much rather be in his hammock than here.

“Captain?” my father says.

“Aye, sir?”

“What do you have to say?”

“About what, sir?”

Admiral Jones lets out a seething breath. “Has water country gone half crazy?” he asks the room. I stay silent. So far it’s worked pretty well for me.

“Sir?” the captain says.

“Have you, or have you not noticed any inappropriate behavior from my son?” my father asks.

I hold my breath.

The captain looks from my father to me to Hobbs, and then says, “No, sir. As far as I can tell, your son’s done an exemplary job since his arrival. One that should be commended.”

My father fires a dagger-filled look at Hobbs, who says, “Sir, if I may, give me one more week. This is a crucial time for the Mayhem, and I want to stay on, if only to help maintain its performance.”

“You’ve falsely accused my son and now you want to stay on the Mayhem?” my father says.

“One week,” Hobbs says. “That’s all I ask.”

My father sighs, looks at me. “Do you object?”

Aye! I want to scream. But to do so would be to admit guilt. And I have nothing to hide, right? Just because Jade and I have formed a friendship doesn’t mean I’ve done anything wrong. I shake my head.

“Very well, Hobbs. You stay,” the admiral says.

“Thank you, sir, you won’t be sor—”

“But if you throw any more wild accusations at my son, I will not be so forgiving.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Hobbs says weakly.

“As for you…”—he turns to me—“is the bilge rat girl trained in sail repair?”

“Aye, but—”

“Good. Stay away from her. Let her do her job, so you can do yours.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” I say.





Chapter Twenty-Six


Sadie





I have no one but me and my horse.

When I fetch Gard, Remy is there and I can tell he knows. He gives me a nod, but not a smile.

Gard carries my father back to the camp, sets him atop the funeral pyre, makes the arrangements. I just sit there, arms wrapped around my knees, numb. Paw’s death was because of me. Only one of us could be saved, and Mother Earth chose me. But why? Father said there’s an important choice I’ll have to make, but how can one newly proclaimed Rider change anything? And how can I live with myself knowing I blamed Father all these years when it was really my fault? Paw died so I could live. A life for a life. Father let me believe he was weak, a coward, so he could protect me from blaming myself.

I’m broken with shame, with wasted years and misplaced anger.

Although the rain has long passed, my cheeks are still wet from running through it, leaving my father’s body in that bare circle of dryness. None of the wetness is from tears. Not another shall fall. Not one single tear.

“Hi,” Remy says, snapping me out of my stupor and flopping down beside me.

I have the urge to look at him, but can’t because I’m afraid I’ll see myself in his eyes. Instead, eyes forward, I say, “How’s your horse? How’s Bolt?” A normal conversation, twisting and wrenching in my gut.

“Sadie…” he says softly.

“Please,” I say. “Please.” A favor for a promise. Don’t talk about my father and I’ll never be unkind to you again.

Remy kicks my foot and I’m glad for it, glad he does something that takes me back to when we first met, how many times we’ve fought and argued since. I kick him back.

“Bolt’s amazing,” he says. “Although he prefers to run straight ahead with his head down, as if he thinks he can charge through most anything. I’m trying to get him to turn now and again. So far I can get him to go right, but not left just yet.”

The laughter springs to my lips before I can stop it. I raise a hand to my mouth to silence it, but then it just comes out muffled. I’m looking at Remy before I can remember I’m not supposed to. When I look at him, somehow I don’t feel so alone.

“It’s not funny,” Remy says, but he’s smiling. “Do you know how hard it will be to fight the Soakers if my steed will only charge forward and to the right?”

Straight-faced, I say, “You know, turning right three times in a row will get you going left just fine.”

Now it’s Remy’s turn to laugh. “Rare wisdom from a young Rider,” he says. “I can see it now. My leftward enemy holds up his sword, dripping in Rider-blood, ready to cut me down. ‘Wait one minute, Bloodthirsty-Soaker, while I force my horse to turn three times to the right so I can look you in the eye before we do battle.”

A crowd is gathering, but I pretend they’re not there and that they’re not watching me talk and laugh, like it’s any other day, any other funeral. Like their whispers of “Isn’t it sad?” and “Both parents so close together…” are about someone else.

“We should stand,” I say, but Remy shakes his head.

“Not yet,” he says. “How’s Passion? Any problems turning her to the left?”

“She’s…” A dozen words spring to mind—perfect, incredible, majestic, and on and on—but none of them do her justice. None of them sum up what I really think of her. “She’s everything,” I finally say, and it’s true on so many different levels, especially now that father is...

He smiles. “I’d feel the same about Bolt if not for the no-left-turn thing. So for now he’ll have to be almost everything.”

I smile but this time it’s not a real smile, because I know…

It’s time.

I stand, hating funerals. Hating this funeral.

My knees are weak, trembling, so I squeeze my leg muscles tight to keep them still.

Gard stands at the front of the crowd, partially obscuring my father’s body, which lies behind him on the pyre. He will likely call many of the Men of Wisdom to speak of my father’s talents, of his visions, of his wisdom. Of his life.

“I could speak for hours of the goodness of the man we’ve lost today, but what I would have to say would be but a tip of the spear of what another can say. Sadie, will you come forward?”

My heart races. Me? Even at my mother’s funeral I wasn’t asked to speak. How can he expect me to say anything when the pain is still so near, hiding just below the surface of my skin, ready to pour out like beads of sweat. The damn tears well up again and I grit my teeth to keep them from spilling. Never again.

A hand on my back pushes me forward. “It’s okay,” Remy says.

I almost turn on him, tell him it’s not okay, will never be okay, but instead I just flash him a glare and walk stiffly toward the front. When I reach him, Gard leans down to whisper in my ear. “Your father was a great man,” he says.

I nod. Take a deep breath. Let my eyes linger on my father for a long moment. Turn around to face the people.

“I—I…” Good start. Words have never been my thing. Fists and feet and action and speed: those are my things. I start again, feeling the words line up in my head like they never have before, as if my father—a man who always had the right words—is guiding me. “I know my father was a great man,” I say. “No one has to tell me that. Not ever again. So when you offer me your condolences, please tell me stories of him as he was, of the things he did that will hold fast in your memories for years and years to come.” I pause, search my soul for what’s been there all along, how I feel. Not the obvious feelings, like sadness and anger and fear, but for something more—the feelings behind the feelings.

“I feel…no…I am lucky to have been born to my parents,” I say, holding back an entire ocean of tears, pausing after each sentence to compose myself. “They were the perfect combination of wisdom and strength.” Pause. “Only what I never knew until just today, was that I was wrong about that.” Swallow. “They were both full of wisdom, both full of strength. More so than I’ll ever be. Mourn not for me, but for the loss of my father, for today the world has given back someone who cannot be replaced. I love you, Father,” I finish, and it’s all I can do to get the last word out before it’s all too much.

I step down quickly, avoiding eye contact with everyone until I return to Remy’s side. Gard moves forward, torch in hand. “We send your soul to Mother Earth!” he says, lighting the wood at the base of the pyre.

As red and orange flames climb the pile, Remy holds my hand and I hold back, wondering how I’ll ever let go.





~~~





Passion lets me rub her nose longer than usual. Normally she grows restless after a few passes of my hand, pawing and shaking her head, but today she allows me to stand for a long while, stroking the white butterfly between her ears.

“He’d want us to be happy,” I say to her. “They both would.”

She whinnies and I know what she says. Together, we are happy, and I know it’s true, because I’m a Rider and there’s no stronger bond on all of Mother Earth’s lands.

“Will you ride with me today?” I ask, because I’ve learned there’s no forcing Passion to do anything she doesn’t agree to upfront.

Her whinny makes me swell with emotion. Today I’d ride to the ends of the earth with you, Sadie, if that’s what you wanted. Is that really what she says, I wonder, or is my imagination out of control?

“Just across the plains,” I say, my voice huskier than usual.

After letting her munch on an apple, I lead Passion out of her stall and through the stables, enjoying watching Bolt whinny and nay and make a fool out of himself, pining for her affection. I almost feel sorry for the poor old boy when she completely ignores him. Learn to turn left and maybe you’ll have a shot with her, I think, unable to stop the smile that springs to my lips, not because of the joke, but because of who told it.

Outside, I easily spring onto Passion’s back, instantly warming as her sinewy muscles adjust beneath me. Despite all that’s died inside me, I’ve never felt so alive. Perhaps the connection between Rider and horse is more than simple familiarity—something mystical, preordained. Despite myself, I hope that it is.

Passion starts out at a trot but upgrades to a canter almost immediately. When she begins to gallop, my heart gallops with her. The wind whips my hair all around me as I clutch her black mane, letting her run at full speed, not trying to slow or turn her. For I am not her master; I never broke her. Riding her is a gift only she can give.

Miles stretch out before us but we gobble them up. The dark clouds are threatening rain again before we even consider turning around.

When we stop, I see them.

Shadows on the water, teeming with Soakers.

The fleet has laid anchor.





Chapter Twenty-Seven


Huck





Hobbs isn’t staying on to ensure the continued performance of the ship—that much I know.

Now that I’ve become used to being near Jade, it will be hard to ignore her, but I will. For her sake and for mine. At least today it will be easy; the bilge rats—I mean, Heaters—are scarcer than sunshine in storm country whenever my father’s around, hiding below deck.

And around he is, refusing to leave the Mayhem, as if he’s determined to watch me even closer than Hobbs. I stand by his side, observing the first of the landing boats as they paddle toward shore. Once on land, they’ll move inland, filling barrels with fresh drinking water, picking berries and nuts, hunting for animals which will later be skinned, butchered, and salted, replenishing each ship’s stores.

“Is there any truth to what Hobb’s said?” my father asks suddenly, just when I think he’s forgotten I’m even here.

“No,” I say, shocked at how easily I lie to him. Perhaps because it’s not a lie—or at least not a full one. I’m not in love with a bilge rat, like he suggested. I’m simply friendly with one, interested in one. Aware of one, you might say. And she’s not a bilge rat—not to me. She’s Jade, a Heater from fire country. A person.

“Good,” he says. “I know he doesn’t like you, has never liked you. I think your success has made him…uncomfortable.”

To that I say nothing, just watch as one of the small boats angles away from the others, further down the shore.

“You know, it won’t be long before you’ll need to take a wife,” Father says.

I glance at him, but his eyes are fixed on the boat I’ve just noticed, the one apart from the others. The two men onboard have leapt out into the shallows and are dragging the vessel onto the beach.

“A wife?” I say, unable to hide the surprise in my question.

“I won’t be around forever,” he says. “You’ll need at least one heir.”

My face burns so red I’m thankful he doesn’t look at me.

The boatmen begin scouring the sand, picking up clumps of dried seaweed, stuffing them into bags. My eyes widen and for a moment I forget all about my father’s talk of taking a wife and producing an heir.

…men leave with the big bags of dried seaweed and then come back with a new lot of children.

“Father, why do they collect so much dried seaweed?” I ask, motioning unnecessarily to the two men. He’s already looking right at them. His head jerks toward me and I want to flinch back, but foolish pride prevents me. I’m so used to not showing weakness that it’s become a part of me.

The admiral’s eyes are fierce, but then soften in an instant. “For tea, of course.” A logical answer, but…

“But why so much? Surely there aren’t enough sailors in all the Deep Blue to require the amounts those men are gathering.”

His eyebrows lift ever so slightly. “Why are you suddenly so interested in tea leaves?” he asks. “Who have you been talking to?”

Although he keeps his voice level, I can sense a shift in his tone. Something dark lurks just behind his seemingly innocent questions. His questions seem to confirm Jade’s suspicions about the seaweed being important.

“No one,” I say, answering the second question first. “It just seems unproductive. Wasting two good men who could be out gathering necessary supplies when a child could scrounge up a few tea leaves to last us months.”

I’m glad when Father breaks into a smile, releasing the tension. “My boy, the lieutenant,” he says, clapping me on the back. “Always worried about improving performance. Let me put your mind at ease, Son. We’ve got more than enough men hunting and gathering, and the stores have never run dry. Now back to that bride of yours.”

“What bride?” I say sharply.

“Exactly. You’re a man now, more than old enough to marry and carry on the Jones’ family name.”

“But I’m still…” I don’t want to sound like a child, but…

“So young?” my father says. “Yes, you are, and I’m not suggesting you have to marry at age fourteen. But certainly by sixteen. It’s something you should be thinking about now.”

My mind spins. I’ve barely even spoken to any girls on the ship, and none for an extended period of time, Jade being the longest. And surely she doesn’t count, because…well, because my father can never know of her.

“But I don’t—”

“I know, I know, Son”—he lowers his voice, as if telling me a secret—“the Soaker women aren’t much to look at, and they’ve got far too much strength in their backs and minds. But I’m not suggesting you take one of them at all.”

“Then who?” I ask, getting more confused by the second.

“Have I ever told you about the foreigners?” he asks.

The men have filled the bags of seaweed and are loading them into the boat, two in each hand, four total.

“You mean the Stormers?” I say.

The admiral leans on the rail. “There’s them, but obviously I don’t mean them. There are others, too.”

Like the Heaters, I think, but I stay silent.

“You’re not surprised?” he says, piercing me with a sudden stare.

“Uh, no, I mean, yes…I mean, I guess not. I always assumed there were others out there somewhere.” I didn’t, at least not before Jade.

“Hmm,” Father muses. “I suppose you would. Have you heard of ice country?”

Jade only mentioned fire country, but she did say something about “Icers.” Something about them being involved in the trade of the Heater children and the bags of seaweed. Why is Father talking about them now?

“No,” I say.

“It’s a country that’s high up in the mountains, where it’s always cold. They have many beautiful white-skinned girls there. One of them would suit you just fine. And I’ve heard they’re obedient to their husbands. Or at least more so than Soaker women, especially when they have something to motivate them.”

“What are you talking about?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

Father frowns. “Mind your tone, Son. I know this is a lot to take in, but I’m still your commander and father. If you must know, I’ve arranged everything. A perfectly suitable bride will be brought from ice country. The ice country King, his name is Goff, wrote a long letter telling me her name is Jolie and that she’s very pretty and moldable.” The way he says the last word makes me think of the clay that the men sometimes dig up in storm country for the children on the ships to play with.

“Jolie,” I say, trying out the name. It’s pretty, but… “Why would she marry me?” I ask, still not understanding where this is all coming from.

Father shakes his head. “Son, she’s a girl, it doesn’t matter what she wants, only that she will. Your mother…” He trails off, as if he’s thought better of what he was about to say.

“What about her?” I say, sharpness creeping back into my tone.

“Nothing,” Father says. “She was just a hard woman to live with sometimes.”

How dare he? How dare he speak of her like that? My fists clench and my teeth lock and I know I’m dangerously close to doing something stupid, but…

My mother was an angel.

And I couldn’t save her.

“There’s something you should know about her death,” he says, and that’s when the rains start falling from the dark clouds I didn’t even notice moving in overhead.





~~~





Our conversation ends at the worst possible moment, because Father’s off and making sure the men on all the ships are placed to capture the rainwater, which will save the men onshore a lot of effort of finding drinking water in creeks and streams.

And I’m left as alone and muddled as the puddles forming in depressions on the decks. I just let the water dampen my hair, stream down my face, soak through my clothes. Because my world’s been turned upside down. A bride from ice country? Something my father has to tell me about my mother’s death? When did the sky become the ocean and the ocean the sky? When did the sands from storm country pour onto our decks and the saltwater and fishes become the beach? When did I become so stupid?

And then she’s there, watching me, clinging to the mast, as drenched as I am. She motions to The Mermaid’s Daughter and I turn to look. The solitary boat is being hauled aboard, along with its contents: the bags of dried seaweed.

I nod and turn away from her, because I feel a presence nearby. Hobbs is behind me, looking at her, and then at me. “I’m all over you,” he says.

I push past him, back to my cabin.





Chapter Twenty-Eight


Sadie





With Passion nibbling grass around the trunk below me, I watch the Soakers from a branch high above. Many men come ashore, moving off into the woods a safe distance from me, presumably to gather food and water. A couple men scoop seaweed into bags. The stuff they trade to ice country for the children. Don’t they know what we’ve done to the Icers? That we’ve killed the Icer King?

A few blue-clad men mill about on the ships. Officers, giving orders. Two stand out, because they’re keeping so still, next to each other. From a distance, they are but two blue lines, one somewhat taller than the other. They appear to be watching the seaweed gatherers.

Eventually, however, when the seaweed boat is returning to the ship and the rain has begun to fall, the two blue men split apart. The way the small one walks reminds me so much of the boy I almost killed.

You have to decide…

My father’s words run over and over in my head as I climb down, never touching the ground as I climb onto Passion’s back. Never has a choice been easier, I realize as we gallop back to the camp.

I’ll kill that Soaker boy if it’s the last thing I do.





~~~





Our tent—no, my tent—despite its relatively small size, seems enormous with only me in it. I stretch out onto my back and extend my arms and legs as far as I can in each direction, but there’s still so much empty space. Space usually filled by…

I can’t be here. Not tonight. Or at least not until I’m so exhausted that the moment I slip inside my feet collapse beneath me and I fall asleep before I even hit the ground.

I leave with that goal in mind, wearing my Rider’s robe, pulling the hood over my head against the wind and the rain, which comes in waves.

The night is quiet, save for the rain patter and occasional murmured conversations of the border guards. I consider going to the stables, but I won’t begrudge Passion her rest, not after our long run across storm country.

To my surprise, a ridiculous thought springs to mind. I picture myself sneaking into Remy’s tent, waking him up, forcing him out to keep me company. A girl with less pride might take the thought seriously, but I cast it away before it can so much as dig a single root into my head.

Instead, I make for the edge of camp. I pass by two border guards, who are sitting and smoking pipes. They stand quickly, open their mouths as if to refuse me exit from the camp, but then close them even quicker when they realize I’m a Rider. Privileged to come and go as I please.

I ignore them as I stride away.

With an occasional burst of moonlight through the clouds, and from memory, I guide myself into the forest, relying on outstretched arms and cautious feet to avoid colliding with anything dangerous.

Thankfully, the place I’m looking for isn’t too far in, and I know I’m close when I hear the unceasing gurgle of the creek I drank from earlier that day. When I slide my back down the trunk of the tree, I’m not surprised to find the ground dry beneath me.

My father died here today.

“Father…” I say aloud, because I’m tired of hearing only wind and rain.

Yes, he answers, on the wind. I know it’s not really him, but I can still hear his voice.

And then: I love you, Sadie.

“I love you, Papa. I’m scared without you.”

You are strong. Stronger than even your mother was.

“I’m not.” Am I?

Your choice and your choice alone…

“What does it mean, Papa?”

It will change everything…

“What will? What?”

The voice deepens, darkens, and it’s not Father’s voice anymore, but something that lurks, that tears at flesh and gnaws at bone and enjoys the sound of screaming. You mussst kill the onesss who dessstroyed your family.

“The Soakers?” I ask the night.

Yesss. But not only. Ssstab and ssslice.

“The Icers?” I say, feeling the wood close in around me.

Yesss. Cut and crusssh.

“Who are you?”

I am vengeance and retribution.

“What? No? Papa says—”

I am life and death.

“You’re not…you’re—”

I am you!

And with a final burst of wind the tree shakes, spraying droplets of water from its leaves, marring the previously untouched circle of dry earth. The heaviness lifts from my shoulders, the clouds part, and the moon shines, shines, shines, full and bright, surrounded by twinkling stars on a night that’s as perfect as my father was.

The forest is evil. As usual, Father was right. Are all the stories true then? That there’s something that lives in the forest, some Evil that preys on the weak, the brokenhearted, filling their minds and souls with dark thoughts. And if so, has it entered me?

Screams shatter the night, and they’re as real as the rough bark of the tree behind me. Death has arrived.





~~~





I charge through the forest, tripping on tree roots and slapping away branches that lash at my face like whips. Tonight there’s more evil afoot than what lurks in the forest.

Even from a distance, I’m surprised to find the camp quiet and black. There are no Soakers brandishing torches and swords, burning and killing. No one at all. What evil is this?

As I approach the edge of the camp, voices murmur from within. Tired voices. Surprised voices. The screams woke my people.

Where are the guards, the border watchmen I saw earlier? I freeze when I see them.

Two black lumps block my path between the tents. One of them groans and rolls over, his stomach slick with blood. The other’s not moving.

Gard appears behind the fallen guards, his black robe thrown back from his face. A half-dozen other Riders trail behind him. The war leader pulls up short when he sees me. His eyes travel down to the guards, back to me. “Sadie?”

“They need help,” I say, my voice coming out as croaky as a frog. “Hurry.”

“Healers!” Gard yells. “We need Healers!”

As the Riders spring into action, securing the area, scouring it for intruders, for clues, making room for the Healers, who arrive with bandages and herbs and steel in their eyes, I wonder to myself: Was it the Evil from the forest? Was it me?

A heavy hand on my shoulder startles me away from my thoughts. Gard looks down at me. “Sadie. What did you see?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I saw nothing.”





~~~





“What were you doing out so late?” Gard asks, and despite his forced-light tone there’s a heavy weight behind his question.

“I was…” What? Talking to my dead father? Discussing matters of vengeance and retribution and ssslicing and ssslashing with the Evil in the forest, the Evil who claims to be me? “…uh.”

Thankfully, Gard’s wife hands me a hot cup of some kind of herbal tea. “Thank you,” I say, cupping my hands around the warm pot. She nods and busies herself with pouring tea for Gard.

“Her father died today,” Remy says. “She was probably having trouble sleeping.”

My head jerks around. Under Gard’s scrutiny, I’d almost forgotten his son was still here, sitting silently in the corner. When Gard had brought me in, our eyes had met, and for a moment—just a bare, silent moment—I could tell we both had the same memory: holding hands as they burned my father’s body.

“Yes,” I say nodding my thanks to Remy. “My tent was so…empty.”

“And you saw nothing?” Gard asks. “You were watching them die.” Heavy words, heavy tone.

“What? No! I mean, yes, but I had just arrived, just found them…it’s not like I was standing there doing nothing.”

“Hmm,” Gard says. Does he believe me? He has to believe me! “Tell me everything.”

I only tell him what’s important to what happened. How I passed them in the night, how I went to the forest to think, how I heard the screams and came running, same as him. Nothing more.

“Are they…dead?” I ask. I am life and death.

“One was dead when we arrived. Sword wound through the heart. He was probably the first to be attacked, too surprised to defend himself; his sword was still in his scabbard. The other was luckier, but not by much. He might’ve had time to deflect the kill stroke—his blade was on the ground, spotted with blood—which sent it through his gut. It’s deep and messy, but the Healers still have a chance to save him.”

“They must!” I exclaim. Gard’s eyebrows jump up, surprised at my sudden outburst. “Because he’ll be able to tell us what…I mean, who did this to them.”

“I hope so, Sadie. I hope so. The Healers have instructions to come to me as soon as his condition changes, for better or for worse.”

“You’ll sleep here tonight,” Gard’s wife says, handing me a blanket.

“No, I’m fine back in my—”

“You shouldn’t be alone,” she says. At the edge of my vision I see Remy watching me.

“Just tonight,” I say.

Are they unwittingly inviting Evil into their tent?

“We’ll see,” she says.

A sudden yawn captures the whole of my face as weariness overcomes me. Can I sleep?

I stand and move to an area of empty space furthest from where Remy sits, spreading out my blanket like a mat. When I lie down I face away from him. I remember his hand curled around mine, so warm, so rough, so there.

No sooner than I think of Remy, my thoughts from before return, taking over my restless mind. Am I evil? Did I somehow let something loose in the forest, my anger and lust for revenge unlocking a beast that’s been hidden for years? And if so, how do I stop it?

You don’t, the voice says.

Everything falls away.





Chapter Twenty-Nine


Huck





The anchors go up before I can speak to Admiral Jones again.

What did he want to tell me about my mother’s death? Did he want to mock me, berate me, tear down any semblance of foolish pride I’ve managed to muster over the short time I’ve been a lieutenant? Remind me how I failed her, how I failed him?

I have to know. I have to.

I have so many questions I feel like I’m going to burst if I don’t talk to someone about them. But who? Jade’s out of the question, at least until Hobbs goes back to The Merman’s Daughter. I haven’t talked to Cain in what seems like forever—he led the landing party in storm country today, so I didn’t even have a chance to speak to him.

Someone knocks on my cabin door. Barney.

“May I come in, sir?” he says.

“Why not,” I say.

He bumbles in carrying a tray with a steaming pot and several hard biscuits. “I thought you might like something to nibble on before bed.”

Gratefully, I take the tray. It’s exactly what I need. I pick up one of the biscuits, right away noticing something strange. “Barney, why are there bite marks on this one? Wait a minute,” I say, “all of them have bite marks!”

Barney clears his throat. “I had to, ahem, check to make sure they weren’t poisoned.”

I stare at him and he shifts back and forth uncomfortably. “All of them?” I say, laughing.

“I, um, I take my job very seriously.”

“I can see that. You know, you could have broken off a piece from each one, rather than…biting directly into them,” I point out.

“They don’t taste as good that way,” Barney says, looking sheepish.

“Don’t they? You’re eating the same thing.”

“Just the same, I prefer them the other way.”

“Well, I suppose I should say thank you. Are you sure it was necessary?”

“You never know, sir. You can never be too careful these days.”

“These days? Has there been a threat on my life?” I ask, crunching the corner of one of the biscuits, as far away from Barney’s teeth marks as possible.

Barney shifts again, but then rests crookedly on one foot. “Well, no, not directly. But ever since Webb went missing, some of his friends have been stirring the pot, talking about how suspicious it is that he was your biggest critic and then disappeared. Some of them have noticed the time you’re spending with…up on the mast.”

A question I’ve been meaning to ask for a long time slips off my tongue. “Barney, why didn’t you tell the truth about what the…what she did to me? With the scrub brush?”

“You mean how she knocked you flat out, sir?” he says, smirking.

“I wouldn’t say she—”

“Whack! Right to the forehead, and you went down like a sack o’—”

“Thank you, Barney, I get the picture. Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I ask, breaking off another piece of biscuit and popping it in my mouth.

“Because you didn’t, sir. I followed your lead, because—”

“You take your job very seriously,” I finish for him, my mouth full. Barney was right, they do taste better when bitten into rather than broken off. Strange.

“Aye, that and I have nothing against the bilge. They’re good workers, rarely make trouble—well, except for the one who’s caught your eye, that is.”

“She has not caught my eye, Barney.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Barney?”

“Aye, Lieutenant.”

“Do you know where the bilge…where the workers come from?” There are crumbs stuck in my throat so I take a sip from the mug. The warm drink slides down easily.

“It’s all very secretive, but I assume we trade with foreigners for them. Somewhere beyond storm country.” Barney scratches his head. “Captain Montgomery once told me—he’d been drinking all afternoon, mind you—that they come from a place called fire country.”

My heart speeds up. I knew she was telling the truth! I knew it.

“And what might be traded for them?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea,” Barney says.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re most welcome. And sorry again about…the bite marks.” He turns to leave.

“Barney?”

“Aye, sir?” He turns back.

“There are crumbs in your beard,” I say, unable to hold back a chuckle.





~~~





The rain’s been pounding us for days, so strong and endless that all hands are on deck, using buckets to bail it over the sides. The bilge too, only, with no buckets left they have to use their hands.

I don’t look at her, like I’ve done all week. I’m not sure if she knows why I’ve been ignoring her, but I won’t risk so much as a sideways glance in her direction, not when Hobbs continues to lurk. I’m all over you.

Drenched from head to toe, my arms ache as I scoop another half-bucket of water, dumping it over the side just as the ship crashes into a mountainous wave, dumping ten times more water back on top of me. It’s a never ending battle, I realize as I come up spluttering. One of the sailors was knocked clean over by the wave. I help him to his feet as thunder erupts overhead.

Just one more day, I think as I once more fill my bucket. It’s the same thing I’ve thought every day. Only the storm never seems to end.

Although I wouldn’t have thought it possible, the wind strengthens, coming in bursts and blasts that threaten to knock every man and woman off their feet.

Above us, there’s a horrendous riiiip! as if the very sky above us is being torn in two. I look up to find a ragged gash in the main sail, opened up by one of the wind bursts.

And then I see her. Not because I was seeking her out, or because I’ve forgotten to avoid looking at her, but because she’s right where I’m looking, climbing the rain-soaked mast, for once using the ladder, clinging to it like I usually do.

Jade’s headed right for the tear in the sail and it’s clear she’s going to try to repair it.

No, I think. Even with her skill in climbing, attempting to use the rope bridges, which are swinging wildly, is suicide in the middle of a tempest such as this. But what can I do? Hobbs has stopped bailing, too, is watching her climb. He looks at me, right at me—a challenge. Whatcha gonna do, sailor?

Lightning sizzles in jagged streaks above us, so close I can smell burning in the air. I stumble when the ship breaks over a tall wave, plummeting down the steep side, tossed about like a leaf in a whitewater river. Grabbing the railing, I regain my balance and look up. Jade has missed a ladder rung and is hanging by her hands, which are slipping, slipping…

My breath catches as her feet scrabble wildly below her, but then they find purchase, somehow managing to find traction on the slick foothold.

Danger looms from above.

The next wave.

How did it get above the ship? Do waves have wings?

Dozens of shouts rise above the thunder as the wave rains upon us, knocking each and every man and woman and white-skinned and brown-skinned person off their feet.

I’m swimming. I’m on the ship and I’m swimming, gasping for breath, choking on saltwater and pushing seaweed out of my eyes. Still alive, still fighting.

And then the ship lurches over the next wave, tilting so far that the pool of water rushes off over the side and back to whence it came. I slide along the deck, not stopping until I slam into the railing, tangled with another man—the sailor I helped up earlier?—and a hefty woman who works in the kitchens and is known to eat more of what she cooks than those she cooks it for.

But I barely see them, barely feel their arms and legs as we pull apart, because…

Because…

My eyes are glued to the mast, which is swaying, creaking, and finally cracking—with an awful splintering, ear-wrenching CRRRACKKK!—as Jade climbs higher and higher, past the torn sail, all the way to the bird’s nest, where she manages to slip over the side, disappearing from sight.

Still lying on my back and feeling the Big Blue rage beneath the ship, I drop my gaze to the base of the mast, where a thin jagged line of black has formed in the wood. The mast is badly damaged, maybe permanently, but it’s still upright, not broken through completely.

And she’s up there.

I realize someone else is tangled up with me, straining beneath my weight, pushing me away. When I roll to the side and look back, it’s Hobbs, glaring. “Rally the men!” he shouts. “This is too much, we have to make for land, run aground if we have to.”

There’s no time. The mast could collapse at any moment. Another wave, a burst of wind, a lightning strike.

“You do it,” I say. “I have to do something.”

His mouth contorts in anger. “You may be the lieutenant on board, but I’m still your superior officer. You’ll do as I command!”

I shake my head and clamber to my feet, squinting through the blistering rain.

With Hobbs cursing behind me, I run for the mast.

The damage is even worse than I thought. Structurally, the mast is destroyed, splintered both vertically and horizontally, sharp shards of wood sticking out at weird angles. Half of it, however, is still holding strong, as thick as a man’s thigh. I’ll be lucky if I make it to the top before it breaks.

But I have to try. I killed for her. I lied for her. And now I have to save her.

The ladder rungs feel like they’re made of water, not metal. Before I can even get a grip, my fingers slide away. I try again, this time being careful to lock my fingers around them.

My feet slip twice on the way to the top, but each time I manage to regain my footing. Three times I have to stop and just hang on as the ship climbs and topples over waves that seem more like Big Blue’s fists than rolling mounds of water. He punches us, kicks us, but still the ship floats.

There are shouts from below, and I know it’s Hobbs who’s rallying the men, the women, the bilge—saving us, doing my job, or Captain Montgomery’s, or both.

Head down, I climb the last few rungs, hearing a voice from above. “Huck!”

I look up and Jade’s arms are there, stretching to grab me, to pull me into the crow’s nest. I tumble over the side in an exhausted heap. Jade’s hugging me, but not awkwardly or passionately or anything normal. It’s more like clinging to me, and I realize I’m clinging right back.

Water sloshes around us, escaping through cracks in the lookout structure, but refilling faster than it can be emptied.

“We have to get down before it collapses!” I yell amidst a sudden clap of thunder.

Jade’s entire body shakes as she nods, trembling with cold and fear in my arms. Gone is her tough exterior. Was it all an act or has she just reached her limit?

Whatever the case, I must be strong for her now.

I stand, pulling her up with me, peering over the side. The crew, under Hobbs’ command, has managed to turn the ship. The air is so thick with rain and fog that they can’t possibly be sure of the right direction. More likely we’ll be sailing in circles until the storm passes.

The ship lurches sharply one way and then back the other, rolling over the mountains of waves. Each change in direction puts strain on the mast, which, miraculously, is still holding strong.

Maybe, just maybe, we can get down before it’s too late…

CRRREAKKK!

The mast sways when it’s hit by a giant’s breath of wind.

CRRAACKKKK!

It shatters, shuddering and groaning, wavering one way and then the other. The Deep Blue beckons it, calling for wood and blood and destruction and debris.

“Huck!” Jade cries as we fall, clutching at me as I clutch the side of the bird’s nest.

We fall, slowly at first, but then faster and faster.

This can’t be happening. A bad dream. A really bad dream.

I stare into the waiting arms of the waves. There’s nothing to be done. Nothing but fall and beg for mercy, think silent prayers. Deep Blue, please take me instead of her. Let my life be your sacrifice. Take me. Please.

All I see in the face of the Deep Blue is hunger. There will be no trade. Not when He can have us both.

SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

One by one, the rope bridges we so carefully constructed to allow us to repair the sails break off, snapping past us, cracking like whips. One lashes my face, stinging my skin. If we can only grab one, swing away…

It’s too late—far too late for action.

The Deep Blue calls my name. Huuuuuuuck!

The impact of hitting the water is as powerful as the shock. Water surrounds, cold and frantic, trying to force its way into my mouth, my nose, to pull me under. I clutch the splintered shards of wood sticking out from the bird’s nest, cutting my hands. Fighting for my life. That’s when it hits me:

Where’s Jade?





Chapter Thirty


Sadie





Firm hands shake me awake in the dark. “Sadie!” a voice says.

Reflexively, I reach out, grab the hands with my own. Heat flashes in my head and chest. The hands are rough and strong and Remy’s.

I let go like I’ve been burned.

“What is it?” I say.

“It’s, uh, I’m supposed to, um…”

I’ve never heard him stumble so much on a simple sentence. Did I surprise him just now? “Spit it out,” I say, smiling in the dark at his rare display of awkwardness.

“He’s awake,” Remy says, and he doesn’t have to explain who the he is. The guard. The injured guard.

But there was so much blood.

“He won’t last long,” Remy says and I push out a heavy breath. He’s dying.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” I say.

“Later,” Remy says. “You have to hurry. Father says you should be there for the questioning. You’re the closest thing to a witness we have.”

The weariness falls away from me like a snake shedding its skin. I’m on my feet in an instant, hurriedly pushing out of the tent and following Remy. Light, misting rain leaves glistening drops on my skin, attaching to the fine hairs on my arms. The night is ink-black, save for the burning glow of the Big Fire, raging strong enough to withstand the sprinkle from the clouds above.

We reach the string of healing tents and Remy leads me inside one. A man cries out in agony. Gard kneels beside him, filling a corner of the tent. A Healer mops the man’s brow with a wet cloth.

A woman cries softly into her hands. The guard’s wife. Remy’s mother comforts her with a gentle hand on her back, an occasional whisper in her ear.

I know her loss, and no amount of words can comfort her now.

You sssee what I have done? the voice says in my head.

You’re not real, I think, only realizing I’ve spoken it out loud when Gard looks up at me in confusion.

“What was that, Sadie?” he asks.

“Nu-nothing,” I stutter. “You asked for me?”

A question clouds his wrinkled brow for a moment, but then his face relaxes. “I fear you’ve wasted your precious hours of sleep. Mother Earth is taking him in the most painful manner. We’ve barely drawn a word or two out of him, and nothing meaningful.”

Across from Gard, the woman sobs.

“Let me speak to him,” I say, fear squeezing my heart as I wonder: What did this man see? Will he tell us a tale of a clawed forest-dwelling monster? Attacking and ripping and tearing.

I am Evil, the voice says.

I shake my head as Gard moves aside so I can get closer.

The man’s face is wracked with pain, his eyes closed, his lips clamped tight until he lets out a tortured moan that pushes a shudder down my spine.

“His name,” I say.

“Nole,” Gard says.

“Nole,” I say, trying to keep the uncertainty out of my voice. What can I say that Gard hasn’t already? How can I convince Mother Earth to let this man speak one last time? “My mother and father have both been taken. Soon you will go to join them.”

Nole stiffens for a second, but then relaxes. Sweat trickles down his cheek. Or is it a tear? Thick white bandages are wrapped around his naked stomach. The Healer has done all she can do. It’s in Mother Earth’s hands now.

A flash of pain crosses Nole’s face and his eyes spring open, but this time he doesn’t cry out. “Nole, tell us what happened. You could save many lives,” I say.

His eyes meet mine for the first time, like he’s only just realized I’m here, that I’m the one speaking. A wail slips from his wife’s lips, but I raise a hand in her direction and she manages to stifle it. How am I so calm when this man is dying? The answer is black and obvious: Because I have to know what did this.

“It…was…” The words come slow, like rainwater dripping from a leaf long after the storm has passed. “…our…fault.”

What? He’s dying, and yet he’s taking blame…for what exactly? For getting stabbed? For bleeding on the ground? He’s confused, from pain or loss of blood or trauma.

“You did nothing wrong,” I say. “Just tell us who did this to you.”

His body stops convulsing and he suddenly looks so calm that if it wasn’t for his sweat-stained face and bandaged gut I’d swear he was nothing more than a man trying to get some sleep. His voice strengthens. “They appeared out of nowhere, as if the night spat them out just in front of the camp.” Nole takes a deep swallow, but then continues. “There were two men, one as light-skinned as a Soaker, but not as fair, with dark hair and a thick beard; the other was darker skinned, but not like us. Light brown. They surprised us. Our fault.” He cringes, but I can tell it’s not pain, but sadness that causes it. Tears flow freely from his eyes, spilling over his lips, which are open enough to show that his teeth are grinding sharply against each other.

“No, Nole,” I say, trying to get his attention back. “Nothing’s your fault. What happened next?”

For a long moment I fear I’ve lost him to despair, but then he speaks again. “Their hands were out and they held no weapons. I drew my sword and they stopped moving closer. The white-skinned one had anger in his eyes, but he didn’t threaten us, only asked to see our leader.”

At that, Gard crowds in close beside me. “They wanted to see me? But why?”

“I—I…” Fresh tears well up. “I’m sorry. I waved my torch to get a better look at them, and the light glinted off a long blade hanging from the brown-skinned man’s belt. We panicked. We attacked him, both of us, at once. We fought to kill. He was a great warrior. Far superior to us. He had no choice.” Nole clutches his side as if remembering when the brown-skinned man’s blade sunk into his flesh.

“Where did they go?” I ask, picturing them lurking within the camp, hiding in shadows, blood dripping from the murderous sword.

“Back into the forest,” he says, his voice weakening. “They ran, left us there…to…die.” A strangely peaceful look crosses his face as he manages a smile.

“Nole?” I say in alarm.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he says. His eyes flash to his wife. “Teza, come to me.” The woman swoops to him like a bird of prey to a rodent, smothering him with her arms and kisses. Over her shoulder he says, “I love you, Teza.”

I want to look away, but I can’t. I feel tied to this man, to his story. I’m ashamed at the relief I feel in my heart because now I know it wasn’t my fault, wasn’t some Evil from the forest that killed two Stormers.

No, it wasssn’t, the Evil says. But I will kill. You can’t ssstop me.

Nole’s lips move one last time, his pink tongue flashing with each word. “The white…man said…his name…was Dazz.”

And then he dies.





~~~





Every last Rider is here, none of us able to sit although Gard has asked us to several times.

When we left Nole’s body to the care of his wife and the Healer, the sun was already peeking over the horizon, chasing away the misting rain, casting a pink glaze over the camp. Far too cheery a color for the night’s stormy events.

Gard called the Riders to assembly immediately. The rumors began buzzing in whispers and hisses as the black-clad warriors streamed to a point just outside the camp, beyond the stables.

Ten guards dead, but how?

Under attack by the Icers and the Soakers?

They fell from the sky like rain, murdering children in their beds?

Despite the ludicrousness of the gossip, I stay silent, knowing the truth will come out soon enough.

Dazz, I think. An Icer? Despite Nole’s claim that the fault lay with him, my hands clench in anger. My mother was killed by an Icer. I will get my revenge.

Eventually Gard manages to calm the Riders, even convincing them to sit in the grass, which is still wet with the night mist. My hands are anxious, resting first on my knees and then on the damp earth, before finally sitting knotted in my lap. Surely this will be a call to war. The only question is with whom.

First, Gard tells the true story, stamping out the rumors almost as quickly as they arose. Two guards dead. Likely attacked by an Icer and a Heater. Since when have those two tribes fought together? I wonder. Are we entering a time when every tribe bands together as one, an invincible adversary determined to wipe all good from the earth? Will Mother Earth allow it?

“We have to act!” a Rider yells when Gard finishes.

“Yeah!” a woman screams, her cry mimicked by a dozen more voices, like echoes. Some of the Riders stand, fists clenched at their sides.

“We cannot act against an enemy we can’t see,” Gard says, gesturing for the Riders to sit. Grudgingly, they do. “We could rush off and start a war. But will there be anyone left when we return?” There’s silence, Gard’s words weighing heavily on the too-bright morning.

“We cannot do nothing,” I say, surprised at my brazenness. I stand, wondering what I’ll say even as I say it. “They’ve attacked us in our home. They’ve practically begged us for war.” I sense the words are mine, but not. Only part mine. Evil lurks behind them, but they feel right. Will my mother’s death go unanswered?

“They were provoked,” Gard says. “Nole admitted that it was his fault—that he was spooked and acted out of fear. They only wanted to talk to me.”

“They wanted to get close to you so they could kill you,” I say, feeling strength coursing through me. A sudden desire to ride Passion into battle fills me. Even standing I feel restless, like I need to move, to run, to ride, to fight. “An eye for an eye. We killed their king so they’ll kill our war leader.”

“Maybe so,” Gard admits. “But we don’t know that. Coming into the heart of our camp with a force of only two would have been sure death, suicide. Perhaps there’s more to it.”

I know he’s right, but his words are too patient for me. “What would you have us do?” I ask.

Gard’s eyes bore into mine. “Have Riders replace the normal guardsmen. Double the watch. Be vigilant. If they want badly enough to speak to me, they will return. And we’ll be ready.”

Silence hangs ominously over our heads, a stark contrast to the rare cloudless sky. Finally I feel uncomfortable standing alone in a sea of seated Riders. Awkwardly, I lower myself to a crouch.

Gard casts his eyes over the lot of us. Despite the calmness and steadiness of his previous words, his gaze throws off sparks. “I want them brought to me alive”—his voice booms like a battle drum—“and only then will they answer for their crimes!”





~~~





We work in groups of four, silent protectors of the camp, of my people. If the foreigners show their faces again… The thought trails off in my mind because I know the rest of it will be finished by the dark one who clings to me like my black robe.

Let them come, the Evil says.

I shake my head and pull my hood over my hair as a cautious rain begins to fall. The night speaks in leafy rustles and patters.

My companions also don their hoods. They don’t complain about being tired or having to stand in the rain. Riders don’t complain. We are iron. We are rock.

A drip of moisture crawls into my eye and blurs my vision, as if to remind me that even rock and iron are affected by Mother Earth’s elements.

One of the torches planted in the soft ground beside us flickers when the rain picks up. The flame falters, wavers, and then dies, casting us into darkness. Still we stand. Still we watch, our eyes adjusting to the night.

Something flashes in the corner of my vision, a speck of movement, there and gone again. A trick of the night? A specter?

I train my stare on the spot, unwilling to raise a false alarm until I’m sure. I see only black. And then…

A flash of something lighter, growing in size as someone approaches.

“Who’s there?” I demand.

My companions turn to the sound of my voice, startled. The blob of white stops, says, “My name is Dazz. I come from ice country. My companion is Feve, one of the Marked from fire country. We’ve come to speak to your leader.” I squint to make out the face of either of them. The one who calls himself Dazz steps forward, clearer now, but still shrouded by the night.

My hand tenses on my sword, prepared to draw it, to swing it, to kill if necessary.

“You killed two men,” the Rider next to me says.

The one he called “the Marked” steps forward, just a human-shaped splotch of brown. “They left us no choice,” he says, his voice certain and free of shame. The desire to slice him to ribbons courses through me as I slide my blade from its sheath.

“Please,” Dazz says. “We are only here to understand why you steal our children.”

My next breath comes sharply, before I need it. Exhaling, I regain my composure. “Drop your weapons,” I say. “And come forward with your hands clasped above your head. But don’t be surprised if Gard is less merciful than we.”





Chapter Thirty-One


Huck





I duck beneath the icy water, my eyes burning with salt and dread. Where is she?

I search frantically, seeing only churning white and bubbles. Even the sharp-tooths are noticeably absent, smart enough to escape to a less angry corner of the Deep Blue. I resurface, gasping for breath, spluttering when a wave looms over me. My wet blue uniform sticks to me like a second skin, weighing me down. Just as the wave topples over me, I dive back down, deeper this time, fighting to see through the murk.

A hand waves to me in the distance, but it’s not really waving—more like thrashing. Churning the water around it, unable to generate enough thrust to pull the attached body to the surface. That’s when I remember: Jade can’t swim. None of the Heater servants can. It’s intentional, another of my father’s brilliant ideas. Makes it kind of hard to escape from a ship if you can’t swim and the landing boats are guarded all day and night.

Kicking hard, I swim toward Jade’s thrashing hand, grabbing it before she can sink further into the abyss. When she feels me, she jerks, as if I’m a monster of the sea come to claim her. But then she sees it’s me and lets me pull her. She’s choking, jerking her head about, swallowing seawater, unable to hold her breath any longer.

Clutching her around the waist, I kick and kick and paddle with my free hand, surprisingly desperate to get back above the water and into the fiercest storm we’ve seen in a long time. My lungs are on fire, burning with the desire for air. My head breaks the surface and I gulp in a deep breath, getting a mouthful of water when Jade unintentionally spits it in my face. Using both arms, she clings around my neck, frightened and exhausted, choking me, threatening to pull us both back under.

“Jade, relax,” I manage to squeak out. “Yer chokin’ me.”

Her grip relents slightly, giving me the chance to suck in a breath. My head on a swivel, I look around, locating the end of the toppled mast, floating nearby. I make for it, Jade on my back. When I’m finally close enough to grab part of the bird’s nest, I realize: the winds have weakened, the rain has slowed, the waves have shrunk. The storm is dying.

For a while we just hang onto each other and the mast, content to be alive, her cheek on my shoulder, my ear resting on the crown of her head.

Eventually there’s a shout and a rope splashes nearby us in the water. I grab it, my fingers cold and unsteady, wrap it around Jade, under her arms, and then around me, tying it tightly in a classic fisherman’s knot. I raise a hand as high as I can, signaling to the rescuer who I can’t see above the angled mast.

The rope tightens and begins to drag us in. I hug Jade without shame. She hugs back.

We reach the ship and I steady us against the side with a firm hand as we rise slowly out of the water, the rope twisting and spinning, showing us wood and then sky and water and then wood again. Strong hands pull us over the railing and we collapse on deck in a pile, like fish tumbling from a net. The day’s catch.

Looking up, I see the eyes of our rescuer, dark brown and almost shining with glee. “Look what the Deep Blue spat out today,” Hobbs says with a sneer.





~~~





I don’t know where they took Jade, but I was so shocked at seeing Hobbs that I did nothing to help her, just watched them drag her away, below deck somewhere, presumably to get her dry clothes and a blanket. Something to warm her up. All that matters is that she’s alive.

“I should’ve left you out there to drown,” Hobbs says as I strip off my shirt.

Barney helps me to my feet, loops one of my arms over his shoulders as I stumble, my feet like jellyfish. “Then why didn’t you?” I snap, a flash of anger hitting me.

Surprisingly, Hobbs smiles at me. “Because I’d rather find out what the admiral will have in store for you.”

My father. I try to swallow down the unwanted sour taste of fear that fills my mouth, but it sticks in my throat, lingers. I stare at Hobbs, trying to hide my fear. “Until then, stay out of sight until you’re called for,” Hobbs says with a sneer. “Clearly you’re not needed up here.”

Barney grabs my arm, says, “We need to get you cleaned up.”

I know it’s an excuse to run, to hide, but I’ll take it. With Barney acting as my crutch, I limp away, hating the way my heartbeat thunders in my chest when I see the rest of the ship:

The collapsed mast hangs eerily over the side of the ship, angled like a plank into the water, leaving a trail of splinters in puddles behind it; half of the railing is bent and destroyed, broken under the weight of the mast; dripping white sails cover a full quarter of the ship, swirling with a tangle of ropes; barrels are shattered, spilling their contents—rice and beans and recently caught fish—onto the rain-slick deck.

But despite the significant level of destruction, that’s not what causes my heart to pound, to speed up. No, it’s the people who shame me. Men and women, young and old, bedraggled and half-drowned and bone-weary, hanging on what’s left of the railing and on each other, staring at me—and not with respect, like they used to. Watching me with narrow eyes full of accusation.

For I abandoned them. No…it’s more than that. I abandoned them to save a bilge rat.

I should stay above, help repair the damaged ship. But I don’t. The storm has passed, the sea is calm, and we’re safe for now. Hobbs is right: I’m not needed or wanted above.

Head down, I walk past them.





~~~





“What will they do, Barney?” I ask.

My humble steward sets a hot mug of tea on the table next to me and snatches my sopping clothes that lay in a haphazardly discarded pile on the floor.

Barney doesn’t answer, just stares at me with tired eyes.

“What will they do to her?” I say, modifying my original question to what I meant in the first place. Although I’m not so selfless as to not care what happens to me, I’m trying not to think about that, to focus on Jade, whose life hangs in the balance once more. I’m not sure what was more dangerous for her: being tossed on the ocean’s waves of fortune, or being tossed back on deck by Lieutenant Hobbs.

Barney answers this time, but grudgingly, slowly. “She…was…where she shouldn’t have been.”

“She was scared. We all were. She was trying to repair the torn sail and got spooked, went up when she should’ve gone down. Should she be punished for that?” My questions aren’t for Barney’s ears, but I ask them anyway, speaking my thoughts aloud, testing them out before I have to use them for real on my father.

“You went after her too soon.” His words pound like nails in a dead officer’s coffin, just before it’s set alight and pushed floating across the Deep Blue.

I disobeyed a superior officer. I abandoned the ship when they needed me the most. I climbed the mast to save a servant girl, before it was even clear that she required saving, putting my own life at risk.

And she will be blamed for all of it—that’s the worst part. Sure, I might be punished, receive some harsh words from my father, perhaps sent to the new worst-performing ship in the fleet.

But Jade will be…

My father is likely going to…

Knowing his temper he’ll…

(I can’t even think it.)

“My life is bloody well over,” I say.

Barney sighs, shakes his head, but he doesn’t contradict me. Because he knows. He saw her peg me with the brush, saw the burning desire in my eyes not to tell anyone. He saw me spending hours with her repairing the sails, talking more than any self-respecting lieutenant would ever talk in the presence of a bilge rat. He saw what I did today. He knows she means a great deal to me, and if she dies, I will die a little with her. Maybe more than a little.

Finally, he says, “You don’t know he’ll kill her.”

“I do.”

“For your sake, I hope you’re wrong.”

I roll onto my side and pull the sheets over my head. I hear Barney close the door. I’m alone again. My tea grows cold as I lay in bed, unable to sleep, my thoughts running rampant through the murk and cold of my mind.

I’ll die before I’ll let him kill her.





~~~





Eventually, I must have fallen asleep, however, because I jerk awake when I hear pounding on my cabin door. I blink away the churning waves and rising bubbles that cloud my vision, the last lingering remnants of an already forgotten dream.

There’s a commotion outside my room. Angry voices. But still the pounding continues.

“Yes?” I say, rubbing at the bubbles in my eyes.

Hobbs pushes through in a burst, but Cain’s not far behind him. “Leave him alone,” Cain says, pushing Hobbs.

Hobbs shoves back, says, “I’m afraid that’s not a possibility. I have a message from your father. You are to appear before him at once, not as his son, but as a witness to an unfortunate crime involving a bilge rat girl.” Every word is a nasally sneer, filled with sick joy.

“I said I would tell him,” Cain growls.

“You…weren’t given the order,” Hobbs says. Giving Cain a final shove, he exits, slamming the cabin door.

“What the ruddy hell happened?” Cain says when we’re alone.

I can’t tell him, not when he helped me kill a man to save her once already. And now I’ve gone and thrown that sacrifice away. For what? To be forced to watch while she’s fed to the sharp-tooths?

I stare at my feet, which are sticking out from beneath the blanket.

“They’re saying you saved her during the storm,” Cain says.

He doesn’t mention any details, but I can tell he knows everything. His eyes sparkle with pride.

“I’m no hero,” I say.

“That remains to be seen,” Cain says, his words prying my eyes away from my feet.

“What’s going to happen?” I ask.

Cain answers with a sternness in his voice I’ve never heard before. “You’re going to get dressed and go see your father. Deal with the consequences of your actions.”

“But what if…”

(…the consequence is Jade being killed?)

“You’ll know what to do,” Cain says, reading my thoughts.

Do I? What will I do? Fight him? Dive in after her? I can’t see it happen, can’t see another person I care about end up overboard.

(Blood in the water.)

“I don’t,” I say, sounding childish even to my own ears.

“You will,” Cain says, his tone now more like a pillow than a plank. “When the time comes.”

He leaves and I dress quickly, struggling with the buttons and with getting my arms and legs in the right holes. My hands are shaking.

Heart pounding in my throat, I climb the steps to the quarterdeck. Sunshine hits me full in the eyes when I emerge from below. Where were you yesterday? I think, cursing the skies for warring with the Deep Blue. If only they’d made peace, everything would be the same and Hobbs would be leaving soon.

But would things be the same? How could they? Knowing what I know, feeling what I feel: nothing can ever be the same. Eventually I’d have to make the hardest choice of my life. The war between the ocean and the sky has only forced me to decide sooner.

The entire fleet is here, each ship anchored and still in the calm waters. Although none of the vessels were unscathed by the power of the storm—their sails hanging limply, their railings splintered and chipped, their decks a mess of shattered barrels and snapped ropes—the Mayhem seemed to take the worst of it, the only ship with a broken mast.

But none of that seems to matter, the repair work left unfinished for now.

A crowd has gathered already, as surely word has travelled to each and every ship.

A bilge rat is on trial!

The admiral’s son is a witness!

The Mayhem’s deck is completely full, and those from the other ships that couldn’t fit have climbed the masts and the ropes of the nearest adjacent ships to watch. No one will miss this.

I expected something more private, because of who I am, but I shouldn’t have. Crimes are always tried in public, under the law. My father wouldn’t make an exception, even for his own son.

A hush falls over the crowd when they see me. Ignoring their stares, their whispers, I scan over their heads until I reach the ship’s center, where the main mast remains toppled like a freshly chopped tree.

I see her.

Alive and dry and breathing.

Her expression is stoic, like she’s posing for a painting. Even under the circumstances, I have the urge to smile when I see her.

My lips remain flat when I see my father, decked out in his pristine blue uniform, littered with gleaming medallions, his admiral’s hat dipped low in the front to shield his eyes from the sun, casting the top half of his face in shadow. His expression is a neutral mask.

And beside him: Hobbs, equally presentable, but grinning like a mermaid who’s suddenly sprouted legs.

Cain stands opposite, watching me, offering a slight nod of encouragement when my gaze falls upon him.

I push through the crowd, pulse pounding.

I catch shards of conversations, like broken glass to my ears:

“I heard he’s requested to run away and join the Stormers with her.”

“I heard she’s pregnant with his child.”

“A very reliable source told me she’s actually his sister.”

In another situation I might laugh at the absurdity of the comments. But not today. Not now.

I reach my father, stand before him with my legs locked tight at the knees, willing them not to tremble. Wait for his verdict.

Silence ensues, and I can feel Jade’s gaze, but I won’t look at her. Can’t. Not yet. Not until I know for sure.

He doesn’t waste time with formalities. After all, that’s not what the crowd is here for. “Do you deny that this bilge rat climbed to the bird’s nest, which is forbidden of her kind?” He says her kind with such contempt that it sounds like he’s spitting it, although his words are free of moisture.

“No, but I—”

“And do you deny that you disobeyed the order of a superior officer in order to rescue her?”

“No, but I can explain—”

“I’ve made my decision, Lieutenant,” my father says, finally lifting the brim of his hat to reveal his striking blue eyes.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be. I haven’t even had a chance to explain, to tell him that I’m the one who allowed her into the bird’s nest in the first place, which is why she felt comfortable going there. I haven’t told him that she was full of courage, trying to help save the ship when the sail ripped. I haven’t told him anything.

“For her brazen and illegal actions, she will receive eighteen lashes, to be administered first thing tomorrow morning.”

My breath catches, along with half the people’s on the ship, as gasps rise from the crowd. She will be spared! My father has chosen mercy over death. I glance at Jade, fighting back the biggest smile of my life. I can see a smile tugging at her lips, although there’s fear there too. She’s about to receive the beating of her life. Watching her be whipped will be heartbreaking, awful, the worst thing ever, but at least she won’t be at the bottom of the ocean, or in some sharp-tooth’s belly.

“Your actions yesterday were heroic, Son,” my father says, shocking me once more.

Hobbs’ head jerks toward my father, his eyes widening in surprise. “Sir, I really wouldn’t characterize them—”

My father raises a hand to silence him. “Although your heart was in the right place, attempting to save one life at the potential cost of others, including your own, was a mistake. Not to mention disobeying Lieutenant Hobbs, your superior officer.”

Here it comes. Here it comes.

“However, given the extenuating circumstances, what with the storm and the fact that Lieutenant Hobbs was only onboard the Mayhem in…an advisory role…I see no reason to punish you.”

His words are drops of rain, light and refreshing in the heat. Is he really proud of me? An airy thrill zings through my chest, surprising me. Do I still want his pride? For the longest time, it was all I ever wanted, all I ever needed—to be forgiven for failing him, for failing my mother. But knowing what I know now, I shouldn’t want his pride, shouldn’t need it. And yet…I can’t help but bask in it.

“In fact, you shall be rewarded,” he continues.

Rewarded? Surely, this can’t be. He’s never rewarded me for anything. I wait in eager anticipation.

“Sir, I really must obj—”

“Shut it, Hobbs,” my father says, and I grin, enjoying the way Hobbs’ frustration is growing red on his face.

“Given the strain and the danger that this bilge rat girl has put you through, there is only one reward that is appropriate under the circumstances.” His tone has changed and my smile fades away. I’ve seen that look on his face before, malicious and absolute, full of hard lines and blazing eyes.

“You, Lieutenant Jones, shall carry out the punishment on the prisoner.”





Chapter Thirty-Two


Sadie





Gard’s asleep when we bring the prisoners, but snaps awake in an instant when we rouse him. In the scant light, the dark parts of his eyes are huge, just thin circles of white surrounding them.

He orders us to take the prisoners to an empty, rarely used tent. The prison tent. During a few of the battles with the Soakers growing up, one or two of the enemy would be captured, rather than killed. According to Mother, it wasn’t our first preference, but it still happened.

We used to hear their cries light up the night as they were tortured for information on the Soakers’ future plans.

We push the prisoners inside the empty tent, their arms tied tightly behind them. We’ve lashed their feet together, too, so they can only take small half-steps. For good measure they’re tethered to each other. If they try to escape they’ll be dead in an instant.

The inside of the tent is bare, save for a thick pole running up the middle, connecting with thinner poles that arc down the sides and provide the enclosure’s structure. The center pole will be the prisoners’ home while in the camp. While another Rider and I hold a sword to each of their throats, two other Riders cinch them to the pole. They’re still tied to each other. They don’t complain, just stare at us. The one calling himself Feve meets my narrow eyes with a glare, while Dazz’s, the pale-skinned one from ice country, eyes are softer, more curious.

Gard storms in, Remy in tow.

Although the war leader’s giant form has to be intimidating to the two foreigners, they don’t show it, just watch him with what appears to be a mix of anger and interest.

I meet Remy’s eyes. Well done, he mouths. I respond with a nod.

While we stand at attention and watch, Gard paces back and forth in front of the prisoners, his boots stomping the dirt floor, his black robe swirling around his feet, making him appear even larger.

The one called Feve—who I can see, in the light of the torches planted inside the tent, has strange dark markings curling from inside his shirt and around his neck—furrows his brows deeper with each of Gard’s stomps. Dazz’s hands are clenched tightly in his lap, his knuckles white and blotched with red. Why have they come? They look poised to fight, but if that were the case, why would they surrender themselves?

Stopping suddenly, Gard says, “You killed two of our guards.” His thick brows are like caterpillars over his eyes, casting them in shadow.

“They tried to kill us first,” Feve says.

“You snuck up on them.”

Dazz shakes his head. “Maybe we should’ve done things somewhat differently, but we approached directly. We never raised our weapons.” Right away, I notice a significant contrast in the way these two speak. Feve’s words are rounder, everything slightly longer. Dazz’s speech is tighter and sharper.

“So you don’t deny it?” Gard says.

“Deny that we defended ourselves?” Feve says, mockery in his tone. “Oh no, we did that all right. Pretty searin’ well, I’d say.” A question pops into my mind: Could one of these men have killed my mother? A slash of anger scathes across my chest.

Echoing my temper, Gard moves forward, surprisingly quick for such a large man, and clamps his meaty fist around Feve’s neck, lifting him from the floor. Because they’re connected, one of Dazz’s arms gets pulled up the pole to follow Feve.

The Marked one’s face turns red as he chokes, but he doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to stop Gard from killing him.

Ten heartbeats pass. Twenty. Feve’s skin is sky-red.

Thirty heartbeats. Gard throws him to the floor where he grabs at his throat, wheezing, coughing, and finally hocking a clump of spit in the dirt.

Gard waits patiently while he composes himself. “Did you both participate in the killing?” he asks once Feve is sitting up again. Did you kill my mother? I want to ask.

“Just me,” Feve says. “I’m sure Dazz here would’ve, but I was too quick. I killed them both before he could even draw his…fists.”

When Dazz fires a glare in Feve’s direction, Feve smirks, the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile from either of them.

“There is only one punishment for murder in our country,” Gard says. “Death.”

“You kill him and you’ll have to kill me too,” Dazz says, his voice filled with tiny daggers.

Feve’s head turns toward his companion, and I swear I see a look of surprise flash across his face.

“Gladly,” I mutter under my breath, but nobody hears me.

“Now why would you say that?” Gard asks.

“Because he’s my brother.” Feve’s eyes widen and there’s no doubt this time that he’s as shocked as the rest of us. Silence fills the tent, expanding from the prisoners at the center and pushing outward in waves until I swear the tent is bulging with it.

They sure don’t look like brothers, I think. Clearly, Gard is surprised by the statement too, his eyes flicking from Feve to Dazz with narrow eyebrows.

“You don’t look like brothers,” he says.

“Well, we’re just the same.”

“As much as I’d like to kill you both,” Gard says, “our law only requires the death of he who committed the crime. But I’ll gladly let you watch.”

“Now hold on just one minute,” Dazz says, his voice rising. “Your men attacked us. We did nothing wrong.”

“You trespassed on our lands and killed two men. Someone must pay.”

Dazz cringes. Feve says, “What if I were to tell you that we have you surrounded by a hundred men, pointers nocked and ready to fly at the first sign of our lives being in danger?”

I gasp and hold it, picturing men, some brown, some pale, creeping through the forest, weapons in hand. We’ve always feared our enemies on the sea, but what if we should’ve been focused in the other direction?

As the need to breathe again grows stronger, there’s a commotion outside the tent. “Touch me agin and I’ll smack that grin right offa yer face quicker’n you can say prickler casserole!” a high-pitched voice shouts. It’s round and long, similar to Feve’s, but different still, more raw and pronounced.

The tent flap flutters and a brown-skinned face appears, wearing a scowl deeper than a well. A girl’s face.

There’s a guard on either side, forcing her to walk in a straight line as she does everything in her power to wrench away from them, despite how skinny she is. She only stops when she sees our other prisoners. “Uh, oops,” she says.

“What happened?” Dazz says, his mouth hanging open. Next to him, Feve rolls his eyes.

“We kinda sorta mighta got caught,” she says.

Behind her, another brown-skinned girl is pushed inside. She looks older, her jaw hardened, her frame slightly larger, her muscles more defined. Other than that, they could be sisters. “We’re ’ere to rescue the lot of you,” she announces, bashing a shoulder into the guard on her left side, who flinches, pain flashing across his face.

I gawk at the two girls, blinking hard in wonder. Because…they remind me so much of myself, except…brasher, less polished. Tough but a little unpredictable. More mouthy for sure.

But that’s not the end of it. Two more souls stumble inside, flanked by at least five more guards. There’s another guy who must be from ice country, his skin every bit as white as Dazz’s. He’s thicker and shorter than Dazz, but softer, like the difference between an apple and peach, and wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, so out of place for the situation.

The fourth new prisoner is another brown-skinned guy, but with no markings. His demeanor breathes calmness and control, his face unreadable, his steps sure and unforced despite the sword at his back.

Gard has stepped aside to let the new prisoners enter, watching silently and with one eyebrow arched as they’re lashed to the pole. A strange clump of brown and white.

“Welcome to the party,” Dazz says as the other pale-skinned guy is tied next to him.

“Of all the searin’ stupid things…” Feve mutters.

“Like you can talk, o’ wise one,” the skinny girl says, “it was yer idea to get yerself caught in the first place!”

“Shut it! All of you!” Gard snaps. Silence ensues once more, but it’s less absolute, filled with ragged breathing, occasional coughs, and lots of scuffling and scraping as the prisoners try to get comfortable.

Gard steps forward. “And these are the hundred men that had us surrounded?” he says, directing his question to Dazz.

“Uhhh…” Dazz says.

“I see,” Gard says. “Then the one you call Feve must die at dawn.”

Everyone starts yelling at once.





~~~





It takes a whole lot of screaming and the swords of each of the Riders to restore order. I’ve got the tip of my sword up against Dazz’s neck, and Remy’s next to me with his blade pointed at the smiley white-skinned guy. He’s not smiling anymore.

“This is burnin’ crazy!” the muscly girl exclaims when things have quieted down. “You steal our children and then git all hot and bothered when we come askin’ questions? That’s a load of tugblaze if you ask me.”

Things have been so strange and out of control that I’d forgotten what got us here in the first place.

We are only here to understand why you steal our children. Dazz’s words on the edge of camp—the words that stopped me from killing him right then and there.

I stare at him now. “Or don’t you know?” he says. “Is your so-called war leader keeping it from you? He trades the Cure for the Heater children. He tried to buy my sister to marry his son.”

His words bounce off my face, numbing my skin. None of it makes any sense. It’s the Soakers who trade for the children. That’s why my mother rode to ice country, as my father foretold. And what’s all this about Remy marrying this pale guy’s sister?

“Enough!” Gard snaps. “Enough of the lies! They won’t save you now.”

“Wait,” I say, my mind ticking over everything that’s just been said, trying to make sense of it. “We have to understand.”

Gard’s eyes narrow for a second, but then he nods once. Carry on.

“Why do you think we’re stealing the Heater children?” I ask.

“Not stealing—trading. But I guess it’s more or less the same thing. Your”—he waves his arms around the tent at all of us, at the Riders—“warriors attacked my village, burning and frightening the people half to death.”

“We killed the king,” I say, nodding. So far I don’t disagree.

“No,” Dazz says. “I captured the king.”

Gard suddenly strides forward, his expression wide. He grabs Dazz by the top of his shirt, turns his face toward the light. “Wait…I know you.”

Dazz’s eyes flash with recognition. “And I you,” he says. “You’re the one…” He trails off.

“Who saved your ass and left you with the girl,” Gard says. “Your sister.”

“And the king,” Dazz says. My eyes dance back and forth between them, trying to make sense of a story I wasn’t a part of.

“The dead king,” Gard corrects.

Dazz shakes his head. “No, you’re wrong.”

“I know when I’ve killed a man,” Gard says sternly, but there’s no anger in his voice, only certainty.

“Oh, the man was dead,” Dazz agrees. “But he wasn’t the king. He was only a puppet figurehead—the captain of the guard. I injured the real king and saved my sister. The sister who you”—the word shoots from his mouth like a knife—“wanted to force to marry your son, using my life as leverage so she’d obey him.”

“No,” Gard says. “I swear that’s not true.” Not a lie, just not true. There’s been a change in Gard’s tone over the last few minutes. He’s no longer accusing the intruders; rather, trying to get to the truth. “I would never…It’s the Soakers who were taking the children from Goff, trading for them. They must’ve been the ones who wanted your sister.”

“It’s true,” I say. “The Riders only went to your country to stop them. We were against the slave trade from the beginning. All we wanted was to send a message, to kill the king.”

Dazz stares at me, his expression heavy with confusion. He tries to raise a hand to his face, but when he remembers it’s tied behind him, he settles for knocking the back of his head against the pole.

“I knew it,” the guy next to him says. “I knew it when you only burned the empty houses, when you only killed the castle guardsmen.”

“So it’s the searin’ baggard Soakers who took my sister?” the strong girl says on the other side of the pole. Her voice is deep and raspy.

I nod, and then realizing she can’t see me, say, “Yes. I swear it on the souls of my parents and brother, may Mother Earth keep them.”

“And what of the Cure?” Feve says evenly.

“The cure for what?” Remy asks.

For the first time, the unmarked brown-skinned guy speaks. “For the Fire. For the Cold. For the illness that kills our people. Do you have a terrible disease in storm country?”

“The Plague,” I whisper, the word becoming bigger and bigger in my head, pushing on my skull. A headache throbs just above my nose. “My father…”

“The Plague,” Dazz whispers back. “It killed my father too.”

“And my mother,” the skinny girl says softly.

“Who was my mother, too,” the muscly girl says. So they are sisters after all.

“You say you have a cure?” Gard asks.

“Not us,” Dazz says. “Whoever trades it to the Icers for the children. The Soakers, you say?”

“Yes,” Gard says. “But we’ve seen it. It’s nothing more than dried sea plants, plucked from the shores and gathered in bags.”

“You can get it?” Dazz says sharply.

“Yes, but it’s nothing. Just plants.” Gard crouches next to me, as large as a bear. “You mean you think it’s a cure for the Plague?”

“Yes,” Dazz says, nodding vehemently. “Why else would the Heaters and Icers go to so much trouble to trade children for it?”

“Are you sure it works?” I say.

“It must,” Dazz says. “You say you’ve seen it. Surely you’d know if it had healing properties.”

“We don’t consume anything that comes from the sea,” Gard says. “It’s not clean.”

There’s silence for a moment as everyone processes what’s been said so far. Remy breaks the silence with a question directed to Dazz. “You say your sister was to be taken and married to—well, you thought it was me, but it could only be Admiral Jones’ son?”

“You’re his son?” Dazz says, motioning to Gard.

“Yes, but I swear—”

“I know,” Dazz says, forcing a smile. “You’re not the one who was supposed to marry my sister. Otherwise you’d be dead already.” His smile hangs for a moment, but no one returns it. “Who’s this Admiral Jones fellow?”

“The leader of the Soakers,” Gard says. “He commands their entire fleet.”

“I’ll kill those baggard Soakers,” the older sister says. Suddenly I’m starting to like her a lot more.

But then, looking at the pale face of the Icer sitting in front of me, my thoughts turn back to my mother, bloody and dying. “Did you fight the Riders when they came?”

“No,” Dazz says quickly. And then, “Well, yes, but not because we wanted to. The Riders were fighting the castle guards; we were only trying to get to the king, to get to my sister. We only fought those who tried to stop us. There were Riders who mistook us for their enemies.”

Cold fingers run along the back of my neck. He might’ve been the very Icer who killed your mother, the Evil says. Honor her! AVENGE HER!

I once more raise my sword, which had fallen loosely to my side, to his throat. “Did you kill any of them?”

“I—I don’t know,” Dazz says. “Maybe. I can’t be sure. We were protecting ourselves.”

“Sadie,” Gard says. “I was there. It was chaos, Icer guardsmen streaming from every nook and cranny in the castle. It’s very unlikely any of these ones had anything to do with your mother’s death.”

My fingers are sore from their firm grip on my sword. My teeth begin to ache from the grinding. I shake the Evil off my back, drop my sword once more. I know Gard’s right.

“Your mother was a Rider?” the skinny girl says.

“Yes,” I say. “She died from wounds inflicted during the raid on Goff’s castle.”

“I’m…sorry,” she says. “So searin’ sorry.” It’s not an empty apology—there’s real sadness behind it—and I remember her saying how her mother died from the Plague.

“What now?” Feve growls. “Must I die? Because the anticipation is killing me.” His tone doesn’t match his words and I realize he’s being sarcastic. This is not a man who fears death.

“You killed our guards. They had families.” Gard’s words are unforgiving.

“He didn’t want to,” Dazz says. “We just wanted to talk to you.”

“I am not a tyrant,” Gard says. “I know your experiences with tribe leaders have been…severe…but I’m not like them. What would you have me do?”

I’m surprised he’s asking for suggestions from his prisoners. I’m about to object when the unmarked Heater guy says, “A life for a life is the only choice. But not Feve’s life. The lives of the Soakers. They’re the ones who deserve to be punished, who have brought terror and sadness upon all of us. We will stand with you and risk our lives alongside you; we will fight with you.”

My heart races as I watch Gard absorb the offer. What will he do? My father’s prophecies roar through me.

There will be a great battle with the Soakers.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Gard says.

You will fight magnificently, maybe more so than your mother.

“I believe that you’ve been through a lot, that you’ve been harmed by the Soakers as much as we have.”

You will see him, the high-ranking Soaker boy in the blue uniform.

“And you shall fight, for war is upon us.”

You will kill him, the voice says, but this time it’s not the memory of my father’s words. It’s the whispered shadow-voice in my ear. The Evil has spoken.





Chapter Thirty-Three


Huck





I awake to a foot on my chest, pushing the air out of my lungs. I can’t breathe—I can’t.

I gasp, clawing at the foot, feeling only dead air and embarrassment.

No one’s there.

I expel a hot and angry breath, rolling over onto my stomach. I pound the pillow, once, twice, three times.

Darkness pours through the portal window, which makes me sigh with relief. Light means day. Day means punishment.

Can I do it?

Can I really do it?

There will be no blood in the water, for which I am thankful, but there will be blood; reflected in my eyes with each snap of my wrist.

I rise to my feet, ignoring my boots lying on their side on the floor and my uniform hanging neatly on the wall. Tonight I’m ashamed to be Lieutenant Jones, not for my past actions, but for my future ones.

Hastily, I exit and climb the stairs. The ship is asleep, its monstrous belly rising and falling on the Deep Blue’s breaths. Starlight rains down upon me, the beauty of which is only dwarfed by the full moon that hangs big and bright and low in the sky, casting a white pathway across the dark ocean, all the way to the land, which unrolls itself to the edge of the forest.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t see her, not when I’ll have to hurt her in just a few hours. But like Soakers to the sea, I’m drawn to her, as if my every step toward her is as vital as breathing, as drinking fresh water, as the very beating of my shadowed heart, which cries bloody tears.

Be strong. Be strong for her.

Chained to one of the lesser, unbroken masts, she watches me descend to the main deck, her eyes as wide and awake as mine. Despite the situation, the memory of the first time I saw her springs to mind—her glare, the anger rising off of her in waves, almost taking physical form. Unwanted laughter bubbles from my throat, defeated only when I clamp my jaw tight, allowing only an animal groan to escape my lips.

The look she gives me now almost seems impossible considering where we’ve come from.

“I was hoping you would come,” she says, sounding much older than she looks.

“How could I not?” I say.

“But I’m—I’m nothing.” Her words are defeatist, but they don’t match the position of her chin, which is held high. She doesn’t mean nothing at all, just nothing to the Soakers. Nothing to my people.

“You’re something to me,” I say, but even that sounds pitifully like nothing. “Not something,” I say, “someone. Someone important. Someone that matters.”

“You risked your life,” she says. It’s not the risk of dying on the storm-angry ocean waters that I think she’s referring to, but my life as a Soaker, as a lieutenant, as a somebody.

“All of that is nothing,” I say. That word again: so absolute, so final. And yet…I mean it with every part of my being.

“You can’t do this—not for me,” she says.

Do what? Then it hits me like a blast of icy ocean water. Why I’m here. Why I awoke and came above. Not to see her. Well, not just to see her. I’m here to run away with her. The realization fills me with more emotions than I can decipher in the moment. There’s exhilaration, a long-held desire for adventure and for change that fills me to joy overflowing. But the fear and the dread are every bit as powerful, grabbing my heart, squeezing it so tightly I begin to worry it might burst, leaving me shaking and useless on the wooden deck.

I drop to a knee, trying to catch my breath.

“I have to,” I say after a few minutes of silence and breathing. “I want to.”

“I won’t ask you to,” she says, lifting a hand toward me, rattling her chain. She won’t ask me to throw my life away. But would I be throwing it away or reclaiming it?

“You don’t have to,” I say, inching toward her. I need to hold her hand, to draw strength from her seemingly endless store.

She reaches for me, and I for her, my fingers buzzing with excitement, a hair’s breadth from hers.

“Son?” my father says.

I jerk back, shuddering, clutching my hand to my gut as if it’s been stung. I turn to face him, expecting the worst.

Instead, he says only, “Walk with me.”

Everything in me wants to deny him, to cast away the lifelong respect and admiration I’ve held for the man who raised me, who taught me, who groomed me to be a leader, but I can’t. His simple request holds power over me, cutting the tethers that link me to Jade. I cast an apologetic glance back at her as I fall into step beside the admiral. Her eyes are flat and noncommittal.

Together, father and son, we climb the steps to the quarterdeck. Silent, we walk to the bow, my father’s fingers grazing the unused wheel as we pass.

He rests his hands on the railing when we reach it, stretching his gaze out over the endless waters. Naturally, I do the same, mimicking his movements, like I’ve always done. When I realize it, I pull my hands away from the wooden barrier, lean a hip into it, cross one leg over the other. Anything to look different than him.

“I never had a chance to tell you that story about your mother,” Father says, raising his chin slightly, the ball in his neck bobbing.

“No,” I say, dragging out the word, wondering whether I still want to hear what he has to say.

“You can’t be with a bilge rat,” he says, changing the subject quickly and drastically.

I snap a look at him, but he doesn’t return it. He knows. Maybe he’s known since Hobbs first accused me, and yet…he hasn’t acted upon it—not yet anyway.

“I’m not who you think I am,” I say.

“You’re EXACTLY who I think you are,” my father says, his tone and demeanor changing as quickly as the topic of conversation. His shoulders are rising and falling with each breath, the hard lines of his face quivering.

I say nothing, my skin cold and numb.

“I could’ve made you kill her, you know,” he says after his breathing returns to normal. His tone is calm again, controlled.

“You couldn’t have made me do it,” I say before I can think better of it. But I’m glad for saying it. The truth seems to scrape the numbness away, spreading warmth through me.

“One way or another, I could end her,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Why didn’t you?” I ask, slicing the night with my words.

“Because I don’t want to lose you,” he says. I stare at him, and even when he finally meets my eyes, I don’t try to hide my surprise. “It’s true,” he continues. “I know I don’t show it often, but I care about you. I want the best for you. And the best is not her.”

His last words should anger me but they don’t, because I’ve never seen this side of him—have never felt this side of him. Is it real?

“Then don’t make me punish her,” I say.

“Her crimes cannot go without repercussions,” he says. “And you must be the one to do it, to send a message to the men, to stamp out the rumors. And then you’ll be moved to another ship, and you’ll never see her again. It’s for the best, Son. You are the future of the Jones’ line of Soaker leadership. It is your duty.”

No!

no!

no.

(no?)

Each time I think the word, more and more doubt creeps into my mind, because my father believes in me now. He trusts me to continue the Soaker tradition, to lead our people someday. How can I deny him that? How can I deny him when I’ve failed him in the worst way possible? And then I remember how our conversation started.

“What did you want to tell me about Mother?” I ask, shaking my head, because just speaking her name causes images to flash in my mind: her panic-stricken face; my father’s hardened, accusing stare; the swarming sharp-tooths.

The images are dispelled only when my father speaks again. “Your mother’s death wasn’t exactly as you remember,” he says.

I close my eyes, try to remember that night. For once, when I actually want to, I can’t. I see only black, spotted with the memory of twinkling stars.

“I saw everything,” my father says, which is what scares me the most. He saw how I failed—he saw my weakness. I almost can’t believe we’re talking about that night after so many yars of pretending it never happened.

“She didn’t fall,” he says, and I realize he’s in as much denial as I am.

“Father,” I say, unsure of what I’ll say next.

But I never find out, because he rushes on. “Your mother arrived early at the rail for a reason that night, Son. And it wasn’t to meet you. At first she thought she wanted to see you, to say her goodbyes, but in the end she didn’t have the courage.”

My eyes flash open, searching for the truth in my father’s eyes. Goodbyes? Courage? It wasn’t to meet you. Then why…?

Something breaks inside me—a barrier or a bone or my very heart. And I remember.

I remember.

(I don’t want to, but I do.)

Mother’s at the railing, not looking out over the water like she normally does, but straight down, into the depths of the Deep Blue. Her whole body seems tired, slumped, like her skin’s hanging limply from her bones. She doesn’t hear me coming. Doesn’t look back at me. There is no wave, no unexpected lurch of the ship.

She swings a leg over the railing, and I know exactly what’s happening. Despite my long-held childish beliefs that everything’s going to be okay, that we’re a happy family, I know deep in the throes of my soul that nothing’s okay. I’ve heard the arguing, the fighting; I’ve seen the bruises and the welts, the days when she can’t show her black-eyed face above deck.

Like in my memory, I run, but not to save my mother from a tragic accident caused by a rogue wave and a random loss of balance…but from herself.

She’s going to kill herself.

No, she does kill herself. And it’s not my fault, not really, but still it is, because I’m too slow—so pathetically slow—that when I reach her she’s already gone, into the salt and the spray and the battling fins.

In my memories, I meet my father’s glare and finally, I know. He’s not angry at me, but at her—at my mother. For what?

“Father, why?” I say, still in the memory, forcing a question at his narrowed eyes and tight lips.

But I’ve spoken it out loud in the present, too, and my father grips my shoulder, chasing away the memory with a squeeze. “She left us,” he says. “She left us both.”

And then I’m crying into his shoulder, crying so hard it burns my eyes and strains at my muscles.

He suffers me for a while, his arm stiff and uncomfortable around me, but finally says, “And that’s why you need to take a wife from ice country.”

I stop crying suddenly, pull away from him. “Mother’s death has nothing to do with who I marry,” I say, wiping at my face with my sleeve.

“Your mother was a hard woman. Disobedient. Like that bilge rat girl of yours. You need someone who will do as they’re told, obey you, support you in all things.”

“Don’t speak ill of my mother, or Jade,” I say, feeling a sudden urge to lash out, to hit him, regardless of the consequences. I hold my hands firmly against my hips, shocked at my own impulses. I’ve never had thoughts like these before. I’m changing…

But why? And do I want to?

I look away from him, wishing he’d disappear.

His hand is on my throat in an instant, squeezing hard enough to make breathing difficult, but not enough to cut it off entirely. “From this point on, you will do as you’re told. Until I die, I’m still the admiral of this fleet and your commander. You will whip that girl, you will leave this ship, and you will take a wife from ice country.”

He throws me to the deck and stomps away, leaving me gasping and clutching at my neck, just as the sky begins to turn pink on the horizon.





Chapter Thirty-Four


Sadie





Although I think we all trust the foreigners—probably more than we should—they remain tied in the tent as a matter of prudence, and so they don’t frighten the rest of the camp. Only Riders are permitted to see them. When the time comes to fight, they’ll be fitted with weapons and, only then, set free.

I don’t know quite how I feel about it, but I’m not dissatisfied with the result. Not when their appearance has finally set in motion the future predicted by my father. My future, my destiny—one that will give me the opportunity for vengeance.

Preparing for war isn’t difficult or time consuming, not when you’ve waged war your entire life. The horses are armored with thick skins. Swords and knives are sharpened. Extra food rations are allotted to each Rider.

But are the new Rider’s ready? Are the horses ready? Will Passion and Bolt and the other new horses run toward violence when it’s asked of them? Or will they run away, back toward safety?

We won’t truly know until the time comes, when death stares us in the face in the form of the sword-wielding Soakers. We can only hope the limited training has been enough and that Mother Earth will protect us.

Until then, there’s nothing to do but wait.

I hate waiting, because it means I have time to think by the Big Fire. Far too much time.

I’m thankful when Remy drops in beside me, his presence instantly calming my frayed nerves.

“Can you believe they thought Gard wanted that guy’s sister to marry me?” he says, a smile playing on his lips.

I smile back. “You only wish it were that easy to find a wife,” I say.

He laughs. “True. The type of girl I’m interested in is much more of a challenge.” His words are as light as the air, but I find myself breathless, almost like when I first spoke to him in the stables. It seems like so long ago. A lifetime. No, three lifetimes: my mother’s and father’s, and his cousin’s.

I gulp down a breath and say, “Really? Anyone in particular in mind?”

His eyes dance with laughter, although he keeps his lips straight. “Well, there is this Healer apprentice on the east side of camp,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, unable to stop the word from spilling out. I flush, turn away, try to hide the embarrassment that surely stains my cheeks.

“I’m kidding,” Remy says, laughing with his whole body. He touches my arm, his fingers burning into my skin. “I’ve only ever thought of you in that way.”





~~~





After Remy’s mad and unexpected declaration, I take my leave, making some excuse about having to water Passion, even though I already watered her three times.

I walk alone, my mind spinning with Remy and the foreigners and war war war! My heart beats with each step as I squeeze my fists and push, first Remy, and then war, out of my thoughts. The word foreigners, however, lingers like a vapor in the air, and I find myself standing in front of the prison tent.

The Rider on guard looks at me curiously. “Sadie?” she says.

“I want to see the prisoners,” I say unnecessarily, as she’s already moved aside.

I step inside, my eyes quickly adjusting to the darker tent-filtered lighting within. Feve and Dazz stare at me. The skinny girl and the smiley pale guy also turn to look. The muscly girl and the unmarked guy are tied to the opposite side, facing away.

“The one who would stab first and ask questions later,” Dazz says, but it’s not an insult, just a joke.

I allow myself a thin smile. “Says the one who would walk into an enemy camp demanding answers.”

“We got them, didn’t we?”

Something tells me his cavalier attitude has carried him this far and he won’t abandon it anytime soon. I stride inside, allowing my robe to whirl around me the way my mother’s always did.

I move past Feve, settle in front of the skinny girl. “I’m Sadie. Your name?”

“Siena,” she says. “I’ll take a bundle of pointers and a tight-strung bow.”

I laugh. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen. Old enough to have a kid but I’ll skip that if it’s all the same to you.”

I almost choke on her words. Old enough for a child? Having a family of my own is the last thing on my mind. I say, “I’m nearly sixteen. And I’ll skip the kid for now too. You’ll get your bow and arrows—I promise.”

“I’m Skye,” her sister says. “I’d shake yer hand, but seein’ as how mine’s tied to a pole…”

“I’m not going to untie you,” I say. “Can you fight?”

“Like nothing you ain’t ever seen,” Siena says, answering for her.

“We’ll see about that,” I say. But inside I’m thinking, If not for the color of their skin, which is three shades too light, these two could be my sisters.

Continuing around the prisoner circle, I come to the unmarked brown-skinned guy. “And you are…” I say.

“Circ,” he says. Up close, I notice that Circ is built like a Rider, tall and cut like stone.

“You’re a warrior?” I guess.

“We say Hunter,” he says.

“Can you ride?”

“Ride what?”

“A horse. A steed. A stallion.”

“Can tugs sprout wings and fly like searin’ angels?” Siena says from around the pole.

I think that’s a no, but I look to Circ for confirmation. He flashes a smile and shakes his head. “She meant no, but rarely does Siena just come out and say something directly. That’s one of the many reasons I love her.” His calm and unquestionable declaration of love for the skinny girl on the other side of the tent pole takes me by surprise. For better or worse, my people don’t speak of love so easily.

Should love be declared as casually and easily as plucking a flower from off a stem? Or is it something to be held on to, like a gemstone, brought out only on the rarest and most special occasions, whispered like a secret to only the most deserving of ears?

Either way, I feel the truth of Circ’s words and I envy him. Siena, too. They seem so sure of themselves; whereas the only thing I’m sure of is my calling as a Rider.

I move on to the second pale-skinned person in the room, the one sitting next to Dazz. He’s shorter and softer around the edges than the other males. I open my lips to speak, but he cuts me off.

“Buff,” he says. “That’s my name. And before you ask whether I’d like to go with you to the campfire and sip on ’quiddy and nibble on bear fritters, or whatever it is you eat around here, I have to decline, with regret. You see, I’ve got a lovely lady waiting back in ice country for me. I’d hate to disappoint her, even for a pretty little thing like you.”

I’m speechless. Has the whole world gone mad and started saying every last thing on its mind? I try to collect my thoughts, my cheeks on fire. “I wasn’t…I wasn’t going to ask you any such thing,” I say.

“Weren’t you?” Buff says.

“No.”

“My mistake.” He shrugs, like it was nothing more than a misunderstanding.

“And I’m spoken for,” I add quickly.

“You are?”

“I am.” Am I? Remy’s words burn in my ears. I’ve only ever thought of you in that way.

I desperately want to divert the attention away from me. “And what about you?” I say to Dazz.

“What about me what?” he asks. His thin beard makes him look older than I suspect he is. Through the layer of facial fur, there’s a youthful face, strangely without color. Between him and Buff, they’re the first light-skinned people I’ve been this close to. I almost want to reach out and touch him to see if he breaks, shatters into a thousand pieces like glass.

“Are you spoken for?” I ask, not because I have any interest in him, but because it seems to be a popular topic of conversation amongst the group.

“Who’s askin’?” Skye says, the answer in her sharp tone.

“Oh, so you two are…I mean you’re…”

“Together,” Dazz says. “Yes, Skye and I are a thing.”

“What do you mean a thing,” Skye says, twisting her neck to shoot a glare at Dazz.

“Don’t get your pretty little lady-skivvies all twisted up,” Dazz says. “It’s just something we say in ice country when you’re exclusively with one girl.”

“That better be what yer sayin’,” Skye says. “Or I’ll knock you out, just like I did when we first met.” I have to raise a hand to hide my laugh at their banter. I can picture Skye clocking Dazz, leaving a dark bruise on his cheek and his ego.

I still can’t believe I’m talking to Heaters and Icers. It’s like the earth has been raised on an angle, and all the tribes of the earth have slid down, down, down, all the way to the ocean.

The only one who hasn’t spoken since I entered is Feve, the marked man. I stand in front of him now. “Since you’re so curious about all of our personal lives, yes, I’m spoken for. Married, with a family.” Although his words surprise me—I didn’t think a man so serious and mysterious-looking would be so…settled—it’s not what I was going to ask.

“What do your markings mean?” I ask, wishing I could see them all. No one in my tribe marks themselves, probably because our skin is already so dark we wouldn’t be able to see it.

Feve’s eyes pierce my gaze, unflinching. “Each straight marking is for someone I’ve saved,” he says, pausing to look back at his exposed forearm, which has a straight arrow sketched into it.

I admire the simple beauty of the drawing, which is so lifelike, almost as if you could pluck it from off his skin, string it, and shoot it high in the air, piercing the gray-shrouded sky. Around the arrow are numerous curved markings: a crescent moon, softly glowing; a metal chain; a coiled snake. There are other curved markings too, ones that don’t take on any particular form, like they were drawn hastily, in random designs. They disappear under his shirt and reappear on his neck, arcing behind his back. He must have hundreds of curved markings for every straight one.

“And what do the curved markings represent?” I ask, unable to wrest my eyes from the graceful shapes.

“Each curved marking is for someone I’ve killed.”





~~~





We aren’t waiting for them to come to us. For once, we’ll take the fight to the Soakers, to show them that the tribes of the earth will not allow their evil to go unpunished.

The scouts are back and have located the Soaker fleet, anchored just off the coast a few hours ride south of us. Fatefully close.

I’m thankful the six foreigners will ride with us today. Although they’re a strange mixture of jokes, ferocity, and unabashed confidence, I can tell each one of them is a fighter in their own right. Better with us then against us.

Each will sit behind a Rider, at least until the battle begins. Then they’ll be free to drop down, to run away if they choose. I suspect they’ll fight to the bloody end.

They’re untied and standing in a group under close guard. Gard has allowed them to choose their weapons, although they’ll be held by their assigned riding partner until we reach the battle. Only then will they be handed over.

Siena, as requested, has already received her bow, which she’s been flexing and playing with from the moment she grasped it. It’s clear she knows how to use it. She’ll get the arrows from me later. Skye selected a sword, almost as long as the one chosen by Circ. There’s no doubt in my mind that she can handle it every bit as well, too. Feve grunted at two medium-length curved daggers that remind me of the graceful but deadly strokes of the kill-counter markings on his skin. Buff chose two short straight-daggers, polished to a shine, although he didn’t seem too sure of the selection. Dazz was the only one who insisted he’d be fine without a weapon, and it wasn’t until he saw the spiked clubs wielded by some of the larger Riders that he agreed to carry something.

Before I mount Passion, I stand in front of her, touching her white butterfly. “We will see this through together,” I whisper. She whinnies softly. “Your strength will be my strength, and mine yours.” I feel her hot breath on my face, see the understanding in her eyes. She’s no ordinary steed. We were destined to be together, each one half of a storm country Rider. Apart—nothing. Together—invincible.

Although I sense the dark presence nearby, the Evil has not accosted me since the prison tent, when it urged me to kill Dazz, to take my revenge for my mother’s death. I ignore it. Will it disappear if I pretend it’s not there? Is it real or imagined? Am I going crazy with unresolved grief?

I leap atop Passion’s back, relishing the light feeling in my chest I always get before a ride. Earlier I introduced Passion to Siena, who will ride behind me. I was worried that Passion’s pride wouldn’t allow her to accept a second passenger, but she took to Siena right away, so quickly I felt a prick of jealousy after all I had to go through to win her affections.

Together, we trot over to Siena and I offer her a hand, pulling her up behind me. Clutching her bow with one hand, she clamps her other arm around my stomach, squeezing tightly, like Passion might toss her off at any moment. But Passion remains calm, occasionally stamping her feet in impatience. She’s ready to run. Like me, ready for her first battle.

“Are you ready?” I ask Siena. Gard pulls Feve onto his steed, while two other Riders take Buff and Dazz.

“I don’t know,” she says, and I appreciate her honesty.

I nod, look back.

“Fightin’ don’t come naturally to me like it does Skye,” she says.

Although she might believe it to be the truth, I don’t.

A Rider trots past us with Circ hanging onto her like he’s in the middle of a fierce storm and she’s a tree. Behind me, Siena laughs. “It’s nice to see him doing something he ain’t good at. I never thought I’d see the day.”

For some reason, her light comment slows my racing heart and evens out my breathing. Remy and his horse sidle up alongside us, Skye sitting behind him. She’s not hanging on, just cracking her knuckles and laughing. Remy appears rather uncomfortable with the whole arrangement. “Back home they’d think we were wooloo,” Skye says. “It’s like sittin’ on a sand dune that keeps shiftin’ and bouncin’ between my legs.”

“Only you could make riding a horse sound so…interesting,” Dazz says nearby. Somehow he’s managed to twist himself around, facing the wrong way. The Rider who received the unfortunate assignment of riding with him is struggling to get him turned back to the front.

Maybe bringing them along wasn’t such a great idea after all. But then I see Feve’s dark expression, full of intensity and focus, and I know we’d be fools not to accept their help.

My attention turns back to Remy when he kicks my leg. “Be safe,” he says, before urging his horse forward.

Siena whispers in my ear. “I see.”

When Gard digs his heels into Thunder, starting him into a gallop, Passion springs forward automatically, not requiring any urging from me. On either side, the Stormers cheer us on, waving black squares of cloth.

Today every single Rider will ride.

Today we stop waiting for the Soakers to come to us.

Today we go to war.





Chapter Thirty-Five


Huck





She didn’t. She couldn’t. Why would she leave me?

I don’t want to believe my father, but I have to, because I remember now. I remember everything. Whatever wall I’d constructed in my mind has been knocked down; not pulled apart brick by brick, but destroyed in one powerful moment, like a thunderous wave leveled it.

The fights, her screams as he abused her, the days and days and days of silence that followed, as if by not speaking of the past we could wipe it clean.

My mother: changing. She became less and less willing to do my father’s bidding, almost relishing the beatings like a badge of honor, as if her version of the medallions on my father’s uniform were bruises and scratches and scars.

That night. She didn’t ask me to meet her at the railing to watch the sunset…no. That’s what I wanted to believe, because that’s what we always did. The sunsets were the one time my mother looked happy, her sad eyes sparkling with hope, as if the red sun could reach out over the Deep Blue and take hold of her, carrying her away to a better place, to a better man. Maybe it could. Maybe it did.

Her last words to me were, “Huck, Mama needs to watch this sunset on her own. Just tonight. Just this one night. It’s for the best—for both of us. I love you, my son.”

But I couldn’t stay away, perhaps because deep down in my child’s heart I knew.

I knew, and I tried to save her.

Like she tried to save me from seeing it.

Suddenly it all makes sense. Why my father would seek a bride for me from abroad. Someone obedient. Someone moldable. Someone as unlike my mother as possible. He never wanted a wife—only a slave, another bilge rat to do his every bidding.

I’m proud to say my mother was no one’s slave. My mother loved me.

Tears spill down my cheeks as I watch the sunrise. I reach a trembling hand out and catch a ray of warmth on my palm, and I can’t help but to smile through the tears. Because I feel her, my mother’s touch, her hand on mine, carried by the sunshine. She found that place after all.

“I love you, Mother,” I say, standing.

Then I turn to deliver the beating of Jade’s life.





~~~





Jade doesn’t meet my gaze as I approach, pushing through the crowd that has already gathered to watch. I want to punch them, to kick them, to shout at their carnal need to witness the punishment I’m being forced to deliver. I know she doesn’t look at me for both our sakes.

If my father hadn’t appeared last night, would I really have set her free? Would we have stolen a landing boat, slipped away into the night? My heart skips and stutters, out of rhythm, because I realize the answer:

Yes.

Even before my father shucked off his coat of lies and showed me his true colors, I would have left. The realization bends me at the waist, like I’ve been punched in the gut. I don’t need him to be proud of me anymore. I don’t need him.

Does that mean I’m really a man now?

Do men whip the ones they care the most about? If my father is any example, then yes, but he’s the last person I want to emulate.

He waits for me beside Jade, cat o’ nine tails in hand—a long leather whip that splits into nine thinner endings. Each stroke nine times more brutal. Each blow yielding nine times more blood, more scars.

Can I do this?

Do I have a choice?

As my father hands me the whip his eyes bore into mine, and I consider turning it on him, cracking, cracking, cracking it against his face until the casual smile he’s wearing is red with blood. His guards, three burly men with broken-nose faces, will be on me before I can snap the whip even once.

If I refuse to do this, what then?

My father leans in, whispers in my ear. “I’ll kill her if you don’t do this.”

With one hand gripping the whip, I reach my other hand to my neck, which is still tender. I picture my father’s hands surrounding Jade’s neck, choking the life out of her and then tossing her overboard like a bucket of fish bones. He’s not bluffing. He doesn’t bluff.

I have no choice.

The crowd jeers and taunts and stomps their feet. There’s not much entertainment on the ships and this is as good as it gets.

Although I’m gripping the whip so tightly my knuckles are splotched with red and white, I can’t feel it, like my fingers have gone numb. I take a deep breath.

One of my father’s guards spins Jade around, pulls the ropes attached to her hands tight around the wooden pole so she won’t be able to turn away to soften the blows. Her back faces me.

Sweat trickles down my spine.

I’ll kill her if you don’t do this.

Is beating her to save her life something to be proud of?

My father speaks, his voice instantly silencing the crew. There’s no doubt who’s in charge here. “For unlawful entry into the bird’s nest by a bilge rat and endangering my son’s life, this rat—”

“Jade,” I mutter under my breath.

“Excuse me?” he says.

I go to look at him, to repeat her name, but my gaze stops on Cain, who’s just behind the admiral. No, he mouths, shaking his head.

He’s right. Though I’m trembling with anger and fear and disbelief at what my life has come to, now is not the time for boldness. Boldness could end the life of the girl standing before me. And that can’t happen, not when I’ve begun to feel so much…so much what? What is it really? Caring? Concern? Righteous anger at her plight and the plight of her people? Something more?

I shake my head, tossing aside the thoughts that don’t matter right now. My father assumes I’m answering his question. He nods. “Good.” Motions to Jade. Continues: “This rat is sentenced to eighteen lashes, to be carried out by Lieutenant Jones. Are there any objections?”

Waves lap against the side of the boat. Big-chins swoop overhead, chased by gulls, chattering to each other. No one speaks. I am silent.

(Is my silence weakness or intelligence?)

(Is anything I’ve ever done right?)

“Carry on, Lieutenant,” my father says, as if I’m about to give an order to drop anchor or man the sails or swab the decks. As if I’m not about to change my relationship with Jade forever.

I raise the whip above my head.

The nine leather ribbons tickle my back.

I pause, thinking how easy it would be to chuck the cat o’ nine over the railing, into the sea. It would take my father a while to locate another one. But that would only delay the inevitable. And he might even take it to mean I won’t do it.

I can’t have that.

I can’t.

I swing my hand forward, not hard—but not soft either—just enough to bring the whip arcing over my head, dragging the nine endings through the air like bolts of lightning. When my arm reaches the point where it’s parallel with the deck, I snap my wrist.

Crack!

Jade grunts, but doesn’t cry out. Nine tears split the back of her shirt, showing her brown skin beneath. As I watch, the brown turns to red.

I did it. I really did it. Can I ever go back? Can things ever go back to how they were?

Then I realize the crowd’s booing, low and mournful, some of them spitting and shouting insults, like “Weakling!” and “Piss-ant!” My father steps forward, flush with anger.

Once more, he hisses in my ear. “If you embarrass me, I’ll kill her anyway. Swing like you mean it or the eighteen won’t count.”

My lips tremble, barely holding back my rage, barely stopping me from spitting in his face.

When he steps back, I focus on a spot above Jade, where the mast is stained white from the sea spray. It’s the type of uncleanliness Jade would normally go out of her way to remedy. I stare at that spot like it’s a beautiful sunset, like it’s Jade’s face in the bird’s nest, alive with near-joy as she tells me about fire country, about her sisters.

I swing, harder this time. Much harder.

CRACK!

The shrill sound echoes in my ears, slices through my skull, threatens to wrench tears from my eyes.

Jade is silent and I’m focused on the white-stained wood.

CRACK!

My breath is coming in ragged huffs and I’m on the verge of a breakdown. A low moan rumbles from Jade’s lips, but I pretend she’s someone I don’t know, stricken with the Scurve.

CRACK!

Finally, she cries out, and I almost drop the whip in surprise, because I’m not hitting her, I’m not doing it, I’m just watching the sunset with my mother.

I don’t stop. Can’t stop until it’s done.

CRACK!

She screams. I can’t look down, can’t see what I’ve done. It’ll break me as I’m breaking her.

CRACK!

Her cry has become distant, like a dream, fuzzy and fading and not real. The only thing real: Jade’s smile, her eyes, alive alive alive.

CRACK!

I’ve lost count, which I can’t do, because I have to know when to stop. I retrace my swings, try to work it out. Seven. I’m sure of it.

Again and again, cracking and snapping, just whipping a salt-stained mast, almost like I’m practicing for the real thing. Fifteen times already.

She’s stopped screaming with every blow, her reaction nothing more than a soft whimper now. Does that mean it doesn’t hurt anymore? Or has she simply screamed her lungs dry?

Three more.

My mind is red and orange and pink and yellow with a long-ago sunset as I bring the whip down once more. This time she shrieks, and I almost do it,

(I almost look down.)

but I remember myself at the last second and keep my chin tilted back, above the agony and pain and stark reality.

The second to last blow falls, but I don’t even realize my arm is moving, like it’s not mine anymore. Like my father has taken control, like he always does, forcing me to bend to his will.

She howls and my heart snaps in two.

One left. Can I finish it with a broken heart?

My eyes finally snap down when I feel him striding toward me. I want to look to the side, to see what’s happening, to prepare myself for whatever’s coming, but I can’t pull my gaze away from her.

She’s dangling from her wrists, which remain tied tightly to the pole, her wrists red and raw and chafed. Her knees drag on the deck, scraped and bleeding. Her once beautiful, brown skin is slick with a sheet of red, darkened and clotting in stripes of torn skin, like a battleground after a war, its trenches filled with the blood and bodies of the dead.

I’ll never be able to touch her again.

And then he’s there, my father, muscling me out of the way, ripping the whip from my gnarled grasp, raising it over his head like a scythe—

—bringing it down hard, at least ten times harder than my own strokes—

—Jade’s final cry, a horrible howl of pain and surrender—

—and then my father is raising the whip again, even though it’s been eighteen blows, and

the crowd’s screaming for more blood, more blood

and I can’t believe these are my people,

these are who I belong to.

I grab the whip as it dangles behind my father, just before he snaps it forward for the nineteenth blow. His eyes widen in surprise and he drops it, whirls at me, swings a heavy fist at my face.

I duck, lower my head, barrel into him, pushing him back with all my might, not stopping until he crashes into the crowd behind him.

We both go down in a tangle.

And though I’m ready to do this, ready to fight him, ready to do whatever it takes to stop him (even kill him?), something changes in the attitude of the crowd. I push to my feet expecting the stares of hundreds of men and women on me, but they’re looking away from us, toward land.

Toward land where…

…where in the distance…

…hundreds of black-clad Riders gallop across the plains. There’s no doubt where they’re headed, and no doubt why they’re here.

The Riders at the front of the column are carrying the black flags of war, flashing with shards of light from the bolts of lightning slashing from the sky above them.

A storm is coming.





Chapter Thirty-Six


Sadie





The heavy cloud cover grows darker as we gallop across the plains, the thunder from the horses’ hooves matching the thunder in the sky above.

When the ships appear in the distance my heart skips a beat, but then races onwards, double time, matching Passion’s speed.

Siena grips me tighter from behind.

Trusting Passion to run us in a straight line, I gaze over the thin stretch of ocean that separates the Soakers from us. Something’s happening. Hundreds of Soakers are assembled on one ship, so tightly packed they almost look like ants, crawling over each other to get into their hole.

The crowded ship looks strange compared to the others, like something’s missing. Like there’s a huge gap in the middle of it. Where the other ships have a thick, wooden pole in the center, stretching higher than any of the other totems, this ship has nothing, making it appear weaker. It’s not by design—of that I’m certain. Something happened to this ship, crippling it. Is the assembly related to whatever disaster overcame the ship’s wind-catcher?

The ants have spotted us. The barks of loud shouts can be heard over the crash of the waves on the sand. Soakers are pointing our way, gesturing wildly.

Someone must give them their orders, because the people of the sea begin swarming across thick wooden planks, returning to each and every ship in the fleet. Boats begin dropping into the water with white, frothy splashes. Men clamber down ropes, swords gleaming from their belts, filling the boats to overflowing.

Someone ordered them to go to war. Was it the blue-clad boy I saw atop the hill, the one in my father’s vision? Am I approaching the moment predicted by my father, where destiny will meet vengeance?

Yesss, the Evil whispers in my ear, once more clutching my shoulder. This time, whether real or fantasy, I don’t shake it off.





Huck





My father’s clutching the back of his head, where he must’ve hit it when I tackled him onto the deck, but that doesn’t stop him from shouting orders over the heavy murmurs of the crowd. “To arms! To the boats! To war!”

The men charge back to their ships, grabbing weapons and preparing the boats, while the women scamper below deck seeking shelter.

I’m in an ocean of activity, swarming and cresting and crashing about me, but I can’t take my eyes off of her.

Jade hangs awkwardly from her wrists, swinging slightly in the breeze. With her shirt completely torn away in the back, exposing her ripped and shredded skin, she almost doesn’t look human. Just a piece of meat, drying in the wind.

My heart sits in my throat and I can’t manage to choke down the sob that suddenly convulses in my chest. “Jade,” I whisper. “Oh no, Jade. What have I done?” Other than the slight swinging motion, she’s not moving.

As I take a step forward, the rains begin, swept onto the ships by an offshore wind. I barely feel the cold of the drops, which pelt Jade’s exposed flesh, mingling with the blood, washing it away in streams of red.

Beneath the thin layer of blood, her brown skin is almost indistinguishable as that of a Heater, slashed to ribbons and pocked with bulging welts from those of the leather straps that didn’t manage to break the skin.

“Oh no, Jade,” I say again as I go to her, oblivious to the war cries erupting all around me.

Right now, in this moment, she is the only person on earth.

My fault my fault my fault.

If I hadn’t taught her to repair sails would she have tried to save us in the storm? If I hadn’t taken her to the crow’s nest, would she have climbed up there in fear? If if if if…

…if I hadn’t raised my hand and struck her, would she be broken now?

At least I know the answer to that question is yes. Given the vicious manner in which my father delivered the final blow, it’s clear he would’ve brutally issued the punishment on his own if I had refused.

I reach her, withdraw a knife from my belt, grab her under the arms being careful not to touch the rawness of her wounds, and cut her down. Her body is limp and lifeless as it falls against me, her shredded shirt clinging to her front because of the rain.

Slowly, slowly, I lower myself to the wet deck, letting her lie on top of me, her head resting on my chest. I can’t put my arms around her, because then they’ll touch her back, so they stick out awkwardly at my sides.

Her eyes are closed, but her lips are open, breathing. Exhaustion and shock from the pain have rendered her unconscious. For that I’m thankful.

And now, while the rest of the seamen go to war, I’m content to just hold her until she awakes, drinking in the rainwater streaming down my face, quenching my burning throat.

“Oh, Jade, I’m so sorry,” I say, although I know she can’t hear me and that it’s not enough, that my words are but a drop in the oceans of forgiveness.

I raise my head as heavy footsteps clomp across the deck. My father stands above me, his shadow falling over my face. Water drips from his admiral’s cap, obscuring parts of his face like I’m looking at him through a rain-drizzled glass portal.

“Not as sorry as you’ll be if you don’t board the officer’s landing boat,” he says.

“I’m staying with her,” I say between clenched teeth. The time for listening to my father’s orders is long past. First my mother, and now Jade. Enough.

He has the sword at Jade’s neck before I even see him draw it.

“You’ll fight or she dies.”





Sadie





The first of the boats rides a long wave onto shore, allowing the heavily armed Soakers to leap out without trudging through knee-high water.

Another boat lands. Then another. Soon there are dozens, all in a brown-and-blue-striped line, scattering men with swords and knives like a pinecone scatters seeds.

Gard has halted on the plains, even with where the boats are landing. We stand in a long ribbon of black, both horse and Rider. As one, we melt into the storm, which has raised a light fog, reducing visibility to barely the edge of the ocean. We know the ships are there, bearing more men in more boats, but we can’t see them until they run aground.

“I can start feathering those baggards now,” Siena says from behind me.

At first I don’t know what she means, but then she holds out her bow to the side. Even as she does, Gard shouts, “Archers! To arms!”

Remembering the satchel of arrows hanging around my neck in the front, I unloop it and hand it to my riding companion. “Can’t hardly shoot from up here,” she says, swinging a leg over and dropping to the ground. Her legs tangle and she almost falls, but she manages to catch her balance with the tip of her bow, like a walking stick. She flashes me a smile, says, “I’d be lucky to hit a blind tug in a sandstorm.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I turn my attention back to the beach, where the Soakers are already charging up the slight incline to the plains, swords swinging with their arms.

“Aim!” Gard shouts. At the edge of my vision I see Siena nock an arrow, bringing it up to eye level. Down the line, dozens of archers do the same.

“Fire!” A flock of arrows sings through the storm, illuminated by dual flashes of lightning, joining the drops of moisture that rain upon our enemies. Soakers fall in droves, tumbling to the sand and tripping up those who were lucky enough not to be hit. Every man I can see is wearing brown. Where are the officers?

The Soakers reach the edge of the plains and pick up speed as their feet find greater purchase on the hard-packed grass than they had on the constantly shifting sands. Another round of arrows fly, and this time I watch Siena shoot. Her form is impeccable and her arrow lodges within the upper chest of a particularly angry-looking Soaker. When he drops, there’s no question it was a fatal wound.

“Baggard,” she mutters under her breath as she draws another arrow. “When I’m done with the lot of you, you’ll be pricklier’n Perry.”

Although I don’t know Perry, I’ve got a pretty good idea what she means. Her next arrow is every bit as effective as the first two, bringing down another Soaker.

“Hold your fire!” Gard shouts. “Riders!” My ears perk up. The Soakers are much closer now, perhaps only a hundred strides away.

I grip Passion’s mane. “You are mine and I am yours,” I whisper in her ear. She bucks, rising onto her hind legs, kicking her front hooves in front of her, anticipating the command.

She starts forward a split second before Gard yells, “Chaaaarrrggge!”





Huck





“I hate you,” I say, but I obey him, easing myself out from under Jade, resting her gently on the deck. Head pounding, I realize I’ll kill him if I have the chance. I want to kill him.

The admiral doesn’t move, keeps the tip of his sword at her neck.

“I love her,” I say, shocked at my own boldness. The time for caution and subservience is long past. “If you kill her, I’ll kill you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” my father says. “Get in the boat.”

It’s only then that I notice groups of bilge rats—both girls and boys—milling about near the edge of the ship. Every few seconds, another one leaps over the side. When they’ve all disappeared below, large rafts float into view, pushed forward by dozens of oars.

“What are they…” I say, but I don’t need to finish the question to know the answer. Anger rises so fast and hot that it feels as if I’ve swallowed the burning end of a lit torch.

“Today, even the filthiest of rats must fight,” my father says. Then, motioning to Jade’s sleeping form, he adds, “If she could stand, she’d fight too.”

My anger fades in an instant. My mind buzzes with a strange and unexpected excitement. Although everything I’ve done, every choice I’ve made to this point has led to Jade being bloody and broken, it also might’ve saved her life. She doesn’t have to fight, and when this is all over, I will go to her, I will mend her wounds, and I will take her away from this awful place. I will. I will find a way.

Casting a final glance at her, I stride across the deck to where the other officers are boarding a sleek, polished-wood sea-craft. Hobbs is already sitting near the front, along with a dozen other blue-clad lieutenants and captains. Even Montgomery is there, although he looks like he might be sick, his face greener than the churning ocean around him.

Cain waits for me. “Stay alive for her,” he says, low enough that only I can hear him. “The time for mutiny isn’t far away.”

I lick my lips. Although he’s helped me keep my secret from my father, I never expected him to go so far as to openly rebel against his leadership. “Thank you,” I say, clasping his shoulders. “Fight alongside me.”

He nods and slides down the rope. I follow shortly after him. Last to board is my father. I make a point of inspecting his sword, which is perfectly shined silver, not a speck of blood on it. Unless he wiped it clean afterwards, he’s spared Jade for now.

We push off from the ship and pull toward shore, which is nearly invisible in the growing fog.





Sadie





Wind whips around me and rain spatters my face, but Mother Earth isn’t trying to stop me—more like egging me on, telling me that she sees what I’m doing and she approves. When lightning flashes, it flashes for me.

We’re halfway to the charging Soakers and closing fast. I spot Remy, who looks dark and dangerous and ready, and a sudden and surprising lump gels in my throat. This could be the last time I see him. Then I notice Skye behind him, hanging on with one hand, holding her sword in the other. She sees me and smiles, a devilish, slightly maniacal, and remarkably calming smile that refocuses me.

There is only one thing I should be thinking about: killing our enemies.

Revenge! the Evil screams.

The Soakers are so close I can see the drops of rain—or is it sweat?—on their faces, see the anger and determination and fear in their eyes.

Twenty steps—I raise my sword…

Ten—I hold my breath…

We crash into the line of Soakers like a wave crashing on shore, Passion’s weight and strength battering through them like a falling tree on a flower patch. Swords poke and prod at me, but I deflect them away, hacking and hacking and stabbing and cutting. A Soaker falls when I slash him across the throat, a line of blood showing just before his skin gapes open.

A shudder runs through my body, filled with disgust and shame and excitement.

I’ve killed my first Soaker. For Mother, for Father, for Paw.

For me.

All those thoughts run through my head in an instant, but I have no time to ponder them, because another Soaker is upon me, his sword slicing through the air.

Clang!

I block it with the edge of my own blade, and shove him back. His body is swept away as a horse bashes into him, not stopping until the Soaker’s been trampled and bruised under its trod. I know that horse. With Gard atop him, a massive and awe-inspiring warrior, Thunder rears up on his hind legs and kicks another of the enemy in the head, sending him sprawling.

While I watch, captivated by the force of nature that is Gard and Thunder, Passion turns sharply, reminding me that we’re in a battle. Two Soakers approach from the side, as if trying to surround us. Passion kicks at one and he grunts, stumbling back. A ziiipping sound creases the air as an arrow lodges in his chest. He falls, spitting blood.

The other Soaker stops his attack and looks around in confusion just before an arrow catches him in the gut. I spur Passion forward, adding my sword near where the arrow entered, finishing him off.

We wheel around and I see Siena, bow strung with another arrow, having already moved on from helping me. A Soaker attacks her, but ends up on the ground with an arrow through his throat.

All of a sudden, the area around me is relatively clear, the battle having spilled further down the shore, as if carried on the wind, which has shifted, sending the rain swirling in circles around us.

Without command from me, Passion runs back toward the fray. I watch in horror as one Rider, then another, are struck down by Soakers in quick succession. The men of the sea don’t spare their horses, stabbing them through their bellies.

In fact, without looking very hard, I can pick out twenty or thirty Rider bodies sprawled along the plains, mounds of black and red. Littered amongst them are the dead bodies of brown-clad Soakers, at least double the number of our dead. But are we winning? To my left, more boats are landing on the shore, carrying reinforcements.

The first familiar face I see is Remy’s, but he’s no longer on his horse. For some reason he has dismounted and is sword-fighting a Soaker. He blocks a strike and then kicks his opponent back, where he stumbles over a dead horse carcass. The animal looks familiar and I realize it’s Bolt, Remy’s horse, killed in battle.

Everything about Remy, from his body language to the torn expression on his face, cries rage. With two quick steps he’s on the Soaker, stabbing him once, twice, and then more times than is necessary to kill him. Again and again and again, desecrating his body.

Finally he stops and looks up, tears in his eyes. He sees me and his expression changes sharply. Is it…concern?

Even as he raises his finger to point behind me, I’m turning, trying to raise my sword, trying to be faster than I know I’m capable of.

The Soaker sword cuts into my hip, all the way to the bone, sending ripping, roaring shockwaves through my body. “Arrrrrrrr!” I scream, frantically slashing out with my blade, slicing the chest of the enemy who snuck up on me. The man falls, his sword coated with blood—my blood.

Passion, as if sensing my pain, nays loudly, a cry of angst. “I’m okay, girl,” I say, cringing as another bolt of agony shoots from my hips to my toes. I stuff a hand in my mouth, bite down hard, trying to distract myself from what I know is a serious wound. “Go, Passion, go!” I scream through my fingers.

For the first time since I met her, Passion seems unsure of herself, moving forward first at a walk, one hesitant step after another. When I manage to kick her gently in the ribs with the foot on my uninjured side, however, she breaks into a run.

On the beach, a large raft washes up. Then another.

I forget the pain of my injury when I see who’s on the rafts.

The Heater slaves have arrived.





Chapter Thirty-Seven


Huck





I refuse to meet my father’s eyes as we cut through the rough waters, just behind the rafts.

They’re all going to die, every last one of them. Stolen from their homes, brought upon ships where they’re treated like animals—no, less than animals—and now forced to fight a war that has nothing to do with them.

Hatred burns for the one who raised me. What will I do with it?

The rafts land before our boat, and the children of fire country spill onto the shore. Beyond them, the battle rages. Men scream with anger and pain. Swords ring out. Bodies fall.

“Attack or I’ll kill you myself!” my father screams at the Heaters. They look back, unsure and unarmed, but then run toward the plains, toward sure death.

What kind of monster…? The worst kind—the very worst kind.

But then I see something strange, something that temporarily snaps me out of my anger. A girl, sword held high, silver and red and streaked with lightning flashes, slashing at a seaman, killing him. Her skin’s as brown as Jade’s, as brown as the Heater children who are, even now, headed her way.

She sees them and her body seems to go stiff, like all the grace and ability I just saw her use to fight the Soaker has been sucked out of her.

Then she starts to run toward the children, shouting something back over her shoulder.

Thud!

Our boat crashes onto shore, but I can’t take my eyes off of what I’m seeing, because there’s more. Another brown-skinned girl emerges from the battle, carrying a bow, running like bloody hell, following the other. Then there’s a third, but this one’s a guy, muscular and fast, but again, his skin is at least three shades too light to be a Stormer. There’s something deadly and animal-like about the fourth brown-skinned warrior that emerges, his arms dark and painted.

The other officers are spilling out, already moving up the sand, shouting orders at the bilge and the men already, although no one’s listening because they’re too busy fighting. My father pulls at my elbow. “Remember—you fight or she dies,” he says.

I grit my teeth and climb out.

Drawing my sword, I run after him, toward the fight, which has spilled onto the sand, right into the middle of the children, who have huddled together, surrounded by death.

The four brown-skinned warriors—who I only now realize are Heaters, like the children—surround the cluster of bilge, facing outward, as if daring anyone to harm them.

A few Stormer riders eye them, but, surprisingly, turn away and continue to fight only the Soakers.

The other officers have reached the edge of the battle and seem uncertain of what to do about the cluster of now-protected bilge. “Kill them!” my father shouts, and I’m not sure whether he means the bilge, or the four Heater warriors protecting them.

A few of the officers leap into action, Hobbs included, attacking the two Heater girls. The girl with the bow unleashes two arrows in short succession, cutting down two officers as if they’re no more than common foot soldiers. Their soaked-through blue uniforms won’t protect them now.

Another officer drops when the sword-carrying Heater girl stabs him through the midsection.

Hobbs slashes at her, but she blocks his attack, quickly countering with a flurry of strikes of her own. He jumps back into a group of other officers who are sticking close together, doing battle with a few dark Riders who have broken through.

Riders fall. Officers fall. The world spins around me, like we’re inside a barrel, rolling down a hill.

With the greater numbers, the officers eventually get past the four Heater warriors, who are barely able to protect themselves against the onslaught. The children break from their cluster, running from their own masters, running for their lives. A few of the older ones usher the younger ones ahead, hanging back, grabbing at the fallen and bloody swords and knives that litter the sand around them.

Hobbs leads the charge, urging the officers toward them, stalking them like prey. Why would they kill the very children who maintain the ships, the very slaves bought by my father? Because he ordered them to. Because they blindly follow his every command.

I have to do something.

I spring into action, running toward the brown children and the blue officers, watching in horror as Hobbs raises his blade over one of the kids. Without hesitation, he stabs the boy, pushing him to the sand at the same time that he extracts his sword.

“No!” one of the Heater warriors screams, the girl with the sword. Her blade is moving impossibly fast, cutting and slashing and leaving officers dead in her wake as she fights through them. The other three redouble their efforts to get back in front of the children.

But I’m closer—and no one is trying to stop me—so I reach them first, just as one of the other officers slaughters another child.

I act on a choice I only now realize I made a long time ago. I stab him in the back.

He cries out and falls, drawing every other officer’s attention, Hobbs included.

“You!” he roars. “Kill him!”

Three officers spring forward, and it’s all I can do to deflect their heavy blows. Tripping, I fall back—

And it’s over, surely it’s over—

And I won’t see Jade, not ever again—

And then one of the officers falls, an arrow through his ear, which is spouting blood.

A second one dies next to him, pierced by the Heater girl’s sword. She made it through. She saved me.

The third officer turns to run, but is cut off by the shadowy Heater. His two curved daggers make short work of him.

I struggle to my feet, holding my sword at the ready, expecting them to kill me next. Save me and then kill me.

A scream tears through the rain.

We all turn to see Hobbs standing over a Heater boy, who’s fallen to the sand, surrounded by the dead bodies of the brave children who fought with him.

Hobbs killed them. He killed them all. And he’s about to kill this boy too.

This boy who is…

My eyes widen when his face comes into view: skinny and scared and then screaming and angry; he’s the boy I fought on the day I became a man, in a time that now feels so long ago. The boy who beat me, who shamed me.

The boy whose life I must save now.

Hobbs raises his sword and there’s no time, although the two Heater girls are already running toward him, one with a sword and one with a bow and an empty satchel.

I pull a knife from my belt, trying to remember everything Cain taught me about knife-throwing—eyes on your target, shoulder and elbow and wrist in line, throw hard but not too hard—and heave it past the running Heaters, toward Hobbs.

The moment the knife leaves my hand, everything seems to speed up. Hobbs’ sword falls so fast, so deadly, but it’s not in his hand when it does. It’s gravity, only gravity, and the earth’s pull takes him, too, a moment later, my knife embedded in the back of his skull.

The Heater girls pull the boy out from under Hobbs, one of them clutching him as tightly as if he’s her son, while the other—the bigger, stronger one—stands over them, daring anyone else to attack.

She nods at me. I nod back.

The boy just stares, his face soaked with tears.

I turn away and almost run right into the two Heater men, whose weapons are raised.

This might be suicide, might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, but I drop my own sword in the sand, broad side down.

“I’m not your enemy,” I say.

“We know,” the taller, unmarked one says, his words round and long.

The one with the dark markings speaks, his voice coming out warmer and clearer than I expected. “We’re looking for a Heater girl. Thirteen years old. She’d resemble those two.” He motions to the two that are protecting the bilge rat boy.

For the first time, my eyes really take them in, every detail, every feature. The curve of their noses. The shape of their brown eyes. The texture of their hair. They appear more like sisters than tribemates. And Jade would look right at home next to them.

I gasp, nodding. “I know her,” I say. “She’s back on the ship.”

“Let’s go,” the shadow-eyed one says.

With a ragged shout and clangor, a group of Soakers pour down the beach toward us. At their head is my father.





Sadie





When Skye and Siena and Feve and Circ rush down the beach, I want to go with them, to help save their kinsfolk, but I can’t, because at the same moment I see Remy and Buff and Dazz, fighting in a circle, surrounded by at least ten Soakers.

I urge Passion in their direction, watching as Dazz clubs one enemy in the skull, knocking him out. But another Soaker manages to slip through and stab him in the shoulder. His grip relaxes and his club falls away. “Ahhh!” Buff yells, coming to his friend’s rescue, slashing with his short-knife. He discards one opponent, but is then knocked back into Remy, who’s facing the other way, facing an onslaught of enemy strikes.

Passion slams into the back of two of the Soakers, their bones audibly cracking as they fall beneath us. Two others fall by my sword. With Passion and I added to the mix, and with the element of surprise on our side, we gain the upper hand, cutting each and every one of them down.

On the ground, Dazz groans, alive but in significant pain. “Where’s Skye?” he asks when I look down at him.

“On the beach,” I say.

“Help her,” he pleads.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine. Just go.”

I hesitate, but then Remy says, “We’ll protect him.”

I nod and turn Passion toward where I last saw the Heaters.

The four of them are in a line, directly in the path of a group of running Soakers, a blue-clad officer at their front. Even as I gallop toward them, Gard and Thunder come in from the side, leading a group of at least a dozen Riders who have managed, like me, to remain atop their steeds.

They collide with the Soakers, bodies and swords flying everywhere.

The Soaker officer, a big man with a long sword, steps away from the pack of bodies. His hat is different than the other officers, longer and arched at the top. I know who he is: the admiral. Admiral Jones, the leader of the Soakers. He gestures at Gard, who stabs a Soaker and then dismounts, patting Thunder on the rear. Obediently, Thunder runs up the beach, toward and then past me, making for the safety of the plains.

Another Soaker officer attacks Gard, but he tosses him aside like a child and steps forward, sword in hand.

That’s when I see him slinking away from the crowd.

A boy.

A boy wearing a blue officer’s uniform.

The Evil hisses in my ear.





Huck





Lightning crashes, splitting the sky in half. Thunder booms, crashing through my ears. Men die, as insignificant as fleas compared to the power of the storm.

My father’s forgotten about me in the midst of the battle, and now he faces off against the war leader of the Stormers. I’ve only ever seen him from far away, from safe on the ships. He’s so much bigger this close. They call him Gard. Fighting him is what my father has always wanted. It’s also my chance.

Slightly back from the fray, I feel numb. None of this matters to me—not when she could be dying in the rain. Dying by my very hand. Not when a reunion   with her sisters is possible.

I turn and run back for the boats, grab the side and push as hard as I can.

I’m going back to her.

“Stop right there,” a voice says from behind.





Sadie





He doesn’t turn right away, so I say it again. “Stop.” My voice is calm, when in my head I hear only killkillkillkill.

This time he turns, white-faced and rain-slick. He raises his empty hands.

I raise my sword.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Lieutenant Jones,” he says.

Jones! It can’t be. This boy can’t be the admiral’s son, can he? But even as I raise my sword I know that he is.

killkillkillkill

“Please,” he says. “My father’s a bad man.”

“Yes,” I say. “You all are.”

Passion takes two steps forward; I’m close enough to slash him.

Yesss, ssslasssh him, the Evil says.

“No…no,” he says, but there’s not much strength in his voice. Only…sadness. For what? For who? “I didn’t want any of this to happen. I never knew…”

There’s a roar behind us and I glance back. Gard’s unleashing a barrage of heavy blows on the admiral, forcing him back. Soon, Gard will finish him. So if I finish off Lieutenant Jones, the Soakers—or what’s left of them—will be leaderless.

I turn back to the boy, who hasn’t moved. “You’re saying you’ve done nothing wrong?” I ask, angling my sword beneath his chin.

No more quessstionsss!

Am I controlling the Evil, or is it controlling me? I still can’t figure it out. I grip the sword tighter and fight off the urge to shove it through the boy’s neck.

“I—I…” He can’t get the words out. I expected him to flat out lie, but instead he seems to be taking the question rather seriously. Swords ring out. Men grunt and groan and yell. “I hurt her. The Heater girl, Jade. I hurt her because he said he would kill her if I didn’t. And I killed a man for her. And I saved that Heater boy from Hobbs. I killed him too. I had to. And I—”

“Stop,” I say, cutting him off. I have no idea what he’s rambling on about, but it sounds honest, like he’s ashamed of some things and proud of others, but all in all it doesn’t sound too good. Killing people, hurting people, saving people. A lot of stuff about Heaters. “Do you deserve to die?” Why am I asking him? Why am I delaying what I know I have to do?

The boy stares at me with huge eyes. “I—I…” The stutter is back. Him thinking, taking the question seriously. “I…maybe. I don’t know. Maybe.”

His answer surprises me. He sssaysss kill him, ssso kill him. Do it. Do it. DO IT!

I see Paw’s face, so innocent, so much potential. He beckons to me to save him. But the admiral’s son would’ve been only a small child, or maybe not even born, when Paw was killed.

And Mother. It was the Icer guards that killed her, although she never would’ve ridden to ice country if not for the sins of the Soakers. But was this boy really involved in all that? Doubtful. Is he really the one to blame? The one to kill to bring me peace?

Yesss.

“You can kill me,” the Soaker boy says, surprising me once more. “But please, let me see her one more time, let me touch her, let me tell her how sorry I am. For everything.” Suddenly, as young as Lieutenant Jones looks, he’s no longer a scared boy to me, but a man, his words filled with fire and truth. And goodness. I don’t want them to be—want to hate every last thing about him, but I can’t.

Nooo! He tricksss you! The Sssoaker tricksss you!

killkillkillkill

I grip my sword tighter, heat rolling through my knuckles.

killkillkill

Strength roars through me. Enough strength to cut clean through him, to end him.

killkillkill

But it’s not me, it’s not me, it’s…notmenotmenotmenotmenotme…is it? Paw’s face. Mother’s face. Father’s face….Father! His face, his calm demeanor, his words—yes, his words.

Our existence is not all about killing Soakers…the more important choice is not when to take a life, but when to spare one…your choice and your choice alone…it will change everything.

But no, it’s not my choice. The Evil, whatever it is, has taken over, is controlling me. Its lust for blood must be satisfied.

Yesss!

No! It is my choice. You are not my master. You are not me.

That’s when I realize.

I realize.

The. Evil. Is. Me.

It has been all along, my lust for revenge, a hot desire to bring someone—anyone—to justice for the death of my family. My choice and mine alone. Not the forest, not some mythical Evil forcing me to perform horrible acts. An excuse to make bad decisions. A scapegoat for my own anger.

Me.

KILL!

“No!” I scream, startling the boy, making him jump back, his hands shooting to his neck as if he expects to have to hold it together because I’ve stabbed him. But I haven’t.

You will never find peace, the Evil says.

“I already have,” I say.

The Evil spits and screams and fades…fades…fades…away, until it’s gone. And I know it’s gone forever.

I turn Passion and ride back toward the battle, determined to help end it.





Huck





What was that?

Jade’s face was flashing over and over and over in my mind, and I knew it was because I was going to die, and all I wanted was to see her before I did. But then…

Then the Stormer Rider turned away. She spared me.

My hands return to the boat, and all I want to do is push off, to paddle back to the Mayhem and make sure she’s okay.

Something stops me. A feeling. Guilt mixed with strength mixed with anger. Someone has to end this, and it might as well be me.

I run—no, sprint—up the beach, chasing after the Stormer Rider girl. Beyond her the battle rages fiercer than ever. Riders, on horse and on foot, battle seamen and officers alike, cutting, slashing, ending each other’s lives.

My father is locked in a one-on-one battle against the Stormer war leader. He’s outmatched, but his red-faced, deep-lined hatred is making up the difference. So much hatred.

Enough for all of us.

Enough to fill the world.

Enough!

The Stormer leader pushes Father back, seems to have him right where he wants him, and then he—

—I can’t believe it but he—

—he stumbles, loses his balance, falls.

My father springs at him and the war leader barely manages to block his attack from his knees, raising his sword.

Enough!

I make right for my father—who continues to slash at the fallen Stormer leader—from behind, and he doesn’t see me coming. I’m almost positive Gard sees me, but he doesn’t give my presence away with his eyes, just continues to protect himself from my father’s slashing sword.

I’ve got him in my sights, closer, closer, closer, on silent feet. I close my eyes and—

—lower my head, flexing every muscle in my body in preparation for the impact, and—

—crash into the backs of his knees, sweeping him off his feet, only then opening my eyes to find my arms wrapped around his legs, his body flush with the drenched sand.

His sword scattered off to the side.

And Gard’s sword at his neck.

Father’s face is awash with the paleness of surprise, just a flicker as he stares at me in bewilderment. But the flash is gone in an instant, replaced by an anger so red and so fierce I wonder if his head will explode. He spits in my face, but he has so little moisture in his mouth that I can’t feel it amidst the rainfall. “You’re no son of mine,” he says.

“If only that were true, Father,” I say. “If only.”

I stand, turn toward the remains of the battle, which is finally winding down, with most warriors on both sides exhausted, injured, shooting glances in our direction, trying to figure out what’s happened, which leader won the day.

“STOP!” I scream.

Any heads that were facing away from me turn, the Soaker girl who saved my life included. Her eyebrows lift in surprise, as if I’m the last person she expected to see back up on the beach.

“Stop,” I say more calmly. “Enough. Admiral Jones is defeated. We must fight no more. The time for war is over. He”—I point at my father—“is to blame.”

My father goes to say something, but Gard warns him off by poking him in the skin, drawing a trickle of blood.

“He’s lied to us all,” I say, my voice gaining strength with each honest word. “He created our hatred for the Stormers, because he lives for violence, for control, for war. When really it’s him and him alone that has brought us here. He trades bags of dried seaweed for the children of fire country, only to force them into battle, only to be slaughtered by his own men. You should be ashamed of yourselves. We all should.”

There’s silence, and then a laugh.

My head twists back to my father, whose entire body is convulsing with laughter, oblivious to his neck bouncing against Gard’s sword, which continues to slice into him, spilling blood from ragged breaks in his skin.

He looks completely mad.

“Shut it or you die,” Gard says.

“No,” I say. “Let him speak.” Gard’s eyes bore into me, but then he pulls the tip of his blade back an inch.

My father’s laughter fades. “So what?” he says. “So what if I live for this—for all of this? So what if I get my slaves for worthless bags of sea plants? So what? It’s my life, I’ll do what I want.”

One of the Heater warriors—the girl with the sword—steps forward, by my side. “What the scorch did you say ’bout them bags of sea plants?”

The admiral laughs again. “Goff, Roan—your leaders are fools! They perpetuate the child slave trade to save their own lives from the disease, but guess what? There was no magical Cure! They were just worthless plants! None of us are safe from the Scurve. None of us. Which is why none of this matters. What we do, what side we’re on, who we kill. We’ll all die in the end anyway.”

“Kill him,” I say. He has nothing left to offer us. He’s caused so much death, drove my mother to take her own life. “Kill him,” I repeat.

My father snarls at me. “You don’t give the commands! You’re nothing! You never were! You couldn’t even save your mother’s life.”

No more. I will hear no more. Calmly, I draw a knife from my belt, step forward, and drive it into his heart.





Sadie





Although the lightning is distant now, the storm moving past us, I’m as shocked as if every bolt is running through my body. He came back. The boy came back.

No, he did more than that. Much, much more. He helped end the battle, killed his father. Showed he’s not like him at all—not the enemy.

He leaves the knife stuck in his father’s chest, stands, looks away, out to sea, toward one of the ships.

Still riding Passion, I approach him and he shrinks back slightly, eyeing my sword warily.

“I’m sorry about before, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I understand.”

I nod. That’s all I need. “Go to see her—the girl you were talking about. We’re okay now.”

If I chased him with my sword he wouldn’t go any faster. He sprints away, down the beach, shoving a boat with all his might and clambering on board, his arms working the paddle wildly.

I look away from him, take in the carnage around me. Bodies—so many bodies—broken and bleeding, many of them not moving, some of them groaning and rolling about in agony. Realizing the battle is over, the Healers who rode behind the Riders are creeping from the forest, picking their way through the bodies, tending to those that still have life in them.

Gard says, “That was unexpected.”

I shrug. “My father was right,” I say. “As always.”

Gard looks at me strangely, but doesn’t respond.

“Is it really over?” I ask.

“There is always evil in the world, Sadie. But for now, I think it’s over.”

The pain in my hip screams out, but I ignore it, urging Passion toward the plains, where I last saw Remy.

Skye and Siena wave at me to stop, but it’s Passion they should be heralding, because she halts without any command from me. “Where’s that wooloo boy goin’?” Skye asks, pointing out at the water. I turn and follow her gaze. Lieutenant Jones is halfway to the ship that’s missing the wind-catcher, the one where all the activity was when we first arrived.

“To see a girl,” I say.

“He told Feve and Circ there’s a girl on the ship that looks like us.” This time it’s Siena who speaks.

“Go,” I say. “Find your sister.”

They look at the water, then back at me. “Uhh…”

“I can take you,” a man says, striding forward. He’s weaponless, his face covered in streaks of blood. He’s clutching one of his arms, blood seeping through his fingers. He’s wearing a dirty and torn blue uniform.

“We don’t need anything from you,” I say.

“My name’s Lieutenant—” I wait for him to finish. “Name’s Cain. Just Cain,” he says. “I’m friends with the boy…the young man that just killed the admiral. I’ll take you to where he’s gone. As long as you do the rowing.”

“Yes!” Skye and Siena say at once.

“I don’t know a searin’ thing ’bout what rowin’ is,” Siena says, “but we’ll do whatever you tell us if you can take us to our sister.”

“Are you sure—” I start to say.

“Yes,” they repeat, once more in unison.

“I don’t know anything about your sister, but I’ll take you to meet the Heater girl that Huck’s going to see.”

Excitement flashing in their eyes, Siena and Skye follow Cain down the beach to one of the boats.

Again, without command from me, Passion trots up the wet-sand beach and clambers over the dunes. The plains are rain-drenched and muddy, but she never misses a step. I try not to look at the bodies staring unblinking and vacantly at the sky.

Remy waves to me as we approach. Dazz is being worked on by a Healer, his friend Buff hovering over him.

All of a sudden I find tears springing up as emotion swells in my chest. The desire to be close to someone again hits me so hard I swear someone’s pounding on my stomach. I have no one to hold, no one to comfort me. My mother and father are still with me, yes, but too far away to give me what I need. I have no family.

Remy stares at me, his eyes wet with sadness. Or is it just the rain in his eyes?

I start to dismount, but a flame of pain shoots through my hip. With everything that’s happened, I’ve almost forgotten about my injury. I’m pretty sure it’s not life-threatening, but it hurts like being dunked in a bath of spearheads.

But I don’t need to dismount, because Remy runs to me, grabs me around the waist, pulls me down. The shock of the pain in my hip and his hands touching me is overwhelming, swarming over my skin and through my blood like a warm blanket and a lightning strike and the thrill of battle.

My legs wrap around him and the pain melts away and he holds me in his arms, kisses my neck, nuzzles me with his head. I want to kiss him, but not now, not with the bodies around us, not with the lives of our people so casually ended.

But I will hold him, forever and ever and ever if he lets me.





Chapter Thirty-Eight


Huck





As I climb the rope ladder to the deck, I’m scared about what I’ll find.

When I left her there was so much blood. Should I have fought my father then? Could I have? I know the answer is no, that he wouldn’t have hesitated to kill her then and there, but I still wonder.

I whipped her half to death. At least I hope it’s half and not whole.

Just before I swing my leg over the railing, I whisper a silent prayer. Deep Blue let her be alive. If only so I can say goodbye properly.

The moment my eyes find their way above deck, my heart beats erratically.

Because she’s there. Not unconscious and lying in a pool of her own blood—the blood that I beat out of her—but standing, looking right at me, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

My feet are nailed to the planks. I can’t move toward her, because what will I say? What will I do?

One of her hands pokes through a gap in the front of the blanket. Her fingers gesture me to her.

Does she mean it?

I lift a heavy leg, then another, stumbling forward. I don’t care if she forgives me, don’t care if she ever wants to see me again after today. None of that matters, because she’s alive. Of her own strength, she’s alive.

When I’m two or three steps from her, I stop again. Her black hair is wet and hangs in shiny strands around her face. She looks so calm, her wounds hidden behind the blanket and her emotionless expression.

What do I say? Should I even try for her forgiveness?

She speaks first. “Huck…”

I wait for it. For the anger, for the blame. It’s what I deserve. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. I have to try. “I’m sorry for everything. I’m a terrible, terrible person and I’ve lived a terrible, terrible life. Everything I’ve touched has turned to—”

“Huck,” she says again, but I wave her off with a hand.

“No,” I say. “I have to say this. I’ve hurt you in so many ways. I never should have let it go this far. I was weak, still am, but maybe a little stronger than before. My father will rule me no more. He can’t—not from where he is.”

“Huck,” she says once more.

But I’m not listening, my mouth on automatic. “You should hate me, you should leave me far, far behind. Never look back, Jade. Never look back at these miserable yars. Forget about—”

“Huck!” she says, this time more forcefully. “I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to move on. I forgive you.”

“What?” My vision blurs, but I blink my way back to clarity. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do,” Jade says, stepping forward, closing the gap between us by half. “You risked everything for me. You killed for me. You hurt me to save me. I heard what your father said. If you didn’t…do it…he would’ve killed me. I don’t blame you.”

She steps forward again, right up against me, her face just below mine. My arms want to wrap around her, but I can’t because of her ripped, torn back. I can’t hold her because of what I’ve done to her.

“Are you sure?” I say, feeling her breath on my lips as she breathes—really breathes!

“Yes,” she says, and then she rises up on her tiptoes and kisses me. Soft and tender and forgiving, and she doesn’t want to leave me, doesn’t wish to forget me, and I’ll never do anything to hurt her again—never ever ever—and although I’ve never kissed a girl before, it’s easy, because it’s her. It’s her.

I curl my hands behind the back of her head, careful not to touch anywhere that might be raw. We kiss twice, thrice, four times, just little pecks, before pulling away to look at each other.

And in that look is everything I’ve ever wanted. The pride of someone who cares about me. It never had to be my father—never should have been my father—just someone. Someone worthwhile. Someone like Jade.

If a rainbow were to appear, falling from the sky, coming down to shine colors for each of my emotions, it wouldn’t have enough colors. ’Cause I’m feeling so much, every emotion there is and everything in between, streaking through me and around me and across me and in me.

I’ll never let this girl go. Never ever ever. Not in my heart, at least.

“Jade,” a voice says from behind.





Siena





The boy’s taller’n her and partially blocking her, but there’s no doubt in my mind that it is her.

“Jade,” I say, calling out to my long lost sister.

Her little head that’s so much bigger’n it should be—or at least bigger’n how I remember it—pokes ’round the Soaker boy, the one who helped end the battle.

She’s the spitting image of my mother, beautiful from head to toe, although I can’t see much of her ’cause of the blanket ’round her shoulders.

Skye pops up beside me, a moment behind on the ladder. “It’s her,” I whisper, but I don’t hafta say it, ’cause she knows too.

“Burnin’ chunks of tugblaze,” she says, but her voice is way behind me, ’cause I’m already running, crossing the wooloo moving wood floor in five steps. The boy blocks my path.

“Get the prickler-burnin’ scorch outta my way,” I say.

“Sorry, I—I just wanted to tell you to be gentle. She’s injured. On her back.” The boy steps aside.

“Don’t touch my back,” Jade says, rushing forward and smashing into me, hugging me so fiercely that she warms me from head to toe like there’s a fire and about ten tugskin blankets inside of her. My arms don’t know where to go, ’cause I’m not s’posed to touch her back, so they just hang in the air all awkward-like. Maybe I can’t hug her, but I can kiss her, and I plant a dozen on her head, on her hair, which is wet and don’t smell so good.

But I don’t care, ’cause it’s my sister and she’s hugging me and I’m saying over and over again, “JadeohJadeohJadeohJade.”

And then Skye’s there and she’s hugging us both, and the boy’s reminding us to “Be careful of her back!” and I think one of us grazes her skin once or twice because she shudders but don’t cry out, ’cause she’s our sister and tougher’n a pack of green-eyed Killers.

We got no parents, but we got each other. And if Skye or me got anything to say ’bout it—which I ’spect we do considering we’re here, ain’t we?—we’ll stay together till the Fire takes us all.

“Take me home,” Jade murmurs into my chest, and I wanna tell her we will, but I can’t get the words out, which is stranger’n tugs sprouting wings and flying, stranger’n Perry the Prickler having something nice to say.

But Skye covers me, says, “We’re takin’ you home, Jade, you can bet yer life on that. We’re all goin’ home.”

I hear a gasp and finally pull my face outta Jade’s hair to see the Soaker boy staring out across the big ol’ pond everyone keeps calling “the ocean.”

And there it is, a sight I swear to you I ain’t never seen. Almost as big as the sky itself, arcing ’cross the waters, full of so many colors I couldn’t count ’em without taking my moccasins off, there’s this thing, hanging in the air, lit by the sun, which is fiery and red and breaking through the clouds.

“A rainbow,” the boy murmurs.

“No—our rainbow,” Jade says, hugging me even harder.





Chapter Thirty-Nine


Sadie





A week after the largest—and strangest—Soaker/Stormer battle, the first ever multi-tribe peace conference is held in storm country, which probably isn’t the best idea considering the dark clouds that are swirling overhead, always threatening rain.

But the boy—Huck Jones—and his friend Cain insisted on it.

Everyone is invited. Every last living Soaker, Stormer, and the visitors from fire and ice country. The Heater children who survived the battle sit at the very front of the crowd, their legs crossed underneath them.

Inviting everyone was also Huck’s idea. He said we all need to know the truth. It turns out there’s a lot more to the boy whose life I spared than I ever could have imagined. Even now, the thought that everything might’ve been different had I let my lust for vengeance move my hand to kill him tingles through me.

But you didn’t kill him. You chose not to. You chose right.

My father’s voice in my head calms me. “I love you, Father,” I whisper.

“What was that?” Remy asks from beside me.

“Nothing,” I say, taking his hand. “Nothing to worry about.”

He smiles, squeezes my palm.

Gard stands to address the audience. Although both tribes’ numbers have been decimated, and now the women, children, and elderly outnumber the young and the strong, there are many more than there could have been. We should count ourselves lucky.

“For the first time in any of our lifetimes, we are here to discuss peace,” Gard says.

An uneasy cheer rises up, but falls silent when someone shouts, “How can there ever be peace?”

Gard raises a hand. “I understand. When all you’ve ever done is fight, you know no different. I know no different. But I’m willing to listen, and so should all of you. Please, I implore you all, listen to what he has to say.”

Gard steps back and motions for Huck to take his place.

Huck takes an uncertain step forward. I hear whispers slide through the crowd like rustling leaves. “They say he killed his father during the battle.” “No, I heard he tried to kill Gard.” “Did you?” “Definitely.”

Huck clears his throat. “We were wrong,” he says. “All of us. Although my father’s leadership took the Soakers in a direction we never should have gone, we followed him. I don’t know why the leaders of the Heaters and the Icers let themselves be used by him—I can’t speak for them. All I know is that we have no excuses. We can’t bring back the dead. We can’t apologize for their deaths, because, although we are deeply sorry, we know words are meaningless when our actions have spoken so loudly.”

The audience is silent, craning their necks forward, hanging on his every word, recognizing the wisdom in them. He’s not saying what I expected him to, not making excuses or laying the blame solely on his father.

“We can only say that we want things to change. Those who refuse to be a part of it will be sent away. We don’t need them. It will take time, but we will try, if you will. We want peace. I want peace. What say you?”

Silence. Heads turn, looking at neighbors, looking at friends, at husbands and wives and children. No one speaks. No one.

And then…

A sound pierces the silence, but not a voice. The scuffling of feet, moving fast, scraping across the plains, skimming past the edges of the tents. No one is on guard, because who would they guard against? Every last Soaker is here, except for the injured.

The crowd shifts as one, gazing in the direction of the sound. Behind us, a form bursts into the center of camp, stopping suddenly when she sees us.

“I’m here to request your help,” she says, panting, sweat streaming from her brown-skinned forehead. Her voice has a musical quality to it, like the tinkle of a stream, or the pitch-perfect sound of a reedpipe.

The four Heaters stand, followed closely by Buff and Dazz. “Wilde?” Skye says.





Huck





The arrival of the new Heater has created quite a stir and temporarily stopped the peace process. I’ve been called into a private meeting to discuss what’s happening.

I sit next to Jade, who her sisters refuse to let out of their sight. From the Stormers are the war leader, Gard, and Sadie, the girl who spared my life. The four Heaters are here, too, along with the newcomer, who they call Wilde. The two Icers round out the group. A strange and unexpected assortment of parties.

Taking control of the meeting, Gard says, “Tell us why you are here, Wilde.”

She shakes her head. “Tell me everything first. I need the whole picture before I can move forward.”

I’m surprised at how boldly she refuses the Stormer leader, but her tone is strong, commanding attention and obedience. If I had to guess, I’d say this woman is a leader in her own land.

Gard stares at her for a moment, and then shrugs, an expression that looks funny on such a large man. “As you wish,” he says. He begins, telling her about the long struggle between the peoples of storm and water country. He tells of how the Riders discovered my father’s slave trade, how witnesses saw the bags of dried seaweed. How the Stormers never understood what they were for until the Heaters and Icers showed up. To his credit, his story is balanced. It’s interesting to hear it from another perspective.

“The Cure,” Wilde says.

“Yes and no,” Gard says. “The sea plants were sold as a cure, but they never really were. It was all an act of fraud by a master of deception, used only to get what he wanted: the children. There was never really a cure.”

Wilde nods, as if she could have guessed as much.

Jade’s sister, Siena, says, “Don’t make no searin’ sense. Why did my father and King Goff go to so much trouble for something that wasn’t even real? It’s wooloo if you ask me.”

Wilde looks at her. “We may never know for certain, but I have a guess. The fear of death is a great fear indeed, a major motivator; it drives even the best men to madness.”

Between Wilde and Siena, Jade’s other sister, Skye, says, “And our father wasn’t the best of men, I can ’sure you of that.”

Siena scrapes her toe along the rug, still shaking her head. “No sense,” she repeats. “How could everyone be so stupid?”

Wilde says only, “Men believe what they want to believe.”

Dazz, one of the Icers, turns to me and says, “Did you know more was being traded for than just slaves?”

“I…” I don’t want to admit it, but I must. The only way this—this peace—can work, is with honesty. “I found out not long ago. My father was attempting to trade the fake Cure for an Icer girl.” I pause, wary of Jade’s eyes, which I can feel staring from beside me. “He wanted me to take her as my wife.”

Dazz is up and moving across the room so suddenly that I don’t even have time to raise an arm in my defense. And then she’s in front of me: Jade.

Dazz’s fist is pulled back, ready to fly, and she’s standing in front of me, the guy who beat the skin right off her back not a week earlier. Protecting me from getting hurt. I almost want to gently remove her and let the Icer beat my face to a pulp. But before I can, she speaks.

“He wouldn’t have bloody married her,” she says. “He’s not like his father. Once I thought he was, but I was searin’ wrong. He saved my life more’n once.”

His muscles still flexed, Dazz says, “The Icer girl—she’s my sister. She almost died because of this Soaker’s father.”

“I’m—I’m sorry,” I say, speaking around Jade. I don’t know what else to say. “I wish I had done more, I wish I had stopped him sooner.” Why was I so weak? Why was I so desperate to obtain the pride of a monster?

“Dazz,” the other Icer says—Buff I think his name is. “It’s over. Both of the men who hurt your sister are dead or soon to be.”

Skye rises and places an arm around Dazz, pulls him back and down, where he sits blank-faced, staring at his lap, where his fists have finally unfurled.

Jade shifts over, once more at my side. She lays her hand gently on mine. I’m ashamed because it feels so good.

“Now please tell us why you’re here,” Gard says to Wilde, forcing the meeting back on track.

“The Glassies are preparing for war. But not just against us, the Icers too. Maybe everyone.”





Sadie





I want to go with them—with the Heaters and Icers, back to their lands to fight alongside them, like they did for us. Gard’s already said that it’s not the right time for us to wage another war, not when we’re not even sure whether we have an enemy. But my situation is different. There’s nothing for me here, right? My family is dead. The Riders, while still intact, won’t be needed now that the peace has finally been agreed with the Soakers.

“Is there any reason for me to stay?” I ask aloud.

Remy kicks my foot, startling me. I almost forgot he was sitting next to me in the sand. “I hope so,” he says.

“What?” I say.

“I hope there’s a reason for you to stay. I hope I’m a reason.”

“You? But…” I’m stupid, so stupid. I’m not used to this, to any of it. I’ve lived my whole life for duty, for the honor of becoming a Rider one day, and now I’m finally one and I don’t know how to be normal.

“I just thought…never mind.” Remy looks away, out to sea.

“No, Remy, I didn’t mean—” I stop because I’m about to tell a lie. I did mean what I said—that there’s nothing here for me. But it’s not because I don’t care about him, it’s just because…

“I’m not used to you yet,” I blurt out.

He doesn’t look at me, but a smile tugs at his lips. Although I’m not sure I said the right thing—do I ever?—I know I didn’t say the wrong thing. “You think I’m used to you?” he says, unable to hold back the smile that quickly turns to a laugh.

I laugh too and before I can stop, his arm is around me and I’m leaning into him and he’s kissing me, but I’m kissing him back more, probably doing it all wrong, but not caring, because it feels so—so perfect.

When we pull apart I can’t keep the smile off my face and I don’t want to. Things might be all messed up and sad and maybe getting worse, but at least what I’m about to say is the truth, even if only a few minutes ago I didn’t even know it.

“I have a reason to stay,” I say. “You’re my reason.”





Huck





“Tell me again that I’ll see you again,” I say, although I have no right to ask for such a promise.

I can feel an embarrassing number of eyes watching us, but I won’t let them ruin this moment, this goodbye.

“I’ll see you again,” Jade says, her hands curling around my neck, her lips rising up to meet mine. The kiss is warm, like sunshine, and I let it linger, letting her decide when to pull away.

“I’ll see you again,” I mimic, adding my own promise to the mix. “One way or another.”

“All right, break it up. Quit yer lip-wrestlin’ and love-talkin’ and get yer butt over ’ere,” Skye says.

Jade laughs and the sound pulls saltwater into my eyes. I’m glad for her—bloody sad that she’s leaving me for now, but glad that she’s found her sisters, that she’s going home.

And so am I. Back to the sea, to a new life as the Admiral of the Soaker fleet, where we’ll trade and live in harmony with our new Stormer friends on the shores. From now on we’ll swab our own decks, repair our own sails. Given the dangers in fire country right now, the Heater children will stay with the Stormers, protected, until a time when it’s safe for them to return home.

“Are you sure you won’t come?” Jade says, one last time.

“My people are broken and scared. They need me,” I say, wishing I was born to a regular sailor—that my duty was only to myself.

She nods, kisses me on the cheek. “I understand,” she says.

And then she walks away. She walks away and I just watch her.





Chapter Forty


Siena





I hold hands with Jade as the miles fall away under our feet. Jade wanted it to be the three of us holding hands, Skye included, but Skye said that’d be too wooloo, even for sisters. But she walks close to us, just listening with a half-smile on her face as Jade tells us stories, some that make us want to rush back and beat the living tugblaze out of the Soakers, some that make us laugh, and most that make us love her all the more. When she tells ’bout chucking her scrub brush at Huck, everyone laughs and Skye gives a “That’s my sister!” She looks like she wants to clap her on the back, too, but Jade’s still too injured and everyone’s scared to touch her.

I try not to think ’bout my mother—not much anyway—’cause each time she springs to mind I start to cry. She woulda loved to see the three of us t’gether again.

The guys, Circ and Feve and Dazz and Buff, along with Wilde, seem to realize we need some sister time, and they pretty much leave us alone, laughing and telling jokes and whatnot. It’s strange how well everyone’s getting along now, especially Dazz and Feve. I don’t know how I feel ’bout that, but after what happened on the journey to storm country, I guess I understand. Plus, I can’t really hold a grudge against Feve forever, can I? Not after all he’s done since his stupid mistakes.

When we make camp for the night, Jade finally stops talking and yawns, curling up on my lap ’fore Circ and Feve have even had a chance to make a fire. When the fire’s cracklin’ and the day is long gone, giving way to the moon and the stars of a cloudless night, Wilde tells us everything she’s been holding back while we prepared to leave storm country.

“Your father”—she motions to Circ—“arrived in ice country two days past. The Tri-Tribe spies have been watching the Glassies closely. As always, they were preparing for battle, getting their fire chariots shined up, cleaning and organizing their fire sticks. Nothing unusual.” She pauses, looks for questions. We just wait.

“The Glassies rode out in their chariots,” she continues, “and our spies followed them from a safe distance. They picked through the old village.”

“Thank the sun goddess we left,” I say.

She nods. “They would’ve killed us all. Our spies took a risk, got closer while the Glassies were combing through the village. They overheard things.”

“What sorts of things?” Circ says, sitting ’side me. He runs a hand through Jade’s hair, all delicate-like, his leg touching mine comfortingly.

“That we’re savages. That eventually we’ll turn on them. That if we aren’t exterminated we could ruin everything.”

“We’re savages?” Feve says. “We’re not the ones rampaging across fire country trying to murder every living thing.” I’d hate to be the stick he’s holding. He snaps it in four places, throwing each into the hottest part of the fire.

“I don’t know much about the Glassies,” Dazz interjects, “but none of this makes any sense. They always seemed peaceful enough when they came to see Goff.”

“That should tell you something right there,” I say. “That they went to see Goff in the first place. He was a baggard and a half.”

“True,” Dazz says. “It’s just strange, is all. Don’t they live in some sort of an icin’ bubble or something?”

“The Glass City,” Wilde says. “A huge dome of glass. It keeps out the bad air somehow. They live longer than the rest of us.”

“They don’t get the searin’ Fire,” I add. “You know, the Cold.”

“Then why venture out at all?” Dazz asks.

“Like I said,” Wilde says. “They’re scared of us. They think we’ll attack them, maybe crack open their bubble, let the diseased air in. But it wasn’t just the people of fire country they were calling savages.”

Skye’s eyes flick sharply to Wilde’s. “What does that mean?”

“They spoke of the risk of the Icers too. How now that King Goff has been overthrown they can’t trust the people of ice country either. They said they want to cleanse the lands from the desert to the mountains to the sea.”

“I’ll kill them,” Dazz says, pounding a fist into his hand.

I know right away he’s thinking of his mother and sister.

“We don’t have much of a choice,” Wilde says evenly. “They’re forcing us into a war. The Icers too. We’ll have to stand together.”

“And what of the Stormers and Soakers?” Buff asks.

“They’ve chosen a different path. They’ll wait until they have no choice but to fight,” Wilde says.

“Cowards,” Feve says. “They’ll let us die against a foe that would kill them too.”

Jade stirs in her sleep, but doesn’t awake. “Don’t let her hear you speaking like that,” I say. “She’s fallen for one of the cowards.”

“Don’t be so certain of your judgments,” Wilde says, “somehow I don’t think it’s the last we’ve seen of our friends by the great waters.”


Another day of walking and talking and occasionally laughing passes by us, borne on the strange wings of fate. It gets hotter as we go, the forest on either side of the wide swathe of grass we’re walking on thinning with each mile. The grass is disappearing too, giving way to hard-packed dirt, and eventually the beginnings of the desert.

I see a prickler, standing alone and resolute like a sentry into fire country. He taunts me as I pass; must be friends with Perry.

Suddenly, Wilde stops us. “I feel blessed by the sun goddess to know all of you,” she says.

“Yer our sister, too,” Skye says.

I nod in agreement.

“Thank you,” she says. “I mean all of you though, the Icers included.” Dazz raises an eyebrow and Buff smiles widely.

“We’re lucky to know you too,” Buff says. “All of you.”

“But I won’t force any of you to fight,” Wilde says. “Hiding is an option, and I won’t stop you if that’s what you choose—there’s no shame in it.”

“Burn that,” Skye says. “I don’t know ’bout anyone else, but I’m fightin’. Our leaders have failed us. Our father, Head Greynote Roan, was selfish and arrogant. Scorch, King Goff was a hysterical madman. And this Admiral Jones guy was the biggest baggard of all, controlling the tribes like pieces on some gameslab. We gotta be better’n they were, unite together to fight fer our homes, our lives, our children and our children’s children. This is our home and we won’t give it up. I won’t give it up.”

“Unity,” Dazz says suddenly.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” Skye says. “We’re stronger together’n apart.”

“We’re with you,” Dazz says, speaking for all of us. “We’re all with you.”

“The Unity Alliance,” Wilde says, trying it out. “The Tri-Tribes—the Marked, the Wildes, the Heaters—and now the Icers. Fighting together. Fighting for our lives. If you can convince your people, Dazz, we can convince ours.”

“Consider it done,” Dazz says.



Although I think we all hate to do it, we split up when we reach the border of ice country. Dazz and Buff will go back to their families—who, according to Wilde, are in better shape’n when we left: Dazz’s mother is still drug-free and his sister is back to being a kid again, while Buff’s father is walking, albeit with the help of a cane—and to update the new ice country leadership on the situation. They’ll get as many able-bodied men and women to fight with us as they can.

I watch Buff and Dazz trudge up the hill with more fondness than I ever woulda thought possible.

Our fire country group splits too. Feve and Circ will take Jade back to the hidden Tri-Tribe village, while Wilde, Skye and me will meet with the spies. Wilde needs to get the latest news, and Skye and me won’t let her go alone.

Leaving Jade again is the hardest thing in the world, but she’ll be safer with them than anybody. “We’ll see you in two days, maybe three,” I say.

“I know,” Jade says, hugging me.

I hug her around the head, careful not to touch her healing back.

When we go I don’t look behind me ’cause I’m afraid I’ll run back.

It’s strange to be back in the desert again, ’specially now that I know there’s so much else out there. And yet: The burnt landscape and dusty hills will always feel like home to me.

As the sun arcs high overhead, I watch the few lazy clouds move like yellow sea ships across the red sky. A hawk soars overhead, just above a rocky outcropping, which casts a long shadow on the desert floor.

Skye walks between Wilde and me, sort of in front, setting the pace, being the leader that she is. We make for the shadow of the boulders, desperate for a break from the relentless heat.

When we get closer, I notice a gap in the boulders. A hole, full of the deepest, darkest black I’ve ever seen. A cave. And sticking out of the cave are—

—I can’t believe my own eyes—

—two pale-faced people, a girl and a guy.

I swear my heart stops for two beats, ’fore pounding faster and harder’n a tug stampede.

T’others see them too, and Skye motions us to the right, out of their direct line of sight, so we can sneak in a little closer, getting into the shadows.

The girl is whiter’n the snow in ice country, her hair falling in long dark waves ’round her face. The guy’s hair is light, like yellow sand, wavy in parts, like the big pond—uh, ocean—in water country. We watch as they kiss each other, squinting and whispering and pointing at the sky.

Skye looks at me, at Wilde, and then clears her throat, stepping out into the light. As Wilde and me step forward along with her, I see the two pale-faced people twitch, their heads jerking to look at us, still squinting in the bright light of day.

They stare at us, frozen, looking us up and down and all around, like they don’t believe their eyes.

Skye says, “In the name of the sun goddess, tell me who you are,” her voice stronger’n and clearer’n I’ve ever heard ’fore.

The girl’s mouth opens like she wants to speak, but it’s the guy who says, “I’m Tristan Nailin, a sun dweller, and this is Adele Rose, a moon dweller. We’ve come from the depths of the earth.”