“Well.” Donil smiles. “Reah might wish for it after she sees Rook pissing over the parapets.”
“I grew up in Hyllen,” I call over my shoulder as I ascend the twisting stairs, Donil and Merryl in my wake. “I’ve seen plenty of men relieving themselves. Girls too,” I add, for good measure.
I climb quickly, the muscles in my legs enjoying the stretch after being deprived of the hills of Hyllen. I’ve missed night air, too, I realize when I burst onto the parapet, filling my lungs with it. Reah rests against the wall, snuffing her flame with a pinch of wetted fingers as Rook finishes his business over the ledge.
“You missed it,” he chides me when he turns.
“Not much to see,” Reah says, and I laugh again, enjoying the sound on the coolness of the air, how it reaches out to the sea, floating above where its wet fingers cannot reach.
Merryl stands by the door, his duty still heavy on his mind and eyes always on me. Donil comes into the moonlight and, captivated, I can look nowhere else. We ease away from the others by silent agreement, coming to the ledge, where I glance at the surf below.
“Your guard watches as if I’d fling you to the water,” Donil says, and I feel his gaze pouring over me as the sea wishes to.
“I don’t believe you would,” I say, turning to look at the sea.
“No, I’d rather have you in front of me,” he says, and extends a hand. “I don’t know that we’ve formally met. I’m Donil.”
“I’m Khosa,” I say. I place my hand in his, palm to palm, flesh to flesh, and the only shiver I feel is one of anticipation.
“Khosa,” he repeats, and I realize that he was never told my name, only that I am the Given.
“Khosa,” I say again.
And for the first time, I wish to be only that.
CHAPTER 18
Witt
WITT’S EYES WANDER OVER THE FLOCK, HUNDREDS strong, their nubbed tails twitching in the morning light. His men lean against a pen, watching the animals chew their cud peacefully, oblivious to their new company.
“What’s a soldier to do with a bunch of sheep?” one of his men asks.
“Eat ’em,” another answers.
“If we slaughtered all of them, we couldn’t eat a third of the meat before it spoiled, and I’d rather go into battle with empty hands than an overfull belly,” Witt counters.
“I could take on three Stilleans with no weapon and a whole goat in my gut,” comes the response.
“Perhaps.” Witt nods. “But I’d rather see mutton walking around than lying on the ground after you’ve been gutted by a chance blade.”
Beside him, Pravin smiles. “The Lithos speaks true. We didn’t take Hyllen only to spill blood. There’s land here, and food. These people are shepherds and farmers, and none of you could tend an animal or harvest a crop if your life depended on it.”
“And it does,” adds Witt.
“We are soldiers, sir,” one of the men responds, the inherent pride in the fact making his tone border on insubordination.
“Soldiers must eat to fight,” Witt says. “Our Lures haven’t caught enough fish from the cliffs to feed Pietra in some time. Armor that fit fathers sits loosely on their sons, while the Lures spot schools in the distance, where lines cannot reach. Would you rather learn to tend a flock, or take to the sea?”
The soldier’s face hardens to equal that of his ruler. “Boats are for the dead.”
“They are,” Witt agrees, though he walks away from his men before any trace of his nightmares can betray him, the memory of tears falling from decidedly living eyes as he shoved them away from shore.
Pravin stays in step with him. “I didn’t expect this much resistance.”
“They’ve been raised to live by the sword,” Witt answers. “Their hands won’t fit to the staff or plow overnight. We’ll finish speaking with the Hyllenians, sort the meek from the brave, and spare an equal number of capable shepherds and farmers.”
Pravin nods. “The sorting shouldn’t take long, at least.”
Witt’s palm brushes the tops of the grain as he walks. “They are as peaceful as we are fierce, but we need them. The Lures will not take to the sea to catch fish for fear of the Lusca, and neither would I ask them to. We must learn to grow our food, or make the Hyllenians do it for us.”
“I know which I prefer,” the Mason says.
“And I know which we excel at, but if we refuse to set our hand to the plow, we must allow them to multiply, always passing their trade to the next generation. Those who would submit to a harness themselves will not wish it on their children. And so grows unrest and rebellion.”
“Yes, my Lithos,” Pravin consents, but Witt notices he keeps his own hand on his sword pommel, not touching the grain around them.
“You disapprove?”
Pravin stops, his fighter’s eyes roving the hills even as he speaks. “I know what I am, and what our people are. It is not in our nature.”
“No. But the world is changing, and we must change with it.”
A muscle in the Mason’s jaw flickers. “I know. And I’m not ashamed of the fear in me at the thought. I’m glad I’ll be gone to the dark long before I see the days that are coming.”
“Maybe not as long as you think. The Lures claim—”
“I know what they say.”
“Then you understand that keeping the Hyllenians for labor so that our pride might be spared is a luxury we cannot afford. People require space, and it’s my duty to ensure that every handful of earth is minded by the Pietra.”
Pravin exhales slowly, a heavy breath that brings the tiniest wheeze, which Witt closes his ears to. He is not ready to set Pravin’s boat to sea.
“These are odd days indeed,” Pravin says with a humorless smile, “when the Pietra worry about what happens inland, and the Lithos makes slaves instead of bodies.”
Witt shrugs as they approach the next holding pen, still stocked with Hyllenians, their eyes heavy with fear. “They are no threat,” he says. “They are not the Indiri, passing strength and fury in their blood.”
“No,” Pravin spits on the ground. “They are not the Indiri.”
“And there is no clemency in letting some live,” Witt adds, resting his elbows on the fence as the Hyllenians scatter away from him, their clothes whispering together, recalling the sounds of the sea. “As there will be none for us.”
CHAPTER 19
Vincent
I’VE BEEN ALLOWED A SPOT BESIDE VARRICK IN THE COUNCIL chambers only because it was I who delivered Ank to the castle and announced him as something more than an ordinary citizen. To have a Feneen alongside me carried enough confusion through the ranks that I assumed a chair before anyone could object.
Ank should look out of place here, his travel-worn clothes in stark contrast to the vibrant tapestries around him, his bare feet inelegant against the smooth floors. But he seems more amused by his surroundings than awed, and I see my father trying to sort him out from across the table.
“My grandson says you are Feneen?” King Gammal begins.
“Stillean to begin with,” Ank corrects. “Feneen in the end.”
“And for what reason did your mother reject you?” my father asks. “You seem well made, and quick-witted enough.”
“Perhaps it’s best to not focus on the wrongs done to me by your people, when I’ve come to offer aid,” Ank says, smoothly avoiding the question.
“Aid?” My father laughs. “Does the builder look for stones in the rubble he tossed aside?”
Ank’s face hardens, settling into an anger I never glimpsed last night in the woods. “Only once the house is fallen.”
Varrick’s laughter chokes out, and Gammal shifts subtly, his hand resting on my father’s arm to quiet him.
“Ank,” the king says, “by what title should I address you?”
“There are no titles among the Feneen. People are only people to us, and those we take in are happy to be recognized as such. I am a messenger, bearing the will of my kind to yours.”
“And what is the message?”
“You lost the village of Hyllen to the Pietra. Do you know why they attacked?”
Around me the less-trained advisors share glances, eager to know the answer to a question much debated. For my part, I remain still, eyes trained on Ank.
“The Scribes advised me of a moment in our shared histories when our people pushed theirs to the stony shores, depriving them of grass beneath their feet and leaving them only fish to feed on. They are a bloodthirsty and violent people,” my father continues, “and I find it believable that they would nurse such a grudge long after we had forgotten why it would be held.”
“Believable, maybe,” Ank says. “But is it likely?”
“For a messenger, you bear little information,” my grandfather says. “And ask many questions.”
“And for a king, you do not ask enough.”
I’ve fought to keep my face dispassionate, my eyes locked on Ank, but at his disrespectful words, my gaze shoots to Gammal. The king is smiling, though, the laugh lines around his lips deepening as he regards the Feneen.
“Ruling Stille does not require many questions beyond inquiring how full the larders are this year, how fat the sheep.”
“How rough the sea,” Ank adds, and all around the table, bodies stiffen.
“Yes, always the sea.” King Gammal nods in agreement. He and Ank watch each other in silence. The waves outside crash twice before it is broken.
“What aid have you come to offer a kingdom without hardship?” Gammal asks, all amusement gone.
“Hyllen was not an exercise in revenge, and will not be the last you see of Pietran soldiers on Stillean soil,” Ank says. “They wiped out the Indiri and paid for it. Their pit may have been filled with Indiri bodies, but the ash from burned Pietre rested fingers thick on the ground. The Pietra lost as many lives as they stole, if not more, and it took a generation to fill their ranks again.”
“Then their soldiers are young.” My father shrugs.
“And yours inexperienced,” Ank says. “The Pietra will come, and old throats open easily under young blades.”
“And the aid?” Gammal prompts again.
“The Feneen will fight with you. Grant us homes, land, a place to live after the blood has been spilled. End our days of debasement and let us call ourselves Stillean, and we’ll fight at your side for that right.”
Ank’s words are for my grandfather, but his eyes trail over my father, and then to me.
“To be clear,” my father says, “you ask us for land and the intermingling of our people, in exchange for which you’ll provide the odd and the unable, the weak-minded and the rejected, as soldiers in our army—an army facing a battle that at present exists only in your mind.”
“At present,” Ank says. “But tomorrow comes quickly.”
One of the advisors leans near my grandfather, whispering into the king’s ear. The others are a constant ripple of movement around me. They fidget with their sleeves, drum fingers on the table, eyes swiveling in their sockets as they look to one another in what they assume are furtive glances. My father and I sit still, ourselves and Ank the anchors in the room that swirls around us. My grandfather waves his advisor away, turning his attention back to Ank.
“You would give us some time to confer, I hope?”
“Two days,” Ank says. “And then I make the same offer to the Pietra.”
Even I can’t sit still. “You’d fight alongside people who put the ill and the elderly to sea with no oars?” The words are out of my mouth before I can remember that I’ve retained my place in this meeting so far by making my forebears forget I’m here.
Ank shrugs. “I have morals. First I offer my sword to those who drown young girls in the sea.”
“Two days.” Gammal nods, ignoring the jibe. “How shall we send word of our decision?”
For the first time, there’s a tremor in Ank’s boyish face, the tiniest slip of muscles that betrays his disappointment. Emissaries are usually invited to stay within the castle walls, where they dine with the servants—if not the nobles. But Ank is Feneen, and now this slight has been piled on top of a lifetime of rejection. He covers it well; the blank look of bored insolence slips back into place before any but myself can decipher it.
“I’ll bring word,” I say, and all heads turn toward me.
“Vincent—” my father begins, but I cut him off.
“In two days’ time, I’ll bring you the king’s decision at the cave where we first met.”
“Agreed,” Ank says.
The king rises, my father with him, and the advisors scurry to follow suit. Ank gets to his feet slowly, his body betraying its age even if his face doesn’t. He leans across the table, hand extended, and my grandfather and father return the gesture.
My breath catches in my throat, an audible click, remembering too late the pouch at Ank’s throat, the gift his caul brought him alongside the curse of being not wanted. Ank’s eyes meet mine as he shakes hands with Gammal and Varrick, eyebrows raised to ask why I should fear him knowing what truly lies in their hearts. And as I watch their palms meet, I wonder the same.
CHAPTER 20
Dara
DARA PICKS THROUGH A PILE OF GOOSE FEATHERS SHE’S assembled in the haymow, a half-fletched arrow in her hand, dagger within reach. She heard the barn door slide open, knows too well the footfalls of the man who entered, body tensing as he climbs the ladder to the loft where she works.
“You’re a hard girl to find,” Varrick says, lightly stepping off the ladder and into the hay.
“That is by design,” she says, without raising her eyes. “Would that you realized as much.”
“Perhaps I wished to find you alone,” he says.
“I can’t understand why,” she says, sliding a feather into place. “Last time that happened, you left with a slash across your belly.”
“That I did,” Varrick agrees, lifting his shirt to show her the healed scar, his muscles still tight underneath. “Yet I think I left a mark upon you as well.”
“Not a lasting one,” she counters, sliding the last arrow into her quiver and rising to her feet. “And only one among the hundreds of bruises I’ve had. Easily healed and equally forgettable.”
He grips her wrist as she tries to slide past him. “Dara.” He says her name somewhere between a threat and supplication. “That you deny me only makes you more desirable.”
“And here I thought it was only my skin that caught your eye, a conquest where you’ve not planted your flag before. The stables, the meadows, the seaside, the kitchens, the kennels—all their women know you. But Indiri women remain untouched, and I’ll see it remains that way.”
She twists her wrist from his grasp, but Varrick blocks the path to the ladder, his eyes making himself as familiar with her body as he can be from a distance.
“That’s certainly a part of it,” he says, leaning against a pillar. “But I’ve always loved the hunt, and you’re the first woman who hasn’t responded to the crook of my finger.”
“I’ll have your fingers off if you lay them on me again.”
“I don’t doubt you’d like to,” he says. “But you can’t harm me.”
“Royal blood means little to me, weighed against my own,” Dara snaps.
Varrick watches her carefully, a slow smile spreading on his handsome face. “I don’t think that’s quite true.”
“The Indiri before all—”
“Yes, yes, I know your mantra,” Varrick interrupts her. “But I’ve seen the way you look at my son. And while there is the light of affection in your eyes, I’m too familiar with cold calculation to not recognize it in another.”
“What are you saying?”
“Only what you yourself have thought, and I have followed your line of thinking.” Varrick takes a slight step forward, as if approaching the most feral of Tangata with a collar in his hand.
“Long years have passed, Dara,” he says, voice dropping low. “No men of your kind have been found, and you’ve grown into a woman. Deep passion resides in you, I see it. Just as no average soldier should cross swords with you, not just any man should take you into his bed. You are Indiri. You deserve more. You’ve set your sights on my son, overlooking the father.”
Dara watches him coldly, hand resting on her knife but not unsheathing it. “I overlook the father because he’s repulsive.”
“I am many things, but not that,” he says. And though she would argue, Dara knows her words would ring false. Varrick’s looks have not faded with time, but have achieved a luster of experience, eyes of both women and girls following him when he enters a room.
“Perhaps not outwardly,” she says. “Though an unknowing glance would wonder why Dissa is your wife, those who know both of you realize that she is the true treasure.”
“Is that why you reject me? Out of respect for my wife?”
“I reject you out of respect for myself,” Dara yells, voice spiking with anger. “Now stand aside or I’ll see you at the foot of the ladder by the quickest route.”
Varrick steps away from her smoothly, and she keeps her gaze on him as she goes to the ladder, never turning her back. She is halfway down, each rung trembling beneath her fingers when his voice reaches her, casual and assured.
“Think on it, Dara. I will be king sooner rather than later, and if I say speckled children can sit the throne, who will argue?”
She leaves the barn at a run, too aware that his words have gained traction in her heart.
CHAPTER 21
Khosa
KHOSA . . .”
Given to the Sea Page 8