“Ever since you first shared your secret,” he said.
That was six years ago, three years before Elorna had died. For six years, he’d been thinking about this, planning it, worrying over it. Six years he’s been thinking about the moment he could lose me. It must have been tearing him up inside. Yet he’d never spoken about it. “You never said a word,” she repeated.
This time he simply said, “And ruin your happiness? I wouldn’t do that.” He then took her hand, as if to lead her out of the studio, but he didn’t move. He waited instead for her to lead. He trusts me to make the right choice, whatever that is.
Stepping over his ruined art and the shells she’d collected, she reached the threshold. Up would lead back to the plaza. Down to the boats. But she’d made her decision—there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Kelo, just as there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. She hurried down the path with Kelo, bringing the false shrouds and the packs of emergency supplies.
On the beach, it was a beautiful night.
The sky was serene, with a pale moon that looked as if it had been drawn onto a backdrop and then smudged slightly around the edges. Stars were sprinkled everywhere. No clouds. No rain. But the shore was a tangle of seaweed and driftwood and boats. Fish had been tossed ashore and lay dead but still wet across the rocks.
Oddly, the death boats were untouched.
Both Mayara and Kelo halted and stared at them. Yes, they’d been tied to trees along the shore, but so had other fishing boats and those had been tossed against one another and onto the rocks. The boats that the villagers used to send their dead into the waves looked as if they hadn’t felt a breath of wind. They were perfectly parallel, with no sand or seaweed on their hulls and no water inside them.
“Spirit storm,” Kelo breathed. “Maybe this is not a good plan.”
“It is,” Mayara said firmly. “Don’t doubt yourself. Or us.”
His lips quirked in an almost-smile. “You know, this isn’t how I thought we’d spend our wedding night. You looked just as beautiful as I’d imagined in that dress. Death shrouds . . . aren’t quite the same look.”
She wanted to laugh but couldn’t. Instead, she climbed into one of the boats and lay down. She strapped the waterproof pack with supplies to her stomach, and Kelo did the same. He wrapped the false shroud around her, leaving her head exposed, and then lay down beside her, positioning his shroud around himself.
“Did any spirits see us?” Kelo asked.
Closing her eyes, she felt for whispers with her mind. She heard only the waves lapping gently on the shore. “None.” Pulling the shroud up over her face, she closed her eyes. The sail was porous, letting the night breeze in. It was strangely calming. “We should try to sleep.” I can’t imagine how we will. But we’ll need our strength. “Tomorrow we swim with the dead.”
Chapter Five
Mayara woke to voices, low and even, singing the mourners’ farewell. She felt the false shroud on her face and had to fight the urge to claw it off. Instead, she lay still.
The sun must have risen, or been close to rising, because she could see a dull glow through the fabric. It was already hot beneath the sail.
She hoped the fabric was thick enough that no one would see her breathing.
This is the riskiest part.
She didn’t know what the villagers would do when they discovered two additional bodies already in the death boats. Kelo had made the shrouds beautifully. But no matter his level of craftsmanship, people don’t usually miscount their dead. Someone would notice, and if they spoke . . . if she and Kelo were exposed . . . if the Silent Ones were already there . . .
As the mourners drew closer, she picked out individual voices: Papa’s, Aunt Beila’s, Grandmama’s, mixed with others from their village. I should be singing with them. By now, they had to have known she’d run, with Kelo. She wondered if they’d think she was selfish or wise. Her parents would understand, as would Kelo’s, and she thought that most of her aunts, uncles, and cousins would too, though she wasn’t certain.
But any of them could betray us. Even a child with an innocent question. She hoped Kelo had thought through this part in his six years of worrying. Because otherwise, this would be the shortest escape attempt ever.
She wished she’d asked him what his plan was for getting past this moment. It was far too late to ask anything now. As the mourners drew closer, Mayara closed her eyes, as if that would help make her invisible to them. She tried to lie perfectly still.
Her nose began to itch, then her elbow.
She kept her breathing shallow and didn’t move.
She heard Kelo’s father by the stern of their boat. He was a baritone, like Kelo, with a soft, warm voice. Near him was Grandmama, her off-key belt loud and clear. One of the singers broke off. “Who are—”
Oh no. Mayara tensed.
Grandmama’s singing stopped abruptly. “Hush, do not speak of the dead. Sing!”
Chastened, whoever it was—one of her cousins, she thought—began singing again, as did Grandmama. She felt her and Kelo’s boat lurch forward. It was being pushed over the sand toward the waves. It bumped as it was forced over debris, either rocks or driftwood.
“I will row this boat,” Kelo’s father said softly but firmly.
They know, Mayara thought. And the realization felt like sunshine on her face. She wanted to laugh out loud, but she had better sense than that.
Kelo had planned for this. His father must know—he wouldn’t have been the usual choice to row a death boat, since he was unrelated to any of the dead. And Grandmama . . . She must either know or have guessed. She wished she could hug her grandmother’s bony shoulders and tell her how much she loved her.
But she wouldn’t be able to tell her that, maybe not ever. She might never see Grandmama again. Or her parents. Or her aunts. Or . . . Then again, I might. Quit wallowing. You’re alive. Stay that way, and you might find a way to see them. Die, and you certainly won’t.
As the boat was pushed into the waves, it rocked, free of the shore. She then felt it tip to the side—Kelo’s father must have climbed in.
The drummers began a slow rhythm, and she felt the boat slide through the sea as Kelo’s father rowed, matching his strokes to the drumbeats. She felt and heard the crash of the breaking waves against the hull of the boat as it jerked with each wave. Drops of water seeped through the sail shroud, worming down her neck and pooling behind her back.
One lone voice sang now on the shore, a soprano, and for an instant, Mayara couldn’t name the singer. She knew the voice was familiar, but whose?
The sea calls to me, and I to the sea:
Come to me,
Take my sorrow,
Carry it away in your arms of blue,
Until sweet memory is all that remains,
All that remains of you.
Mother.
She was singing the final lament.
As they passed the breaking waves, the boat rose and fell gently, propelled forward, and Mother’s voice began to fade, swallowed by the wind. Mayara strained to hear.
And then the only sound was the dip of the oars into the water and the light touch of the waves on the hull. At last, she felt hands on her, rolling her toward the side of the boat. Her heart beat faster. Her pack of supplies was pressed against her stomach, tied securely so she wouldn’t lose it as she swam. She curled her hand around the rope that would free her from the shroud and hoped the stones had been tied to the net, as Kelo had said they would be. She didn’t have a clear memory of their being tied—shouldn’t she have noticed? Maybe not. And it’s too late now.
She exhaled fully, and then sucked in air, as if for a dive, pulling in fast puffs at the end, hoping she was silent enough. As she was heaved up the side of the boat, she heard a whisper: “Be well.”
Kelo’s father.
And then she was dropped into the sea.
She sank, pulled by the stone weights, and felt a burst of panic. Instantly, she calmed herself. She’d done d
ives with more gear than this. Counting to three, Mayara waited, and then she pulled the rope.
The shroud unraveled around her and drifted down, sinking beneath her. Kicking smoothly, she spun in a circle beneath the water, looking for Kelo. His father had, wisely, pushed her off the boat first. He would have known she could stay under for longer than Kelo.
She heard a muffled splash and a spray of water, and she pinpointed the source: a wrapped body falling from the shadow of a boat’s hull. Not her and Kelo’s boat.
Mayara watched the body sink slowly below the water.
It was both sad and beautiful, as the blue embraced the white sail, pulling it deeper and deeper. She lost track of the seconds for a moment, and then another, closer splash, again muffled through the distortion of water.
Kicking, Mayara swam to the body as it began to move. Kelo!
His shroud fell away, and acting on instinct, he kicked, propelling himself upward. She wrapped her arms around his waist, keeping him from rising to the surface and being seen. He nodded at her, his hair swirling gently around his head, and she released him.
They both swam.
Kelo swam like a dolphin, all smooth movements, and she shot through the water behind him as if she’d been born there. He’d never trained to hold his breath like she had, but short term he was a strong swimmer. I hope that’s enough.
She didn’t know how long they had between the sinking of the bodies and the symbolic turn to the north. She thought she could count on Grandmama to speed the tradition along, and then keep the villagers facing away from the sea. Just need to swim far enough from the boats.
Mayara kept her eyes on Kelo, ready in case he faltered. She also kept her senses open for spirits. If one saw them . . . If the Silent Ones were watching through their eyes . . . But the only spirits were by the shore, playing in the shallows and the tide pools, not paying any attention to the two humans swimming through the ocean.
Kelo began to slow.
She knew what he was feeling: the pain, the screaming in every cell for air, now! Propelling herself through the water, she caught up to him. He treaded water beneath the surface, apology in his eyes—he couldn’t hold on any longer. He had to breathe.
She grabbed his arm and swam upward, bursting up behind a wave.
Both of them gasped, and then Mayara yanked them down again and swam on.
They repeated this as they swam, with her timing it so they would rise behind the swell of a wave, until they were far beyond the shore of the village. Stopping to get her bearings, Mayara treaded water.
The escape plan may have been Kelo’s idea, but now they were in her territory. “North,” she said, leading the way. She knew the island from the sea, all the coves and caves, all the cliffs, all the reefs. And she knew exactly where they should go.
Leading the way, she set out in strong strokes. Out of sight of the village, they swam on the surface of the sea. In some ways this was easier, because they had oxygen. But in other ways, she missed the smooth unbroken evenness of underwater—the feel of gliding like a fish instead of fighting with the waves.
“Mayara?” Kelo called.
“Don’t use my name.” She didn’t think any spirits were listening to them, but it was better to be careful. Quieting her own thoughts, she tried to hear any nearby spirits. It was tricky, given how many worries were swirling through her mind, but she pretended she was preparing for a dive.
She felt the spirits like unnatural ripples in the stillness of her mind.
There was one not far away, a water spirit swimming with a pod of dolphins, and another—this one an air spirit—gliding like an albatross on a current of wind. A half dozen tiny spirits made of seafoam were on the sand.
“Follow me,” Mayara said to Kelo.
She aimed for a cave, one that was visible only in low tide. They could rest there. With no trail, the Silent Ones wouldn’t be able to track them. The Silent Ones would be forced to rely on chance encounters with spirits, and Mayara didn’t intend to encounter any.
The cave will do, she thought.
She led Kelo through the water toward a cliff.
“If we climb, we’ll be visible,” Kelo warned.
“Not up,” she said. “Down.” And then she led the way, taking his hand and again swimming beneath the surface. She knew the shape of the rocks that marked the entrance, and she spotted them nearly instantly.
She swam unerringly into the cave and then up, bursting out of the water into complete darkness. Kelo gasped in air beside her.
“Where are we?” he asked, his voice echoing.
“Safe. For now.”
She picked a direction and swam until her fingers brushed rock, and then she climbed out of the water and collapsed onto the stony shore. “At low tide, the cave will be exposed,” Mayara told him. “We’ll need to be gone by then. Once the Silent Ones know the cave is here, they’ll send spirits to search it. But until then . . .”
Kelo flopped out of the water beside her. She heard him panting in the darkness and the squish of his wet clothes on the rocks. “We can eat and rest—I’ve food and a canteen of fresh water,” he said. “Damn hard to swim with supplies.”
“But you did it,” she pointed out.
“We did it.” He squeezed her hand.
“Obviously I did. But you swam pretty well . . . for an artist.”
He laughed, as she hoped he would.
Reaching out her hand, she entwined her fingers through his. For a moment, they lay there, side by side in the darkness, as their pounding hearts began to settle and their breathing steadied.
“I used to dream about the day we’d finally be husband and wife,” Mayara said.
“You were the one who said ‘nothing would change because we’re already united in our hearts.’ Or was that just a ploy to get out of the fancy celebration?”
She smiled, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Living under the same roof. Able to be alone whenever we wanted to be. Of course I dreamed about it. Besides, you know I wanted those shrimp.” I didn’t request the spirit storm, though, or all that followed.
“It was a nice ceremony.”
“It was,” she agreed. “Until it wasn’t.”
He lifted her hand, and she felt the brush of his lips on her knuckles. “Whatever else happens, we are married.”
“And we’re even alone under the same roof,” she pointed out.
Rolling onto her side, she moved to kiss him, her body pressed against his. Their noses crashed in the darkness, and they both jerked backward. Mayara began to laugh, and then Kelo was laughing too. Still laughing, they began to kiss once more.
All mirth fled as their hands roved over each other’s bodies. They kissed as if it were their first time. Or their last. Slowly, because their muscles still hurt from their escape. Slowly, because the darkness was so complete. Slowly, because they wanted to treasure this night, their true wedding night.
Clinging to her best friend and the love of her life, Mayara knew she’d made the right decision leaving everything and everyone behind but bringing her heart and soul with her.
FOR EIGHT DAYS, THEY EVADED THE SILENT ONES. THANKS TO Mayara’s knowledge of the coast and ability to sense spirits, they were able to hide in the nooks and crannies, swimming between them unobserved. With Kelo’s supplies, they were able to keep themselves dry and fed, at least sort of—he’d packed a fire starter, and during times they were hidden enough to try a fire and had access to enough bone-dry driftwood, they cooked crabs that Mayara caught. When they didn’t dare risk a fire, they ate seaweed and raw oysters. It wasn’t copious amounts of food, but it was enough. For water, they collected and drank the freshwater runoff from the cliffs, catching it in shells.
Such a clever boy, Mayara thought. He planned it all.
She watched him as he chipped the barnacles off a shell he’d selected from the remnants of their breakfast. He was humming softly as he worked. He’d told her he wanted to make her something be
autiful and practical—a bowl, carved from an abalone shell, that she could use to drink water or soup.
This was the first morning that they weren’t already in the water. Mayara had found a secluded cove with no access from land (unless you wanted to scale a cliff) and with an overhang that kept them from being seen from the sky.
Kelo spoke as he worked. “Once we’re certain the Silent Ones have lost our trail, we’ll go to the next town and buy passage to one of the other islands. Start a new home in another village, or even a city. We could even go to Yena and live right under the queen’s nose if we want. No one will recognize us, and so long as you don’t use your power, the Silent Ones won’t have any way to find us.”
“I won’t use my power again,” Mayara promised.
He worked quickly and with a steady hand, the knife flicking over the shell. “I can set up shop anywhere—there’s always a market for charmwork—and your diving skills are useful anywhere in Belene. And then once Queen Asana and the Silent Ones have forgotten all about us, we’ll come home. Might not be able to stay, but we’ll be able to see our families.”
It was a beautiful plan. She loved how certain he was. He could paint a future in her mind that felt as real as any memory. “How will we know when it’s safe to return?”
“I left flags with my father, disguised as charms. He’ll fly one whenever the village is free of Silent Ones—that way, we’ll know whether we can visit.”
“And if we can’t ever return?”
Putting down his knife, he glanced at her. “So long as we’re together, we can conquer anything.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
Maybe he’s right. We’ve come this far. Leaning back against the cliff wall, she watched him walk to the shore. Still in the shadow of the overhang, he knelt. When a wave kissed the shore, he rinsed the shell.
Without warning, the wave lurched, and a creature launched itself out of the seafoam. It looked like a sea turtle, but its jaws were narrow and studded with teeth. A water spirit! “Kelo!” She hadn’t opened her mind for spirits. She’d thought they were safe here. “Kelo, get back!”
The Deepest Blue Page 5