I’ll dump her at the confluence docks when the borders open up. I’ll give her a chance.
The chance she never gave us.
At the stern, she keeps her back to the keel, vigilant as a watchtower. If only I’d left her ratting on the Ohius docks, begging for passage with the rest. She’d be someone else’s problem instead of mine.
Or she’d be as good as dead, chained to a cruel man, with no life but a cage.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
When I was young, my mother read me stories from her old collection of books. Before he died, my father used to bring them to her when he got them on the river or by trading on the docks. Most were reprinted a dozen times over, handed down through generations, translated and copied. Stories of warriors, kings, impossible creatures, bravery, and adventure. Stories of Red men and women defeating impossible odds. I wish I’d never known those stories. They are for fools.
And I’m certainly acting like a fool now.
As a Riverman, I’ve always felt safest on the water, but for the first time in my life, that isn’t true. We don’t dare keep the lights running, and instead make do by the moon. Thank the river, it’s full tonight, bright enough to move by. I get Riette and Gill sleeping in shifts, one of them always ready should the current change. Big Ean sleeps in his scurry, ready to paddle off if we need to abandon the keel all together. I don’t plan to sleep at all, my mind abuzz with half-formed battle plans. The princess doesn’t sleep either.
Lyrisa said her Lakelander prince liked to hunt. I suppose he enjoys the sport of it, watching prey flee, terrified for its life. I wonder if he’s watching us now, in shadows and silhouettes across the water, moving without making a sound. I’ve passed Silver patrols this way before. I’m good at what I do. But those could always be paid off or tricked. Those weren’t noble Silvers, bred and trained to their abilities. Those weren’t Silvers with revenge in their blood, hungry for something far more valuable than grain or alcohol or illicit guns.
Once or twice, I think I hear a distant chorus of laughter beyond the bank. It could be the wind in the fields or the splash of a fish. Or nothing at all. Every noise sets me further on edge, pushing my nerves beyond reason. By midnight I feel like my teeth may shatter in my clenched jaw.
When the moon is high above us, Lyrisa abandons her post at the stern. Her steps are quiet and steady, but she doesn’t know which planks to avoid. Which ones creak and groan. I hear her move despite her best efforts, and so does the river.
Half asleep at his post, Gill shoots her a glare only I can see.
I move silently, joining her halfway down the deck. She leans over the rail, squinting into the darkness on the far bank. The moon glints off half-high cornfields, the perfect cover for anyone watching the river.
“You can sleep if you want,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. You should sleep. I’m abandoning you tomorrow. You need the rest. Guilt claws at my stomach.
Lyrisa shakes her head. “Absolutely not.” Then she sighs, resting her head on one hand. She stares into the dark without seeing. “He’s enjoying this. Orrian.”
Like all Reds, I carry a bone-deep hatred for Silvers. But this one inspires another layer of disgust I’ve not felt long these days. “You’d think a Silver would have far better and more interesting things to do. There’s a war on, last I checked.”
I expect her to smile. Instead she seems to shrink. I can almost forget her ability, looking at her now. How she could break me and this keel in half with a twist of her fingers.
“There’s war everywhere these days,” she says. “North, south, east.”
“Not west?” That’s hardly true. I say it just to speak, to give me a reason to keep my eyes open. Even we know of the raiders up and down the Prairie borders, Silver outcasts with no flag and no allegiance. The Prairie warlords are in constant flux. The Tiraxean triarchs are always chafing one another. Nowhere is quiet, not in the world ahead or the world behind.
“Not west,” Lyrisa murmurs. “Have you heard of Montfort here on the rivers?”
Ah.
“The Free Republic.”
“That’s what they call it.” She hesitates, her whisper catching. “Do you think it’s true?”
What I think to be true and know to be true are two very different things. And the many rumors of the Republic, even what the citizens of it themselves say, are varying stories, all at odds with one another. “I’ve heard as much. Reds, Silvers, whatever the others are. All together, equal.” I hesitate as I say it. Somehow, I don’t want to mislead her, or give her hope she shouldn’t have. “But I don’t believe everything I hear. I get it wrong half the time.”
“Well, that’s where I’m going.” Her voice sharpens with resolve. “At least, that’s where I’m trying to go.”
That explains the money, her coin counting. Saving payment for another long journey. “After the Gates.”
“I planned to try and get passage up the Ark, but there’s too much traffic. Scarlet Guard, Prairie armies, raiders. And if the Silver alliance in the east decides to attack Montfort directly, that’s the route they’ll take.” Lyrisa traces each step on the wood grain of the rail, and I see it in my mind, familiar as my charts. “So I’ll hire a boat in Mizostium. Cross the Sea of Tirax. And find another boat to take me upriver, along the Rion Granda. Into the mountains. And freedom.”
I puff out a breath. “That is a long way.” Obviously, idiot.
She doesn’t move. “It’s worth the cost.”
Money, she has to spare. But her life? I want to tell her what danger she’ll be in, and not just from a Lakelander prince. The triarchs, the raiders—and then when she reaches the Republic itself. Why would they take in a Silver princess?
“You’ve been planning this for a long time” is all I say instead, feeling like a coward.
She shrugs. The moonlight bounces off the water below, rippling on her face. The dark freckles across her cheeks stand out, highlight the upturned angle of her eyes. She seems made of stone, not flesh.
“Not really. I knew I wanted to run, but that was it. Until Montfort revealed themselves in their attack on Norta, I had no plan. I just knew I had to run.” Her face is still but her hands are nervous, fingers twitching over one another. “Now there’s an opportunity for something different.”
“A land where you’re equal to any Red standing next to you.”
She turns to me sharply. Her gaze is electric, charged with something I don’t understand. “I heard the Disputed Lands were like that too.”
“We call ourselves the Freelands. And I wish that were true. Just like in the Crownlands, a divide exists. We might not live at the mercy of Silvers here, but we certainly live apart, our worlds separate even on the river.” I suspect the Republic is secretly the same. Divided and weak. “I have to say, I don’t think I’ve ever met a Silver willing to give up so much over a bad marriage.”
Her eyes narrow to slits and I feel like I’ve misstepped. My skin crawls. Idiot.
“Red or Silver, men always have trouble comprehending the lives of women.”
All I can do is bob my head, nodding. Anything else feels like another mistake. “My mother would agree with you,” I finally say, hoping to turn the conversation. I don’t want it to end. If nothing else, it’s helping pass the terror of this night. “She lives in Mizostium, near the East Gate.”
Lyrisa knows what I’m doing but allows it anyway. She looks back to the river. “Is that a . . . good part of the city?”
“Better than most.” It’s the truth. East Gate is comfortable, a strong community with deep roots. Red streets, Silver streets. Lovely gardens and fountains. I don’t know why, but I picture myself showing it to Lyrisa. If only from the deck of the keel. I shake off the thought as suddenly as it comes. I’m leaving her behind as soon as I can. “The city governs itself, and some parts are truly without law.”
“The Freelands certainly live up to their name,” she offers, sounding diplomatic. More like a Silver than bef
ore. It’s a stark reminder of who she is and who I am. The very clear divide between us, in more ways than one. “I’m excited to see more.”
“And you will,” I answer quickly, without thinking.
Her lips twitch, curling into a bitter smile. “It’s good at least one of us believes that.”
“Lyrisa—”
She waves me off easily. This time, it doesn’t feel so dismissive. “If it comes to it, if Orrian gets the upper hand, if whatever happens tips past what you and the crew can scratch your way out of . . .” She falters, searching for the words. “Let me know. And I’ll end this.”
Under the moon, I realize we look the same. Her blood and mine could be the same color. I watch her as she stares, waiting for me to give her my permission. To surrender, and be taken away. I should do it. For Riette’s life, Gill’s, Big Ean’s, and mine.
“Nah,” I drawl, turning back to the river with a shrug.
Her eyes widen in a flash, pupils blown in the dim light. Her nostrils flare in frustration. “I beg your pardon?” she says, almost too loud.
Winking, I push off the rail. “Something Reds share no matter what—we live to piss you people off. And I’m not giving some drunk prince the satisfaction. He’s got enough in this world.” Before I can stop myself, my hand grazes her arm. It sends an electric shock trailing from my fingers all the way down my spine. “He doesn’t get you.”
I leave her sputtering behind me, all my focus on keeping my back straight and my steps quiet. My cheeks flare with heat. I’m glad for the darkness as I pass Gill.
Ashe, why are you like this?
“Smitten,” I think he hisses under his breath.
If not for the Lakelander prince pursuing us, I would push him into the river.
Instead I gesture for him to lean close.
And I whisper the plan formulating in my head.
SIX
Ashe
Sometimes I wonder if the differences are more than I realize between Silver and Red. I’ve never known a Silver, or cared to know one before. There is the blood, of course: the color and what it gives. Abilities I cannot understand or comprehend. Great speed, control over water or fire or metal, animals, weather, or superior strength like Lyrisa’s. But beyond that, is there more? Are they born different from us, more rigid and cruel and violent, or do they become that way? I used to think the former. Now I’m not so sure.
I’ve spent many a sleepless night on the river. I’m used to the exhaustion. Either Lyrisa is too, or she’s talented at hiding weakness. I guess both.
The sun rises on familiar banks and growing signs of civilization along the widening river. The confluence is a major point of crossing, and docks start to peek out among the roots and rushes of the Freeland banks. To the north, the Lakelands are still mostly fields, though the road is coming. It winds down from Sanctum farther north, to dead-end at the point where the Ohius and the Great River meet. Here Lakelanders can enter the Freelands if they so dare.
I wonder where the prince and his cackling hunters might be. Are they watching us now? Are they close? I hope you’re enjoying this, jackass.
Other boats, big and small, joined us as the night lifted, giving way to dawn. Some are barely more than rafts poled by children, a pastime I knew well once. They swarm near the keels, hoping for castoffs. I toss a few apples, the familiar ritual bringing comfort.
In his scurry, Big Ean waves to a few, calling them over. He’s doing as we planned, passing on news of a Lakelander prince nearby, a fine prize for any who might think to rob or ransom him. The wet and tanned kids spread the word eagerly, paddling back to their docks or farther into the boat traffic.
Lyrisa isn’t a pale, porcelain-skinned Silver, the kind who might be spotted from yards away. Her skin is darker, like cold copper, but she still takes precautions. I don’t know where she found a hat, but she tucks her hair up and away. Despite the ill-fitting uniform, she could pass for keel crew and not a princess. As she finishes the transformation, I nod at her, and even Riette offers a bob of approval.
The sun is hot already and I can feel the humid press of the day. I can only imagine what a long summer we’re in for.
I shade my eyes and look for the telltale sign of the confluence—a strip of brown water against the horizon, the muddy churn of the Great River meeting the gray blue of the Ohius. While my normal route would take me farther out into the middle of the river, where the current is strong and fast, I keep the keel as close as I can to the Freeland banks. It slows us down but keeps us at least half a mile from the Lakelands, and out of the kind of deep water a nymph could turn against me. Should the worst happen, at least we have a chance of making it to shore.
There’s a bustling market town just south of where the rivers join, part of it built out over the water. If I can get us there before Orrian strikes again, put in at the docks . . . Will I leave her? It seemed like an easy decision last night.
I clench my teeth. I’ll cross that bridge if it comes. For now I focus on the water right in front of us, and what to do if Orrian appears before we reach the market. The crew is in on the plan, with everything in place. Lyrisa too, though she only knows a piece.
The pistol never leaves my side, and we’re careful to place our rifles at the rails, hidden just out of sight. For once, I wish I were gunrunning too, with a vast store of ammunition at our disposal. As is, our supplies are terribly finite.
The confluence gets closer by the second, and my heart races with the current driving us forward. It takes all my restraint not to maneuver farther out into the river, away from the bank traffic, where I can open up the motor and fly. I don’t know how much more of this my nerves can take. An hour? A minute? It’s excruciating.
I nearly jump out of my skin when a fellow keel captain shouts hello, his own boat turning out into the river.
Lyrisa abandons her post at the stern to stand next to me again, this time the rifle tucked close under an arm. Her eyes dart along the bank, taking in the docks and the meager settlements set away from the water. I doubt she’s seen anything like it.
“You remember the plan?” I ask.
Her nod is curt, focused. And almost insulted. “Of course.”
“We’re putting word out about Orrian, and I told Hallow to do the same ahead of us.” The river rushes on, quicker by the second. “News travels fast in places like this.”
It comforts her, if only a little. “Good. Let’s hope we’re lucky.”
“I’m not a fan of either.”
“Hope and luck?” She grins a true smile. “Me neither.”
I think it’s her smile that sets him off.
The river explodes around us with a roar like a thunderclap, sending walls of water ripping up into the clear blue sky, caging us in for a split second of terror. It’s as if a giant hand has slapped the surface of the river, disturbing the current all around us. The water falls as quickly as it rose, smashing down in a scream that drenches us to the bone. Gill’s pole snaps in his hand and Riette throws hers to the deck, replacing it with her rifle. Big Ean already has his sights trained on the Lakelander banks, so far to the north. Too far for any gun we possess.
Lyrisa knows better.
“In the Freelands!” she shouts, pointing to the bank, so close I could almost reach out and touch it.
I whirl and my body goes cold.
I count eight of them, seven Silver nobles ringing the unmistakable Lakelander prince standing in the shallows. One of the Silvers—a woman—has dogs, two drooling hounds, their noses pointed at the boat and Lyrisa.
Orrian Cygnet is skeleton thin and pole tall, limbed like a nightmare. His skin is pale and sallow, his dark hair wet and slicked back against his skull in a tight braid that pulls at his face. I can’t see the color of his eyes but I can see his smile, wicked and sharp. His clothing is dark blue, a river color. I’ve never feared the color blue before, I think wildly.
He’s armed with a gun and a sword, just like his companions, tho
ugh his greatest weapon is all around us.
“Come now, Lyrisa, you’ve had your fun,” he crows, his attention only on the princess.
She doesn’t condescend to answer, keeping her head high. Even as the keel halts on the current, impossibly still on a moving river.
Around us, the boats and rafts scuttle like insects, pushed away by the ripples of Orrian’s power. White-faced and slack-jawed Rivermen watch in terror or turn their crafts to flee, all of them knowing the telltale signs of a nymph with a temper. On the shore, the few Freelanders traveling on foot slink into the trees, disappearing.
My hand strays to my hip, and I loose my pistol as slowly and quietly as I can. The Silvers don’t seem to notice. Orrian’s friends laugh coldly among themselves, passing a bottle of something back and forth. One of them twirls a dagger in his hand. If we moved fast enough, we might be able to shoot dead three or four of them. But the rest would fall on us like falcons on a rabbit and tear us apart.
For the first time, Orrian shifts his focus to the crew, lowering himself to look at Reds. He sneers across my boat before his eyes land on me.
“By the gods, you smugglers get younger every year,” he laughs.
Like Lyrisa, I say nothing. It incenses him.
He takes a step into the water. No, not into. Onto. He climbs the river like stairs, a new burst of current rising to meet him as he ascends to stand right in front of me. Eye to eye.
“I’m speaking to you, boy,” he sneers, slapping me across the face without much strength. It isn’t meant to hurt me, but humiliate me. I know that. My cheeks burn.
Behind me, I can hear the crew jostle and move, reaching for their weapons. Orrian’s pack does the same, moving farther into the water. Just as Lyrisa guessed, he’s the only nymph in the bunch.
At the rail, Lyrisa tightens. “Orrian,” she warns.
It only feeds his anger, as well as his amusement. He slaps me again. “Since when do you care about Red rats, Lyri?” The horrible prince sneers at her. “Such a stupid girl, thinking you could outrun me. Outrun Kirsa and her bitches,” he adds, laughing toward the hounds on the bank. The Silver woman ejects something between a giggle and a bark, her hounds reacting in kind.
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