by David Estes
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.