Sea and Sand

by Alex Lidell

  To Dana’s credit, he only inclined his head in question. “In what capacity?”

  “Ship’s counselor.” Kyra raised her chin. “Unless you wish to weather the nightmares of seamen who’ve just endured slavery, someone else will need to.”

  “Naval ships don’t carry counselors,” Catsper growled, managing to make the word sound vulgar.

  “Until today, they didn’t carry mages either,” said Dana, turning to Kyra with thoughtful eyes. Nile opened her mouth to say something, then closed it, giving Dana the room to decide his crew for himself. After a moment, the man extended his hand. “Welcome to the Arrow’s officer gun room.”

 

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  Nile’s adventure continues in TIDES Book 4. Coming 2018.

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  Enjoy a free preview of Alex Lidell’s new YA fantasy, TRACING SHADOWS (Scout Book 1)

  Tracing Shadows Preview Ch 1

  “Would you like to buy a light crystal, young master?” The girl pressing the magical pebble into my hand smiles coquettishly. She wears the drab red clothing of the Children of the Goddess disciples, and she couldn’t have chosen a worse mark than me if she tried.

  Though in truth, her taking me for a boy and a sympathizer of the hateful bigots in the Children’s following is a compliment to my skill. I am a scout. A spy trained to disguise, observe, and report. I’m also under orders not to interfere.

  And that’s where the problem lies.

  My marks this evening, four members of a terror-mongering group calling themselves Viva Sylthia, have the look of violence about them. Waving the crystal-peddling girl away, I move around the inn’s common room for a better view. The room is full of the king’s soldiers tonight, and the stench of cheap wine and bodies ripe from long days on the road fills my nose. At least the place is warm, the fire and lanterns all burning bright to ward away the night’s darkness. The heavy wooden tables and benches are plain, but sturdy enough to stand up to rough crowds. With so few inns this far out in the Dansil countryside, one can hardly be choosy about patrons.

  One of the soldiers stumbles into the largest of my marks, spilling the man’s drink all over his shirt. The soldier, apparently oblivious to the mishap, belches and stumbles on.

  My mark, a broad-shouldered man with a black mole breaking the line of his mustache, scowls but keeps himself in check. Not even a curse at the drunk idiot. Nothing to bring attention to himself.

  With the soldier well away, Mustache starts for the door, his three companions closing ranks behind him. And me, behind them.

  My skin prickles, my heart pulsating against my chest. There is little left in the way of cover outside. Just night and shadows. This is where I should break off, head back to the estate to report what I’ve learned over the course of the evening of Viva Sylthia’s plans. But I’ve learned nothing and am left with only a gut feeling that the night is heading toward a poor end.

  The four men pull on hoods and masks.

  My chest tightens. I’d love to have been wrong this once.

  “That’s two dozen horses,” says the youngest of them as the group approaches the barn. His voice breaks slightly. “Two dozen horses and three hostlers.”

  Mustache puts his arm around the youngster. The gesture would be brotherly but for the boy’s nervous twitches. “You backing out? Perhaps you are not ready to receive the flame.”

  The tattoo of a flame over the heart marks Viva Sylthia’s full members. I flatten myself into the barn’s shadow, my breath stilling as I listen.

  “No. I’m just sayin’ the barn ain’t empty,” says the boy.

  “Those three hostlers? They are cowards calling themselves Dansil soldiers, all drunk and snoring in an empty stall.” Mustache’s voice shoots a chill down my back. “Tell me, was your uncle passed out drunk in Sylthia when Everett attacked? When those soldiers did nothing?

  “How many thousands of our people died in the Sylthia massacre? How many more lost their homes?” Mustache’s voice continues. “Dansil families have been waiting for over twenty years to return to their land, to the grave site of their ancestors. You can be their voice. Tonight. Right now.”

  “By burning down a barn?” says the boy.

  “By sending a message. Those are the king’s soldiers drinking at the inn. Drinking instead of fighting to take back Sylthia,” says Mustache.

  Oh, for stars’ sake. In the dozen years I’ve trained under Lord Gapral, the king’s distant scoutmaster, I’ve heard the same justifications for violence over and over: send the king a message—no one in Dansil is safe until Sylthia is ours again. Never mind that it’s been two decades since the kingdom of Everett invaded the Dansil’s Sylthia territory, the swath of land at the Dansil-Everett border that is rich with living crystal deposits. Never mind that even if Dansil took Sylthia back, we’ve not the people to work the mines. Or that we’ve hunted down too many of our Whisperers to actually make use of the living crystals.

  Mustache places a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The king is a coward and a fool. He thinks negotiating with Everett will keep him safe. But tonight, you set him straight. Tonight, you make your uncle’s death matter. Make all deaths in Sylthia matter.”

  My hands tremble at my sides. The bastards will burn the barn and kill the horses and hostlers, and I’ll report back how it happened. My orders are to observe, not engage. Never engage. At the best, I’m told it’s because I’m too valuable to risk, that too much effort and coin have been poured into training me. At worst, Lord Gapral simply barks that weighing the value of victims against the cost of exposing his scout network is beyond my station. My shoulder burns in phantom pain where Gapral branded me the last time I dared disobey.

  I’m a scout. I’m supposed to watch the terror-mongers’ horror show and write a rutting report.

  “Viva Sylthia,” says Mustache.

  “Viva Sylthia,” the others echo.

  A horse whickers inside the barn, and my gut clenches to stone. A living, faithful horse resting after a day’s work. A boy’s sleepy voice soothes the animal. A child is inside that place.

  Mustache drags a bar toward the barn. The bastards are barricading the doors before setting the blaze. Blood roars through my veins.

  I should leave. Now.

  Instead, I pick up a jagged stone and press myself against the wall. My heart pounds in my ears, sweat forming on my temple despite the chill wind. If Lord Gapral finds out… Swallowing, I lean around the corner and skip the stone along the side of the barn closest to Mustache’s men.

  The men startle. Move toward the sound. I sprint in the opposite direction, banging my fist against the barn wall. “Loose horse! Wake up in there! Loose horse!”

  Curses and agitated neighs sound from inside. A moment later, the barn’s back wall vibrates from the impact of kicking hooves. Good enough. Changing direction midstride, I sprint for the tree line.

  “There he is,” a voice calls behind me.

  My legs burn as I press into a faster run. The thud of pursuing boots echoes through my bones, but I’m smaller than the men. Faster. My breaths come in short, rapid bursts. Two dozen yards will see me into the blind blackness of the forest. They have to. One dozen.

  A hand slams the back of my tunic, shoving me to the ground.

  I twist as I fall, landing on my back. The impact takes my breath, but my legs are up and ready to kick. Burying my boots in my attacker’s hips, I lift the man into the air. The momentum of his weight rolls us, and with the next heartbeat, I’m the one on top, straddling the man’s chest. I slam my fist down on his jaw and scramble away.

  Another man grabs me from behind, his arms wrapping my torso.

  I stomp my heel onto his foot and twist free.

  Something slams into my ribs. A fist or a boot. Maybe a
n elbow.

  I move through the shock, loosening the throwing blades strapped to my forearms. Someone grabs my arms and wrenches them behind my back. My shoulders scream. I do too. Until a blow to the gut cuts my air.

  “What are you doing here, boy?” Mustache demands.

  “Nothing, sir,” I gasp, my voice catching. “A jest. I’m sorry. I’ll…I’ll settle the horses back for you. It was a stupid jest to wake up the hostlers. Lazy, drunken buggers. Just a bit of amusement.” The pressure on my shoulders tightens, and I scream again. The Viva Sylthia aren’t buying my line.

  “Ahoy there!” The unfamiliar and slightly drunk voice of an actual guard bellows through the darkness. A lantern appears near the barn and starts moving toward us. “Identify yourselves to the king’s men!”

  Thank the stars.

  Behind me, Mustache draws a sharp breath. I seize my chance, thin as it is. Slamming my head back, I smash it into Mustache’s nose. There is a cracking sound, and the man’s hold loosens enough for me to break for the woods.

  I dive into the darkness, forcing my limbs to move fast and blind. I see nothing beyond my fingertips, but each step between me and Viva Sylthia is a gift. Fifty paces later, my lucky footing ends. I swallow a gasp as I crash to the ground, shins hitting stones. My body aches, and I bury my face in the soggy dirt, not daring to make noise. It is a struggle to keep from staring into the moving shadows, but people feel when they are being watched. I close my eyes, stay deathly still, and listen.

  I wait an hour before I dare move. My heart hammers against my ribs, pain shooting through me with every breath. I sit slowly. A stick snaps beneath me, the sound deafening in the still of night. But the forest gives no sign of other intruders. Mustache and his Viva Sylthia cronies are gone.

  Reaching beneath my shirt, I pull out the living crystal hanging around my neck. It is a light crystal, a crystal whose magic glows. Unlike the trinkets the Children of the Goddess peddle, which glow aimlessly for a while before dimming, my crystal is tuned to light up only when I touch it. A tool rather than a toy. I wrap my hand around the crystal, a familiar, unpleasant tingle spreading through my hand and arm. Within a heartbeat, the crystal comes alight with a reddish glow that gives me a fighting chance of making it home tonight without breaking my neck.

  Though tomorrow, Lord Gapral might do that for me.

  Tracing Shadows Preview Ch 2

  To the outside world, Lord Gapral is a cranky hermit who takes in the occasional orphan to live on his far-off, understaffed estate. The grounds are chronically overgrown with weeds and brush; the servants are scarce, unfriendly, and silent; visitors are nonexistent. To those of us who’ve grown up here, the estate is our womb. Not because it’s either warm or kind—the estate is neither—but because our identities are safe here. On the estate, I can be Kali, the seventeen-year-old girl that I am. Outside, I’m always someone else.

  Despite the late hour of my return, a scout on sentry duty appears beside me the moment I cross the invisible line marking the estate’s perimeter. I freeze as the knife blade presses into my side and allow the sentry to examine my face. His own is hooded and stays that way, though I catch a glimpse of his features thanks to my light crystal. A boy of fifteen who has been at Gapral’s estate for seven years now. I don’t know his name or his specialty. There is a lonely look in the boy’s eyes, but I know better than to ask after his welfare, nor will he ask after mine. Scouts are Lord Gapral’s commodities, and sharing our identities and personal details with each other is forbidden.

  The boy nods and removes the blade.

  “Leaf?” I ask. My sister is Lord Gapral’s one exception—everyone knows both her name and her specialty. She is a Whisperer, a person born with the ability to tune living crystals.

  “Training room.”

  I nod my thanks, and the sentry melts back into the shadows. For a few moments, I deliberate the merits of interrupting Leaf, but my burning ribs make the decision for me. Navigating the weeds and plants cultivated to conceal movement, I make my way to a small structure designed to look like a toolshed, where the scouts with some hint of the Whispering gift practice. Having no such gift myself, I’d usually be forbidden from coming near the training room but with Leaf being my sister, Lord Gapral is willing to look the other way unless I create problems.

  “No, no, no.” My sister’s exasperated voice escapes the door. “A light crystal can only make light. It can’t heal flesh or heat up, or remember a song.”

  “Can I change a light crystal into a healing crystal?” asks a boy, a scout trainee with a Whispering gift.

  “No.” Leaf’s voice turns stern. “And don’t play with healing crystals. They are dangerous. Now, concentrate please. Why is the light crystal in your hands flickering and dim instead of steady and bright?”

  “It’s out of tune—the magic inside the crystal is scattered. I need to focus the magic to make it glow.”

  Opening the door a crack, I find a small, hooded scout sitting on the floor, an egg-size living crystal in his hand. My sister crouches beside her student, her hand on the same crystal the novice holds. I can see the faint wisps of magic swirling inside the crystal, but Whisperers like Leaf and the boy can feel and manipulate them.

  “Do it,” says Leaf. “Feel the magic. Imagine how it should weave together. Focused. Orderly. Now make it happen. Work inside the crystal. Don’t try to draw the magic out. Coax the outermost strands toward the middle. That’s not the middle! Yes, now that’s the middle.”

  Inside the crystal, the strands of magic pull together into a tight ball, and the crystal’s glow becomes bright and steady. The young scout jumps up and lets out a whoop before seeing me in the doorway and freezing.

  The room fills with fear. It’s a dangerous time for Whisperers, though the child is safe enough here. Lord Gapral isn’t one to give up valuable skills because some priests cry heresy.

  “It’s all right,” I tell the youngster. “No one is in trouble, but I need the room.”

  The young scout disappears in a rustle of cloak and shoes.

  “Practice,” Leaf calls after the boy. “Next week, we’ll weave triggers into the magic. With a trigger, a tuned crystal stays dormant until something specific—like a particular person—touches it. So you can make a light crystal stay dark until Lord Gapral picks it up.”

  Turning her attention to me, Leaf hobbles forward, dragging her clubbed right foot behind her across the stone floor. Despite being three years older, she is the smaller of us, the same birth affliction that crippled her foot also keeping her body petite and frail. A beautiful porcelain doll with pale skin, hazel eyes, and a longer, shinier version of my golden-brown hair. Leaf is also the only person in the world with a mind to rival Lord Gapral’s and is the most talented and learned Whisperer since our mother—though everyone at the estate is smart enough to keep that tidbit of information very, very quiet.

  “Kali. What’s happened?” Leaf studies me critically.

  I stumble to a bench and sit. “Stayed late watching Viva Sylthia goons and had a bad fall heading home.” I pick up a vial of something bright blue left standing beside the worktable.

  “Put that down. It’s poisonous.” Leaf snatches her latest experiment from my hand and sits beside me to help extricate me from the boy’s clothing and chest binding that turn me from Kalianna into Kal. My lightly angled jawline and slender but muscled frame make me especially well suited for a male disguise, which is invaluable in a scout’s world. Not only can I turn into a lady or stable boy as the situation dictates, but I can do it mid-mission.

  Unwinding the last layer of cloth, Leaf sucks a breath through her teeth. “That’s one bad fall.”

  While Leaf holds a lantern up to conduct her examination, I focus on breathing and constructing a report I can deliver without Gapral smelling a rat. The key is sticking to the truth as much as possible. That and giving him no reason to check my injuries. He can differentiate marks from a fall and a beating as well as Leaf
can. “The cuts look deep,” she says.

  “They aren’t.”

  Leaf uses a corner of my chest binding to dab a cut over my lower left ribs. “This one needs stitches.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Leaf rises to hobble over to her tool kit.

  My attention snaps free of Gapral and his inevitable interrogation, to address the more pressing matter. “I don’t need stitches, Leaf.”

  “Are you seventeen or seven?” she calls over her shoulder. “I keep forgetting. If you don’t like needles, stop getting yourself pummeled.” Leaf’s voice darkens. “I thought your orders were to watch and report, Kali.”

  My jaw tightens. “You don’t know what the alternative was.”

  “I know that every time you step out the door, I worry whether it will be your coffin coming back.” Leaf returns to sit beside me again, her small frame trembling. “It’s not your bloody job to interfere. If Lord Gapral’s wrath doesn’t deter you, can you at least think of our future?”

  I rub my face. What future? Viva Sylthia is my trade specialty, but it is the least of Leaf’s and my personal concerns. After twenty years with two of every three babies in Dansil being stillborn, people are desperate. And desperate people do many things, including believing Bishop Bahir’s claim that Whisperers are to blame for what is being called the child Drought. Whispering isn’t illegal, not yet, but that little stops people from hunting Whisperers down like animals and handing them over to the Bishop’s Order to be “cured.” Outside Lord Gapral’s estate, there is no future for an orphan girl and her crippled, Whispering sister.