by Cara Witter
No. Now. This was the moment in which Perchaya was more attractive than he’d ever seen her. Kenton followed her out, marveling at the bravery of what she’d just done.
“Nikaenor!” the burly Foroclaean “guard” said, pulling Nikaenor into a tight hug as they passed out of the tent.
“Hi, Ronan,” Nikaenor said, the look of wonder still on his face.
Kenton looked around him as he stepped out. He could hear shouts in the distance and could see a glimmer of bright orange flames licking the night sky. The distraction.
It had worked, apparently. When he had been brought here, he had seen at least twenty soldiers, which he now knew to be just a small fraction of the complete force surrounding Ithale. Now there wasn’t anyone here except the small group that Perchaya had led to the rescue.
“We have to find Mum and Esta,” Ronan said. “The other prison tent is supposed to be on the east side of the camp.”
Kenton put a hand on Perchaya’s shoulder, and the two exchanged a brief look.
“We have to get out of here,” she said. “Nikaenor, put on Jexton’s tunic and helm. You’ll need it for us to get back into town.” Perchaya handed Nikaenor a scabbard for his sword. “The rest of you will rescue Esta and Noreen and head back through the brush. We can leave you one horse for the prisoners. We’ll need the other three.”
The three men nodded, apparently not the least bit reticent to follow the commands of a leader who not only happened to be a woman but was also an outsider to their town. Kenton raised an eyebrow at her—it was obvious that more had happened since he left the tavern than simply a well-planned rescue.
“I’ll steal us another few horses,” Ronan said. “We’ll get my family to safety and then join the others fighting in town.”
The fighting in town? Kenton looked at Perchaya, but she just gave a short nod to Ronan and motioned for Kenton to follow her toward the brush, where he hoped their horses were waiting.
“We need to get back to town,” Perchaya said. “The townspeople could be in real trouble. We need to—”
“We need to get to the sea,” Kenton said. Whatever was happening in town, this was the most important, and it had to happen before anything else could get in the way to stop it. He met Nikaenor’s eyes in the dim dawn light. “It’s time for you to go after your jewel.”
Nikaenor wilted. “But my family. I need to—”
“You need to provide them a miracle,” Kenton said.
Perchaya hesitated, then put a hand on Nikaenor’s arm. “He’s right. I promised the townspeople you’d find the godstone.”
She . . . gods. Perchaya had been busy.
Nikaenor looked miserable, but he nodded. “Into the sea.”
“Yes,” Kenton said. “If that’s where you feel called to go.”
“I feel called to hide under a rock,” Nikaenor said, “but yes. I think she’s in the sea.”
“Good,” Perchaya said, mounting one of the horses. “We’ll get you to the water and then Kenton and I will get back to the revolt. I started the thing, so I can’t leave them to it.”
Kenton stared in amazement at her for the second—third?—time. She’d started a full-scale revolt?
As they rode away from the camp, taking a circling path to head back to town by way of the water, Kenton noticed Perchaya looking nervously around them, as if soldiers might leap from the bushes at any moment and take them all captive again.
He rode up beside her. “It’ll be okay,” he said.
Perchaya shook her head. “The townspeople are fighting. They’re dying. I don’t know what the reaction of the army has been, but I’m sure they’re not overlooking this.”
So that was it. Not nervousness, but guilt. The kind that comes when lives have been lost because of your doing. He hated that he’d brought this on her.
“You did what you had to do,” he said. And he couldn’t help thinking she’d done it far better than anyone could have expected.
“I know,” she said simply.
Without another word, they both followed Nikaenor through the southern oak trees, dodging around their wide, sprawling branches, the roar of the ocean becoming louder with each step.
As they emerged from the wooded area, faint yelling came from the direction of town, and they all turned to look. The sky was growing brighter now as the sun rose over the ocean, illuminating a large plume of smoke rising from the center of town.
“Oh gods,” Nikaenor said, his face pale. “They’ve set a fire. It looks like it’s near the inn. I have to—”
“No,” Kenton said. “They need you to find Mirilina. You’re the only one who can.” He reached out and took Nikaenor’s reins, leading both of their horses down to the shore.
There was a small pier that jutted into the water, on which were tied two small fishing boats. Kenton rode toward it, then dismounted and indicated for Nikaenor to do the same. The boy seemed unable to tear his eyes from the smoke, and Kenton couldn’t blame him. He, too, feared for the townspeople of Ithale, for Nikaenor’s family, and for the rest of their group, wandering through the depths of the swamp. Kenton was battle-hardened and used to tremendous losses. He could only imagine what this fear must be doing to Perchaya and Nikaenor.
As their feet reached the edge of the pier, Nikaenor stopped. “I can’t do it,” he said miserably. “I can’t. I can’t leave my family and my town and go after . . . I don’t even know where she is! What if I can’t find the stone? What if you were all wrong about me?” His voice grew louder and more accusing with every word.
“You’ll be able to find it,” Kenton said. “You are chosen to do this.”
“No,” Nikaenor said firmly, taking a step back.
Kenton knew that the kid was scared, knew that he was torn up by loyalty and fear, despair and self-doubt. But Kenton’s sympathy only stretched so far. They needed this stone, or it was all for nothing. He grabbed Nikaenor’s shoulders, fully intent on throwing him into the water and making the choice for him.
But Perchaya shoved herself between them, pushing Kenton back with a glare. “Nikaenor,” she said gently, putting her arm around his shoulders, “they are fighting against the soldiers now for you. Your family and your neighbors are doing this because I told them who you are, what you are destined to do. They know that no matter what happens today, you will save Foroclae because you will get Mirilina and stop Diamis. That’s what gave them the courage to fight back.”
Kenton swallowed a complaint about how much she’d felt the need to share with the residents of Ithale. He had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that Diamis already appeared to know far too much—what more damage could Perchaya have done by telling a few fishermen?
What amazed him, though, was the tone with which she spoke, soothing and yet so strong, and he marveled that he ever wondered that she could incite riots. Yet Nikaenor’s head stayed down, watching the lapping waves, whose dark depths could not be seen even with Nerendal’s first light shining across her surface.
A scream sounded from the direction of the city, a woman whose cries broke off into sobs. Kenton grabbed the hilt of his sword; the sound was so much closer than the others.
“We have to go,” Kenton said. “Nikaenor, it’s time. Do it.” Without another word he left Nikaenor to it, running down the wood planks back towards the town. Perchaya followed, the two of them leaving behind Nikaenor, a lone figure standing on the dock staring down into the impenetrable sea.
All right, Mirilina, Kenton thought. We’ve brought you your chosen.
The rest was up to him.
Fifteen
Nikaenor stood at the edge of the docks, looking down at his own reflection at the edge of the dawn-lit water.
You need to provide them a miracle, Kenton had said.
Nikaenor could jump into the water—he’d done so in Tir Neren, and would no doubt h
ave to do so again. But to look for a stone that might not even be there?
Yet he felt the water pulling him toward it. He at once shuddered at the thought of the scales that would once again pierce his skin . . . and longed for the water to envelop him, longed to swim down deep where the light couldn’t touch him.
Trust me, a voice said, soft and melodious, like the song of a mother whale calling her young.
While every other part of him wanted to tear back to the camp and help Ronan with his mother and sister, or go ripping through the town to find his other brother and two sisters—
Nikaenor did trust her.
Mirilina. He supposed in a very real way, he always had.
He made the sign of the waves with his fingers, reciting the words of the blessing. Then he put his arms over his head and moved one foot behind him.
And dove off the small jetty and into the sea.
The water was cold, although not as cold as Nikaenor had expected. He felt momentary panic as a wave closed over his head. Scales prickled out of his skin, cutting like a thousand pins.
Then it was over. Nikaenor wriggled out of his clothes and tossed them onto the dock above, praying to Mirilina that they’d still be there when he returned.
He dove down deep, breathing the water in through his gills, opening his eyes to see. The dawn light shone down in beams, illuminating the sediment that swayed with the rhythm of the waves on the surface above.
Nikaenor’s heartbeat thrummed in his ears, and he repeated his prayer over and over—that Kenton and Perchaya would be safe, that they’d be able to help the townspeople, that Ronan had been able to get to his mother and Esta, that the fires would go out, that all of Ithale would be safe. Here in the cradle of Mirilina, as he swam toward her call from below, he hoped that his prayer would be heard.
As if in answer, he heard another sound—a pulse through the water that didn’t match his own. The jewel was calling to him with its eerie music, a haunting melody from the depths of the sea. It was deep and mellow, like the horns that had sounded at the great harbor of Berlaith many months back, yet also held the innocent ring of a twinkling bell. He breathed deep and the cool salt water rushed into his lungs, filling them with the essence of his faith. He felt complete, whole; the threat of the soldiers seemed to be part of a different life. He now wondered how he could have been afraid of the sea. It breathed with a life of its own.
Nikaenor swam out and down, following as the sea shelf plummeted into the Derdonian deep. He glided through the water and reached out to touch a patch of seaweed as he passed. It felt strangely soft and resembled very little the slimy material that would sometimes wash ashore. As his fingertips brushed past, a school of fish skittered away from him. He had never seen so many colors.
Nikaenor dove down among the craggy rocks and white coral structures into the sea trench. He moved so easily in the water; he must be miles from shore, and as he descended, the light from above grew dim. While his ears felt no pressure from the depths, Nikaenor’s fear returned, willing him to head back to the surface, to breathe in air, to return to land and dry off and go back to himself. His mind reeled with every legend he’d heard of the creatures in the deep—squids and eels and great sharks much bigger than the ones the fishermen sometimes brought to be served at the inn.
Hells, those sharks were frightening enough on shore, with their teeth and their rough, cartilage faces all contorted and bloated with bulbous growths.
Stop, Nikaenor told himself. He focused on the beat of the Seastone, realizing that it pulsed with the cadence of the waves above, as if Mirilina herself was attuned to the tides.
Which, Nikaenor supposed, she probably was.
He dove deeper and could make out random spots of light below, almost like stars in the night sky. As he neared them, he realized they were fish, each with a tiny light dangling above its head. He’d thought he’d eaten every fish that came out of the sea—and tossed back all the ones that weren’t edible. But he’d never seen the likes of these before. He must be far too deep for either poles or nets.
More patches of light appeared, and Nikaenor wondered with horror if those were great schools of fish, all packed together. But as he neared the bottom, he found them to be rocks covered in spirals of glowing white coral. He swam along, following the trail of light.
Off to his right, he felt a tug, as if someone had tied a string to his throat and was drawing him near.
Here, the voice said. Here.
Here was a dark patch of water, in which Nikaenor saw neither the glow of coral nor fish. He reached down and broke off a small piece of coral, holding it in his webbed hand. The coral’s faint glow in the water gave Nikaenor the confidence to move toward the darkness.
As he swam closer, he found the jagged opening to a sea cave. The darkness bore deep into the rock, and, holding his coral in front of him, Nikaenor swam directly into it.
The roof of rock closed over his head, and Nikaenor’s panic returned. But the call of the stone was stronger now, and he felt his heartbeat aligning to it.
Nikeanor’s light hit the far side of the cave, a rounded hole in the rock covered in coral and spotted moss and some sort of pale sea grass.
Directly in front of the wall floated the stone. Round and smooth, the jewel was a brilliant blue that swirled with the thrum of his heart. Nikaenor was reminded of the blown glass beads his mother used to wear on festival days, only this was infinitely more complex and more beautiful. The jewel bobbed rhythmically in the water, fully in concert with its element. He could feel the pull of the goddess and moved toward her, his arm outstretched.
But then the light from the coral caught on a ripple behind the stone, a swaying of sea grass that didn’t match with the currents Nikaenor created as he swam. Nikaenor fanned himself to a stop with the web between his fingers, looking more closely.
The rock behind the stone began to move. It slipped along, as if part of the sea shelf was shifting, and the twisted crags of the rest of the cave rippled and shifted with it. Then a crack appeared, revealing a long gap lined with sharp spikes.
His shout of surprise was muted in the water, and he flailed, propelling himself backward even as the stone itself beckoned him near.
Mere inches from the stone, the glow from his coral caught the gleam of something glassy.
Nikaenor watched in panic as a great eye opened.
Sixteen
By the time Kenton and Perchaya ditched their soldiers’ uniforms and arrived at the edge of town, it was already too late to help the screaming woman. She knelt over a young man who was obviously dead. The soldiers who had speared him through the chest had galloped further into town, leaving only hoof prints on the red dirt road. Kenton’s chest heaved from the run as he looked around for more soldiers; the sounds of conflict echoed from all areas of the town, from houses and shops, down streets and alleys.
“Perchaya, we have . . .” he started, but saw that she was bent down beside the woman, speaking softly to her as the woman rocked back and forth with heavy sobs. Finally, the woman nodded, and Perchaya helped her unsteadily to her feet.
“She lives this way,” Perchaya said to him. “I’ll only be a minute.” She helped the woman, down the road and into the safety of her home.
It was only when she returned that Kenton realized he’d stared stupidly after her instead of helping. He needed to focus.
“We have to find the Alwyns,” Perchaya said. “They’re probably still near the inn.”
“Agreed.” Without another word, they started off in the direction of the Fish Hook. Kenton only hoped that the townspeople would be able to keep this up, staving off the massacre long enough for Nikaenor to get to Mirilina.
As they moved over one street to the west, they got a full view of the chaos. Fires blazed from a row of buildings along the far side of the street, the pulsing heat and cracki
ng flames a backdrop to the clang of steel as several small groups fought desperately. In the open road lay bodies, many of them dressed in Sevairnese livery—but certainly not all.
The town was burning, but its inhabitants were putting up one hell of a fight. And though their real salvation lay with Nikaenor, Kenton wasn’t going to leave them to it. He and Perchaya moved through the shadows of the narrow alley, jumping back as a large man holding a short hooked gaff ducked suddenly into the shadows where they stood. With a curse, the man stumbled backwards, toppling over a crate.
“It’s all right. We’re friends,” Kenton said, gripping the man’s weapon-wielding arm. “Where are we needed?”
The man opened his mouth to respond, but he was cut off by shouts of soldiers who must have heard the commotion. “Down there!” one shouted. The man pushed himself up against the wall. Kenton pulled his sword free of the scabbard and stepped in front of Perchaya just as three soldiers ran into the alley.
Kenton stabbed at the soldier in front, who dodged just in time, although the soldier coming in directly behind him didn’t fare as well. Kenton’s sword sliced into the man’s upper thigh, sending him to the ground. Kenton, however, was now overextended, the sword of the first soldier thrusting directly at him.
Before he could react, the soldier jerked to the side with a choked gurgle before collapsing at Kenton’s feet, the point of the townsman’s gaff driven several inches into his neck. Kenton steadied himself and lunged forward for the third soldier, who jumped back and avoided the strike, then disappeared down a side alley.
A loud cracking filled the air. With a crash, one of the flaming buildings collapsed, spreading fire and burning wood out onto the street. The heat intensified, as did the sounds of panic from the streets. Smoke and ash filled the air, burning his eyes. Holding his sword in front of him, Kenton felt for Perchaya, who was bent over coughing. He pushed her back, coughing as well. They emerged out onto the street behind them, the slightly clearer air allowing them to catch their breath.