The Emerald Sea

by Richelle Mead

  CHAPTER 34

  THIS IS DEATH.

  It had to be. Nothing else could be so black, so cold, so smothering. As I flailed in a panicked attempt to gain any sort of bearing, some distant part of my mind was waiting for Ozhiel to take my hands and drag me down to his underworld.

  Calm down, Tamsin. You’re going to drag yourself under. I slowed my frantic struggles, which had no real result. I started to sink and then moved my arms in a gentler, more controlled way, rolling to my stomach and straightening my body. I floated up, just enough for my head to break the surface. I spit out the water in my mouth, took a gulp of air, and was promptly knocked back under when a wave hit me in the face. I emerged again, coughing, and managed to tread water, despite the heavy layers of skirts tangling my legs.

  Blinking, I tried to get some sense of where I was. There was water everywhere. Everywhere. Coming from the sky, surrounding my body, still in my nose and throat. Sometimes I floated right along with the waves, bobbing up and down. Other times, they crashed into me, splashing my eyes and mouth. As I turned in place, I finally found what I sought: the boat. It was only a splotch of blackness, set with a few yellow lights, but there was no mistaking what it was. Or that it was moving away from me.

  “Wait!” I yelled, instinct driving me to seek help from the only human source I had—even though that very source was the reason I needed help. The storm was too loud for anyone to hear me, though, and in the time it had taken me to recover, the boat had put a good deal of distance between us. I started to swim after it, using the long, sure strokes I’d learned as a child, never guessing back then that they could save my life after someone attempted to kill me.

  But I soon stopped. There was no way I could catch up with it. I watched it get farther and farther away, soon melding into the rest of the black bay. Was Warren there, staring at the boat’s wake? Watching where he’d sent me to drown? Probably not. He’d have to go to the stern for that, where the captain was. Warren had hurled me far enough, and I’d been under long enough, that the crew probably hadn’t even noticed a thing. Surely the boat would be doubling back if the crew realized someone had gone over . . . right? Or was Warren’s sway too strong?

  I pushed those musings away. What went on in that boat made no difference to me now. My biggest priority—my only priority—was staying alive. Already, I was tiring from treading water. I was out of practice, and my clothes were heavy. Constantly having to readjust after waves struck my nose and eyes didn’t help. And it was cold. Everything was so, so cold. A flare of lightning gave me a brief glimpse of the coast before darkness swallowed it up again. Yes, I could still see land, just like when I’d started out tonight. But did it matter, if I couldn’t swim to it?

  I had no choice. If I was going to drown, it might as well be trying to reach shore and not staying in one spot in the middle of the bay. In the lightning’s unreliable illumination, the nearest land seemed to be in a more leftward direction than the boat had gone. Another wave broke against me, and after a moment of coughing, I set off for the coast. Decision made, I experienced a rush of energy as the adrenaline of determination went through me. I moved well, stayed strong, and didn’t even swallow that much water.

  And then . . . the fatigue came again. I had to stop a couple of times and rest from the more aggressive swimming just to catch my breath. But when I’d start up again, my muscles were still tired. I couldn’t move as forcefully or cover the distance I had earlier. And when, on another break, I reassessed the shore, it seemed I’d hardly made progress at all. Panic started to make me falter. I was weakening. I didn’t have the stamina to reach the shore. My strokes grew smaller, hardly moving me at all. I became less adept at keeping water out of my nose and mouth. And Six, it was cold.

  Another bolt of lightning. They were becoming infrequent, and the wind and rain had lessened too. But in that flash, I saw something up ahead on the water—something red. It was there, and then gone. Was there another boat? If so, why didn’t it have any lights? Hope gave me a second wind, and I swam in the direction I’d seen the blur of red, praying for more lightning. When it came, I saw I’d made progress toward that phantom object but that it was too small to be a boat. It had a roundish shape, and something stuck out from its top.

  A buoy, I realized. The ones the captain had seen that marked the shoals. It wasn’t a boat, but it did float. My second wind had faded by then, and I mustered what I could of a third one, pushing my body until my muscles burned and then pushing them some more. More than once, I thought I’d sink in exhaustion. But I kept thinking of Merry, Adelaide, Mira, Jago, and all the other people counting on me.

  I reached it at last, my lungs bursting. The buoy was about three feet in diameter, with a flat top that gave it the appearance of a squashed barrel. A wooden pole with a wildly whipping flag jutted up from its center, and I used the pole as a handle to pull myself on top of the buoy. Gasping, aching, I collapsed against the flagpole and offered a silent prayer of thanks. I was alive.

  I lay there for a long time, staring without seeing, just regaining my strength. The waves tossed the buoy around a bit, but I was never in danger of getting dunked. The wind grew still, and the rain diminished, spurring me to utter another prayer of thanks. But when I squinted, I could see lightning dancing among the clouds on the horizon, steadily coming closer. This was the eye, as deceptively calm as the ocean storm’s had been. The onslaught would be back. I sat up a little, using the pole for support again, and then realized the last place I wanted to be in a thunderstorm was next to a tall, pointed object.

  Actually, that was the next-to-last place I wanted to be. The last one was the open water, and there was no way I was leaving the buoy. As the storm’s wrath rolled back in, I felt up and down the pole. It was old and soaked, and I found one section I was certain was weaker than the rest. I got on my knees, pushing and pulling with all of my tepid strength, and incredibly, I broke the pole. Not gracefully. It was splintery and jagged, but I’d taken a few feet off it. I was still the highest thing around, but there was nothing else to be done. Grasping the broken pole, I curled up on the buoy, making myself as low as I could while staying out of the water. And then I waited.

  And waited. I not only had to wait out the storm as it returned with its former intensity, I also had to wait out the night. I passed it in a sort of exhausted daze but never truly slept. When morning arrived, the sky was clear, and the rising sun finally gave me some sense of direction. Following the curve of the coast, I could see that I appeared to be in the southwestern part of the bay, which fit with what the captain had said about seeing southern buoys. But again, just like last night, even the closest section of shoreline was too far for me to swim without a break. I put a hand to my eyes, trying to discern any other buoys I could use as waypoints to land. There likely were some, but I couldn’t count on finding one.

  So why not take this one with me? Knowing it’d have to happen sooner or later, I jumped back into the water, crying out as I went from just cold to freezing. I swam around the buoy, diving under a few times to determine its setup. A rope extended from its bottom surface, presumably down to an anchor somewhere. There was no way I could untie it. The rope didn’t feel like it was on the verge of disintegration, but it was worn and waterlogged.

  I climbed back up on top of the buoy and examined the flagpole I’d broken. The little pennant was held on with two metal clasps. I slid one off, and after hammering it against the buoy enough times, managed to flatten it somewhat. One of the metal strip’s corners was quite sharp, and I used it as a knife, beginning the long and painstaking process of going underneath the buoy, sawing away at the rope with my makeshift blade, and then coming back up for air. It was well into the morning when I finally broke the last strands of rope. The buoy popped free of its anchor and listed to one side.

  I was worn out enough by then that I would’ve liked to rest again, but with nothing to hold it, the buoy was a
lready drifting at the whims of the waves and light wind. Holding on to the buoy with my arms, I turned toward the shore and used my legs to propel me forward. I moved faster than I had swimming on my own, and although I was still worn out, I at least had the comfort of something to hold on to when I stopped—instead of simply sinking.

  The sun was at its zenith when I finally staggered onto a shore of jagged gray rocks. I pulled the buoy with me and then sank onto the flattest spot I could find. I buried my face in my hands and started crying, softly at first, and then giving myself over to great sobs that shook my body and snatched at my breath. If my throat wasn’t so raw, I would have screamed my frustration to the world.

  When I finally calmed down, I took stock of what I knew. If I’d come from the southern section of Denham Bay, then I was in the northern part of Denham Colony. Northwest, I supposed, scrutinizing the shape of the coast. I was days from Cape Triumph, but in theory, all I had to do to reach it was follow the shore east. Or, if I headed due south I might hit a road like the one I’d taken in from Icori territory.

  What else did I know? I was freezing. Even though the day had warmed up into another almost summery one, the icy water had chilled me to the bone. I kept moving my toes and poking my numbed limbs. They all still seemed to work.

  I was hungry, thirsty, and exhausted. I had nothing but the drenched clothes I wore and whatever tools I could scrape together from the buoy. No one knew I was here, so no one would come looking for me.

  Oh, and Warren Doyle wanted me dead.

  Actually, he probably assumed I already was. I would too, in his position. Images from last night tumbled back through my mind, hardly seeming real. How had I gone from boarding a boat with dreams of being a governor’s wife to being left for dead by said governor?

  You do know those men. Or you recognize them, at least. You know what they were doing—and that’s too big a secret for even you.

  I didn’t know what they were doing! And I’d never even seen the smaller one. I rubbed my forehead, trying to piece together the scraps of conversation I’d heard and what it could mean that a Lorandian who raided under the guise of an Icori was spending time with Warren. But it was all too much in my current state. The memories and bits of information slipped through my hands when I tried to hold on to them. The only thing I could be sure of was that I’d stumbled onto something powerful enough for Warren to try to kill me and face whatever fallout came of it in Cape Triumph.

  It was that chilling thought that finally drove me to my feet. Someone paranoid enough to kill another person for overhearing a conversation might very well be paranoid enough to double-check his work. I salvaged everything I could from the buoy that might be useful later: the metal clasps, the pole, rope fragments, and even the flag itself. The rest of the buoy I hid in the forest behind the gravelly beach.

  Then I slipped off into the trees, trying to use the sun as a guide to keep me headed south. If I could find a road, then maybe I could find help. I would have even settled for a trail to save me from picking my way through all the roots, undergrowth, and fallen branches. The weather might be pleasant now, but signs of the storm’s passing were everywhere. Surveying all that it had knocked down in this forest made me wonder how Cape Triumph had fared. Had the storm taken out trees there? Buildings? Were my friends okay?

  They were probably better off than me, I thought bitterly. No one had tried to kill them last night.

  As I walked and gleaned some warmth from the sun, I tried again to pick through the jumble of last night’s events. Five minutes before pushing me overboard, Warren had been planning to marry me. From his comments, he might have even been planning to make me a coconspirator in . . . what? That was the life-or-death question.

  He had Lorandian associates, that I knew for a fact. Lorandians who’d been trying to make Osfridians and Icori think each was under attack by the other. Jago and I had been right about that—at least in the north.

  My bride-to-be did what you couldn’t. The north will be going soon, and Campbell’s going to take most of the fort’s number south. She helped do that too, though it also sounds like the attacks our agents did there and in the central colonies were a little more effective.

  My steps slowed, and I leaned against a tree, partially to pull my thoughts together and partially because I was getting dizzy. The attacks our agents did there and in the central colonies. What agents did he mean? Not Lorandian ones, judging by the big man’s indignation. Our agents. Osfridian agents? Was that the implication, that the Lorandians had staged skirmishes in the north and conspiring Osfridians had done them in other places—like the hunting camp along the East River?

  I closed my eyes. If that was true, then Jago and I had been right about the reports of all the Icori raids being fabricated. They were just being done by different factions.

  A drop of water splashed onto my forehead, and I blinked back to my surroundings. Another drop followed. Stepping aside, I squinted upward and saw the culprit: Water had pooled on a large leaf above me and finally lost its balance. I didn’t know the tree type, but the other leaves that were open were also broad and curved down in a way that let water collect. I backtracked to a log I’d passed earlier and dragged it to the tree. Using it as a stool, I climbed up. I carefully plucked water-filled leaves off and slurped their contents. A few times, I found it easier to let the leaves stay as they were and just bring my mouth up to them.

  When I didn’t feel so parched anymore, I continued on but took a few of the cup-shaped leaves with me. My traveling outfit was actually in no way designed to be helpful for traveling, aside from two gold-embroidered pockets on the front of the skirt. I kept the leaves in there with some of my salvaged buoy bits. The water went a long way toward restoring me, but I wanted food too. Denham was in true spring now, but the pickings were slim. The most plentiful things I found were dandelion greens, and though they were edible, I knew too many would hurt the stomach, especially when dehydrated. I’d have to keep looking.

  Just as twilight was approaching, I finally came to a road. It wasn’t as wide or packed down as the one our caravan had taken to Cape Triumph, but it had seen enough wear to suggest it was used a lot. I turned onto it, putting the sunset behind me. I encountered no other travelers, but the road did cross a small, bubbling stream via a bare-bones wooden bridge. My thirst had returned, and I hopped down the bank. When I reached a particularly rapid part of the stream, I used my leaves to gather more water.

  I’d have to camp for the night, I realized. I had no tent or cloak for protection, though. In their attempts to teach Gideon to live in the wild, Briga and Eroc had talked about shelters, but I’d only half listened. Could I build one? I had no construction knowledge, save watching Pa on some of his jobs. The storm had made the woods a feast of building materials, so surely something could be managed.

  Earlier in the day, I’d hoped to find other people who might offer direction. Once evening’s shadows grew longer, though, I decided it might be wiser to pass the night without encountering any strangers. I walked upstream until I felt I was far enough from the road to avoid detection. After a lot of trial and error with various tree and plant materials, I ended up with a lean-to type of structure composed of fallen limbs set against a sloping section of land above the streambed. I “thatched” the outside of the limbs with pine boughs and dried leaves, weaving some in and just piling up others. It made a snug little enclosure that would keep me out of sight and reasonably warm.

  I decided to pass on a fire, as much as I longed for the extra heat. It was another way to attract attention, and I had nothing to cook over it. I’d have to put it out before sleeping anyway. My clothes, though stiff, had dried, and the weather was far milder than what I’d camped in farther north. That left me with deepening shadows as the sun set and no way to banish them. It was probably just as well; I needed the sleep. I trekked down to get one last drink of water, and as I knelt a
t the rushing stream, the fleeting light caught a flash of silver that quickly vanished.

  Fish. The clawing sensation in my empty stomach intensified, just thinking about fish cooked over a campfire. That, at least, was something I’d paid attention to with the Icori. I’d learned all about how they set their clever fish traps and cages out in the river each night. The problem was, I had nothing even remotely close to that on hand and no way to build one. Maybe by weaving dried vines? I had no time to find them. I stared at the stream, my insides aching. Some of the Icori traps had clever flaps that let fish come in but not exit. A couple of baskets had simply relied on the current funneling fish in who then had trouble finding the way out.

  Conscious of the rapidly growing darkness, I scouted the closest parts of the stream and found one where the bed bulged out a little. I gathered every rock and stick I could obtain quickly, not screening for size or uniformity, using them to construct a barrier that was a hybrid of wall and fence, stacking rocks and shoving in sticks until I’d sectioned off the bulbous part. I made my barrier like the Icori baskets, open and wide on the upstream side, narrowing to a point on the downstream side. The Icori used bait, which I didn’t have time for, so I’d just have to hope for fish straying in on their own and being too stupid to find the way out.

  And with that, I crawled into my lean-to, pulling a few more branches against it to close off the opening. I rolled to my side and was wondering how I’d ever fall asleep in such strange conditions when, pushed past exhaustion, I dropped into a deep slumber.

  * * *

  I woke to birds singing and bright sunshine pouring in through the cracks of my roof. I wiggled my way out and stretched muscles that had stiffened from both the cramped quarters and hours of swimming. Walking to the stream, I brushed off leaves and dirt that had stuck to me overnight, as well as a few bugs I tried not to think too much about. Yawning, I crouched at the river for a morning drink and tried to gauge the time. Well past sunrise. I’d slept in, which was understandable. Now I had to—