Given to the Sea

by Mindy McGinnis

  I look at my palms, the sun dancing back off their softness. Milda claims they are lover’s hands, but I still feel a mild revulsion at the sight of them, so like my father’s and grandfather’s. I remember Agga’s suddenly, cracked and wearied with work.

  My feet had been taking me toward Madda, but now I jam my hands in my pockets and strike out away from the castle grounds to the sea. My Seer may not see hard labor in my palms, but I imagine nothing can change lines quicker than hauling in traps.

  There’s enough of a breeze to bring spray to my skin, though—like all Stilleans—I’m sure to keep a safe distance from the water’s edge. It taunts and plays, whitecaps tossing. My people were once drawn to it, entranced by the play of light on water, white dancing on blue. But they learned the danger of toying with such strength, a forcible lesson taught by a predator that can appear meek and beautiful, but destroy in a breath. Like children we were taught roughly, and like children we took the fear to heart.

  I shudder as my eyes follow the trapmen’s lines, which extend deep into the sea, past even the Horns—a pair of rock pillars that jut from the water at low tide. I’ve caught the trapmen as they are returning to pull their catches in, fins and pincers erupting from the woven sides in a futile struggle.

  Finding Agga is not easy. All who work close to the water are darkly tanned, their hair the same color as the salt on the waves. I ask and am directed farther down the line, near where the trees—less frightened than other living things—come perilously near the sea.

  “Agga,” I call as I approach, one hand raised in greeting.

  He peers up at me, eyes squinted against the sun. “Ah, Prince Vincent . . . who prefers to be just Vincent. Strange to see you on the beaches. What brings you here?”

  “I wondered if you’d let me pull a trap?”

  Agga’s lined face draws together in confusion, but the corners of his mouth are turned up. “Why would someone who doesn’t have to pull a trap want to?”

  “To see if I can.”

  He nods, as if this makes sense to him. “It’s hell on the hands,” he warns.

  “Good.”

  He wasn’t lying. I’ve lost layers and raised blisters before the first trap is in, while Agga wades into the surf to bring it the rest of the way. I can’t hide my fear as the water breaks around his bare legs, leaving glistening skin in its wake.

  “Bah,” Agga says, noticing my face as he drops the trap at my feet. “Trapmen know a thing or two about the sea. She’s a wily monster, yes, and one we’ll never tame. But you can learn her ways if you’ve been around her long enough. And right now she’s no more danger to you or me than a housecat that’s filled her belly with cream.”

  I watch the surf come in again, pulling at the feet of the older trapmen who share Agga’s confidence. The younger ones stay back, content to let the muscles in their arms do the work rather than give the sea a chance to take out their legs.

  The scream takes us all by surprise, sending the gulls that had gathered to pilfer from the traps into the air, their own voices blending with the growing swell of agony. Agga and the others are as lost as I am; all of us search for the source, our bodies poised for some action not yet decided.

  She breaks out of the trees like a wraith, her tattered dress barely keeping her decent as she spins, her body exultant in its throes as she clears the beach, her face a twisted display. I cannot tell if she is beautiful or horrific, and it does not matter for I know who she is in the second that all the trapmen instinctively take a knee to bear witness to the dance.

  To see a Given dance is a blessing and a comfort, assurance that the sea has taken this generation’s offering, her death solidifying our hold on life. Yet I cannot let it happen. Whether it is because she has not delivered a replacement yet, or because of the helpless terror I see, I do not know, but I run to intercept her. The beach fights me, sucking at my naked feet as I head for her, demanding the right to take what is being freely given.

  “Vincent! No!” Agga yells behind me. His voice mingles with the dismay of other trapmen as I interfere, hitting her convulsing body with my own and pinning her to the ground.

  She fights me—her limbs wanting the sea as badly as it wants to take her, and a well-aimed fist drives the breath from me as she craves to answer the call. Rough hands hold me back as she crawls for the surf, the water rising above her wrists before I draw air back into my belly and yell, “She has not bred yet!”

  The hands leave me to find purchase elsewhere, tearing the girl away from the tide. It takes four of them to still her, one on each limb, and even after being pinned by callused hands she twitches, anxious to finish the journey.

  But her face relaxes. The rictus of fear is suddenly gone, and her features return to their rightful place to paint a portrait of beauty. Her eyes meet mine briefly before rolling back, and the most meager of smiles plays on her lips for one moment, as if it’s an action they don’t know well enough to hold.

  “My lord,” Agga says, the title in place, “what shall we do?”

  Any victory I felt at stopping her dash is instantly deadened as I look at the expectant faces of the trapmen, each still clinging to the Given’s delicate arms and legs.

  “Take her to someone with authority to decide,” I say. “Take her to the king.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Witt

  FUNNELS OF GRAY SMOKE DRIFT INTO THE NIGHT SKY AS the ashes of Hyllen cool. Witt sits on an overturned trough, bloodied sword across his knees as those who did not fall are brought forward.

  Witt warned the men not to take the villagers too lightly, that those who fight with their backs against their own homes fight hardest. As always, his words were given weight, the methodical press of his soldiers unbroken in their goal when they swarmed. As a result, there are not many left to question, and those who are brought to Witt come on shaky legs.

  He waves a man to the right, an elderly shepherd who could give no account of those who may have escaped or where their feet could have taken them. To reach Stille on foot would take three days, the farther outposts even longer. A soldier takes the shepherd into one of the few remaining houses. The line of villagers has seen many go in and none come out. Yet they stand docile as children, waiting for a turn to face Witt and follow the same path.

  He motions for the next in line, a handsome woman with a streak of gray in her hair, who bows as she comes forward. One of the guards behind him snickers when her chemise gapes, but the slightest tilt of Witt’s head brings the noise to an abrupt halt.

  “Did you see a girl, sir?” the woman asks, her eyes moving from Witt to the men who flank him. “Small and fair? Any of you? It’s important, sir. She’s the Given.”

  “Lots of fair girls been given tonight,” one of the men says.

  “Do not distract the Lithos with such talk,” Pravin growls.

  The woman goes down on her knees, hands raised in supplication. “Please, sir, Given to the Sea, is what I’m saying. It’ll be the doom of us all if she goes to death before dancing.”

  “Filthy fathoms, this again?” a soldier mutters.

  “What’s the sea to one who faces a blade?” Witt asks

  “It’s for Stille’s sake I ask, sir. I’d keep it from the waves if I can.”

  “What do you know of Stille, other than old wives’ tales?”

  “More than most.” She draws herself up with a hint of pride. “My husband and I have raised three of the dancers and taken them to the sea when their time came.”

  Pravin motions for the woman to be taken to the left, the first to go to Witt’s own tent instead of the unlit house. The next person is brought forward forcefully and driven to his knees in front of Witt by two men. Blond hair has been burned away on one side of his head, ashy, brittle tendrils still clinging in patches to his angrily shining scalp. A wound above his eye has crusted over, but seeps again after
his struggle with the soldiers.

  “You look as if you fought today,” Witt says.

  “As best I knew how,” the boy answers through swollen lips. “We’re farmers, not soldiers, but I’ll stand against anything that brings harm to Hyllen.”

  “You’re not standing now, are you?”

  “Have your men take their hands off me and I’ll rise.”

  “Abna!” a girl cries from the waiting line, her hands tight around her swollen belly. “Please!”

  “Be still,” he calls back to her. “It’s all the same ending. I’ll come to mine out in the firelight with the moon shining on me, not in a black room with smoke choking what little life’s left.”

  Witt nods to the soldiers, and they step away from Abna, who comes to his feet as promised. Witt rises, circling his prisoner.

  “Brave words. Do you have the actions to back them?”

  Though Abna’s eyes are bright and his bearing proud, his tone speaks of defeat. “I’ve never held a weapon in my life, and you are the Lithos of Pietra. Do what you do best and kill me now. Stop playing with me like a toy, for you never were a child.”

  Witt confronts him, dark eyes lost in the shadows of his face. “What do you know of being a Lithos?”

  “Hyllenians may be quiet people, but that means we listen better than most. I know how Pietra live, their Lithos chosen young and molded fast. You were marked a killer before you could walk, and I’ve only to glance at you to know they chose well.”

  Witt’s sword slashes quickly, the blade a mere flash in the night, back in the scabbard before Abna’s head reaches the ground.

  “Yes,” he says. “They did.”

  The girl howls, falling to her knees while those around try to calm her.

  “Take them away,” Witt says, suddenly weary.

  Pravin goes to work directing the prisoners into the animal pens and setting guards around them for the night. Witt shoves into his own tent. The guards stand at attention, one on either side of the woman he sent in earlier.

  “Leave us,” he says to them, handing her a flask to drink from as they go.

  She takes a sip, her eyes never leaving his face. “What is it you want with me? I thought the Lithos took no woman.”

  Witt ignores her question, answering with his own. “You know Stille?”

  “I do,” she says cautiously. “But if you think I’ll be useful, you’re mistaken. I know the way in is a road, and the way out the same. I’m a Keeper, and the trips I’ve made in the past were spent tending to the Given, not minding much else.”

  “A Keeper.” Witt takes the flask from her and drinks himself. “You raise these girl children from infants, watch them bear children, then take them to the sea when their time comes?”

  “I do,” the Keeper says. “And raise her babe the same, only to bring another into the world and make the trek to Stille again. One in the cart, one left behind.”

  “Then you know much of keeping the doors to your heart shuttered fast, and that’s a lesson no Lithos can learn too well. Your life is safe, should you wish to impart some of this knowledge to me.”

  The Keeper tears the ragged edge of her sleeve away, wiping her face with the remnant. “Seems you have little need of such instruction, or Abna’s head would still be on his shoulders.”

  “Like any blade, a craft can always be honed,” Witt says. “If you have no interest in my offer, I can remove your own head as well. Do you wish to keep your life?”

  “What’s left of it,” she says grudgingly. “With the Given lost, the sea will be lapping our heels.”

  Witt takes another drink, fighting the urge to roll his eyes as his soldiers had done. “Yes, the sea. What terror it does cause, that Stilleans cower at its very mention?”

  “Even you Pietra fear it,” she lashes back. “Your trees grow leaves that slice men to ribbons so that the roots can drink spilled blood, yet water keeps you at bay.”

  “Not the water, but what swims in it,” Witt corrects her. “The Hadundun trees may thirst for blood, but they stay rooted. The Lusca are not so easily escaped should we venture to the sea.”

  “So you come here, take our lands and flocks instead. Do you think I did not see the hollows under your soldiers’ armor? Metal may sit well on them, but it covers thin arms and near-empty bellies,” the Keeper says with a bitter smile. “No worries, young Lithos, if the Given does not dance, your people will not suffer hunger pains long.”

  “Dear lady,” Witt says, raising the flask in mock toast, “I too believe the sea will get us in the end. But not as Stille expects.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Dara

  DARA ALLOWS HER TWIN TO SLEEP THROUGH THE NIGHT, not waking him when she hears the first rustling of underbrush as the day breaks. She draws back her bow so that the tip touches both their ears as they nestle together under their shared cloaks. Donil doesn’t stir until she releases the arrow. The slight twang brings him to his feet, daggers in hand, as the creature’s body hits the ground, dead before Donil is even fully awake.

  “Thanks for the warning,” he says as he resheathes his daggers and pulls Dara to her feet.

  She shrugs. “You track it, I kill it.”

  They pace around the body, stepping lightly over splayed limbs. The rising sun draws colors from its scales, creating a beautiful dance. But the stench gags Donil when he peers more closely.

  “It stinks of the surf,” Dara says. Even when she breathes through her mouth, the air feels wet, weighed down with salt and the unmistakable scent of the deep.

  “And these feet are of the sea,” Donil agrees, spreading the toes to show the webbing between. As he does, an otherwise buried claw pushes forward with a tuft of wool still hanging on the tip.

  They gather at the head, and Dara pulls the wide lips open to find two rows of teeth, long and sharp as any tool in a weaver’s kit. Tiny eyes betray its affinity for the dark, the pupils now wide and unseeing.

  “A creature of the sea come on land,” Donil muses, spreading the eyelid wide to get a better look. “You’re far from home.”

  “Farther than you think,” Dara says. “Not only of the sea, but not even from our waters.”

  “A Lusca, you think?” Donil stands back, arms crossed, while he looks at the creature. “Why would a Pietran monster come to our shores? They feed them willingly enough.”

  “If this is a Lusca, then that was a badly placed arrow,” Dara says, leaning against her bow. “I’d rather have turned it back toward Pietra, sent it home for more flesh.”

  “Leaving fewer Pietran soldiers for you to kill?” Donil asks. “That’s not the sister I know.”

  Dara loops her bow onto her back. “Tales of a Lusca on land won’t be welcomed, and from the mouths of Indiri, no less. Gammal will believe us, but how to convince the Elders?”

  “We’ll take the head,” Donil suggests. “The smell of the thing itself is testament enough of the sea.”

  “Two feet as well. The webbing says much.”

  “One stands in evidence alone. Why take two?”

  “Because feet come in pairs.”

  They lose the morning to sawing and hacking with dagger blades that dull quickly from strange work. Scales stick to their skin as they brush against the massive rib cage, which rises high enough that they can barely see each other over it. They fashion a sledge out of branches and Dara’s cloak, striking for home as the afternoon wanes into evening.

  The smell precedes them, sending smaller creatures into hiding and attracting predators in their wake. A day of travel doesn’t improve the stench, and as Donil struggles against a tree branch that pokes through the sledge, the rot-heavy air hangs in his lungs.

  “Wait,” he calls ahead to his sister, who has crested the hill and stands peering down the road to Stille.

  “Not long, brother,” she says as she
returns to him. “I can just see the castle spire from here. We’ll have warm food tonight, and our own beds.”

  “First a bath,” he says, rocking back on his heels as she disentangles the sledge.

  “A bath,” she agrees. “Although I don’t believe I smell it anymore.”

  “They do.” He gestures toward the Tangata cats that have gathered behind them, thick whiskers betraying their presence behind trees. An older female, heavy and lazy, doesn’t even bother to hide, and her coiled tail, wide as Dara’s wrist, twitches in the fading sunlight.

  “Begone,” Dara shouts, tossing a rock. It bolts, ringed tail raised in alarm, but not before hissing at Dara to display teeth as long as her fingers. “They’re only that bold when there’s a clowder of them. We need to move.”

  Donil rises to his feet, but his sister takes the rope. “My turn.”

  Dara pulls it over her shoulder, easing down the hillside toward the road. Donil follows, eyes on the lashes they’ve secured the legs and head with. The eyes shriveled quickly in the rays of the sun, and the sockets have gathered flies.

  Donil keeps pace as they come upon the first village, where the children run to the sight of strangers and possible news from elsewhere—then wildly change course when hit by the smell. Donil waves at a cluster of young boys as they pass, answering calls muted by shirts pressed around their noses. Some of the braver boys follow behind, shouting questions.

  “Go home,” Dara yells over her shoulder. “The Tangata are out, and they’re curious tonight. Best not to satisfy them with your own skin. They’d have your hide off before your scream woke the oderbirds.”