The smallest boy stalls at her words, little feet coming to a halt. His hesitancy catches quickly, and soon they are all left behind, the unbroken line from the sledge lengthening the distance between them and the Indiri.
“That was less than kind,” Donil says, as they approach the castle walls.
“You’re the pleasant one, and what good has it done you? Away a handful of days, for all anyone knew slain by a horrible beast in the black of night. And we come home to find the gates closed against us.”
Donil comes to a halt, and Dara rests beside him, opening and stretching her hands, stiff from clenching the sledge rope.
“True,” he says, eyes roaming over the double guards set at the lowered portcullis. “But the main hall is lit up as if it were the summer festival.”
They stand in silence for a moment, letting the noisy rise and fall of a gathering drift to them from the castle.
“Sister,” Donil says, “I believe there’s a celebration we’ve not been invited to.”
Dara glances over her shoulder at the rotting mound of flesh. “We’re here now.”
CHAPTER 9
Khosa
I AM BEING HONORED.
There is little to be said about what I will do to earn this banquet, but a story of everything I did to get here is printed on my skin. My feet are torn from days of running, my shoes lost somewhere in the hills between Stille and Hyllen. The fine skin of my legs is lashed red with the marks of underbrush, and I am told that weavers were called to pull the embedded thorns. They say there were enough to make many carding combs.
The weavers were pleased when they left me, the physician exultant in the exhaustion from which he would deliver me. The trapmen who held me down have earned a place in the histories for stopping my mad dance that came too early. The blind terror that drove me for three days toward Stille has become legend in moments, anonymous souls now drawing glory from my pain.
There is pain, and there are bruises. When I first came to, my eyes skipped past bloody scratches from thorns and the swelling of my feet, landing instead on the purple marks on my wrists and ankles, shadowy spots in the shape of hands. People had touched me without my permission or knowledge.
Now I sit at the head of a table, a demurely cut dress in place to cover all the damage. The king’s daughter did my hair, unperturbed by my flinching when her fingers brushed my scalp. Dissa says that I am beautiful, and the sea will be pleased. She says this as if I should be as well. In the mirror I see her plain face twitch slightly, perhaps wondering how she fares in comparison, and what her handsome husband with wandering eyes will make of me. Though the dress covers my wounds and ornately braided hair crowns my head, no one knows that it’s only raiment for a deficient offering.
I am trying. The lessons of my Keepers run fast and true, the muscles in my face conforming to their instructions, though I doubt the mouths that voiced them will ever move again. Hyllen was burning when I ran from it, but I hear their words from years of practice, and now comes the test. The Keepers will never benefit from the lifetime of work instilled in me, the timing of a smile, the curiosity conveyed by a tilted head. I curtsy to the royals, lower my eyes when spoken to, and accept all compliments when hands are pressed against mine, though the rich drink in my belly threatens to overflow like a boiling pot.
They have no idea that I am measuring them, the width of a thumb, the distance between fingers. The exact imprints of my bruises have been carefully cataloged, and I will know the matching hands when I see them again. The playacting wearies me, and I settle into my seat after receiving the line of people who are so anxious to meet the girl who will die to save them.
“Hello,” the boy to my right says quietly, as if a loud word may break me.
He is a royal, so I lower my eyes an extra finger span when responding. “Hello.” I keep my volume the same as his, and our tones matching.
“Are you recovering?” he asks, and I feel a black wave in my stomach at such a question. What does it matter if I heal, when I only go to rot?
“I am well,” I answer, all traces of the buried darkness removed. “And yourself, Prince . . .” I stutter a moment, no amount of training able to cover the fact that I’ve forgotten his name.
“Vincent,” he supplies quickly. “Just Vincent, please.”
“Vincent,” I repeat, raising my gaze to meet his, curious about the boy who forgoes his rightful title.
He is without the lines of work and outdoor living that the Hyllenian boys carried. Our eyes meet, and his sweep across my face in a practiced gaze, his own training in memorizing features, names, and titles at work. And work is what it is to both of us. His movements are too smooth to be natural, too kind to be authentic. Together we playact as the eating begins and the lives we have been trained for are set into whatever motion the occasion calls for.
I am served first, food from the sea piled upon my plate. I eat for so many reasons. To quell the hunger born from my mad run, to stop the necessity of conversation with the boy beside me, and because there is some satisfaction in knowing that I’ll devour some sea creatures before they’re able to devour me.
“It’s good to see you up and about,” Vincent continues, having to speak loudly as conversation grows around us. Many eyes cut to me while we talk, measuring my hunger and no doubt balancing it against the slimness of my waistline.
“It’s good to be about,” I lie, vastly preferring the isolation of my chamber and the guards at my door. “How do you fill your days here, Vincent?”
His eyes return to mine, and I see a flicker there, a real person underneath the façade he’s accustomed to presenting. “There are things to do, but I admit you must search for them. Though a city, you may find Stille differs little from . . .” He stalls, tongue stiffening.
“Hyllen,” I say quickly. I’m happy to pretend he has only forgotten the name of my village, not that he has just recalled rising smoke and screams that followed me as I fled. Most girls would be bothered by those memories, but to me it is like a painting I am observing from outside the frame. It may be a curse that my Keepers tried to leach from me with pointed lessons, but it proved useful when King Gammal asked me to share what I could about the destruction of my homeland, his military advisors leaning in to catch my words.
“We had our pursuits,” I say, filling the gap that Vincent’s stumble created. “Hayrides at harvest and new lambs in the spring. I imagine Stillean royals have grander ideas of fun.”
“If we do, I’m not aware,” Vincent says, a practiced joke that falls flat. I turn back to my plate, disappointed that what had come close to a real conversation has deviated back to mere puppetry. From the corner of my eye, I see him set his fork down, and take a deeper draw of wine than necessary before turning toward me.
“My best distraction is in visiting my Seer for palm readings.” He pitches his voice low, only for me, as if aware that I tire of our being on display for the public, and holds his hand out to illustrate. “It’s not always good news, but it passes some afternoons. You’re welcome to come with me if—”
The illusion of a private conversation between us is cut dead at the idea of inviting one who has been Given to the Sea to have her future read. Yet it’s not his suggestion that has stopped my throat, but the fact that his hands so perfectly fit the bruises at my waist, deep and dark. I choke on a crustacean.
“Khosa?” he asks, leaning forward. “Khosa, are you all right?”
His face is so concerned that I know it’s not feigned. I almost want to tell him I am not all right and never can be, that this time the sea will not be pleased and every one of them will pay. But I don’t get the chance. The doors of the banquet halls are slammed open, and the reek of salt and rot rolling in tells me the sea already knows, and it’s coming.
CHAPTER 10
Vincent
I AM A FOOL.
A fool who kn
ows how to pace myself through these steps, the casual conversation that is actually calculated, mimic interest in this girl who will be dead before the ink in the histories has dried upon recording the name of her child. Yet her own practiced responses have awoken something in me, the tilt of her head at enough of an angle to acknowledge that she too, is pretending. And so in faking concern, I have wandered headlong into honesty, resulting in my asking Khosa if she’d like her future read, when this evening celebrates that she has none. She ran with death on her heels to another in front her, fire in her wake and the sea on the horizon. And now she must endure conversation with a boy who spouts nonsense punctuated by horror.
I was among the trapmen when we brought her to the castle, but she was quickly taken from us to be tended to, washed, and healed. I was not included in the whispered meetings held in the two days following, and though her arrival was all the talk of Stille, she had wandered from my mind as soon as she was out of sight. As a royal, I have been taught to think only of those who serve my immediate interests, and though I find those lessons abominable, I realize now that my interests had tended more to Milda’s bed and welcoming skin than to a girl who is not meant for me.
But she has my attention now, the skilled set of her face in deep contrast to the tortured contractions on the beach, and I can’t help but wonder why she smiled at me on the sand, as if I’d saved her, rather than interfered with her destiny. When I show her my hands, she blanches, what little color she has draining away, her mouth suddenly slack and eyes dull.
Panic edges out over manners at the thought that she might be choking. “Khosa?” I say, grabbing her shoulders to feel frail bones beneath. “Khosa, are you all right?”
Anyone can see she is not, and my first thought reveals how deeply royal I am when I think not of her well-being, but what will become of Stille if she dies?
The doors to the hall crash open, and my hand drops to the sword at my side, though it’s only a ceremonial one. My other arm instinctively goes in front of Khosa, rigid as iron, but she curls away from my touch, her spine digging into the back of her chair.
My adopted sister bursts into the hall, her dark hair a wild halo, her face mottled with the shades of falling leaves and her own emotions. Dara is a maelstrom, and though the guards at the door fall back at the sight of her, I can’t miss that they keep their weapons at the ready. Donil follows, his color high as he drags something into our midst.
The smell hits me, and I gag. To my right, my father does the same, though he hides it better. A few of the court ladies swoon; one of them vomits into her lap and then tidily closes her knees so that her skirts pocket the mess.
“Dara!” King Gammal is on his feet in a second, his guards rising with him. “What is the meaning of this?”
Dara strides up to the raised royal tables, confident as the dawn, her deferential bow to my grandfather more deeply imbued with her own pride than any respect for him. “We return triumphant, Father’s-Father, though I doubt you’ll find any comfort in our success.”
Beside me, Prince Varrick stiffens at her familial address. Though Mother considers the twins part of our family and has given them permission to address us as such, I feel resentment rolling from him whenever the lilted speech of the Indiri lays claim to it.
“Show them, Donil,” Dara says, her gaze sweeping the room.
Donil pulls the covering away, and the crowd gasps, the brave leaning closer while the leery shy away. Decay fills the air, and my mother raises a scented handkerchief to her nose, her eyes following Dara as she returns to her brother’s side.
“What is it?” someone cries.
“It’s water moving among us,” Dara says, savoring the nervous looks traded among the nobles. “The tide with legs and claws.”
“The surf no longer constrained by beach.” Donil adds his voice to his sister’s, but without her cutting edge. His eyes meet mine for a second, and the tiniest twitch there gives away his amusement. He opens his mouth to deliver the next line in whatever devilry the two of them have planned when he stops short, gaze no longer on me, but on Khosa.
She peers back at him like a bird tempted to peek at a cat, and her small voice pipes in my ear. “Is that truly an Indiri?”
I’ve heard the serving girls whisper among themselves about Donil’s snapping Indiri eyes, the width of his arms and chest, deeply aware that I fail in comparison and have to look up when I speak to him. A familiar spear of jealousy tears through my middle as I tell her, “Yes. You’ll notice there are two of them.”
“And why have you brought this monstrosity to us now?” Gammal asks pointedly.
“You said to share what we learned with you upon our return. We have returned, and have much to share.” Dara plunges a hand into the rotting mass and raises a scaled arm above her head to illustrate.
“Dara girl,” Mother whimpers, her weak words barely penetrating the linen protecting her nose.
“What did you expect, Dissa?” Father replies in a low voice. “You bring a Tangata kitten home to nest and are surprised when it bites with grown teeth?”
My grandfather’s guards are looking to him for direction, no doubt expecting to haul the Indiri from the room, a task none would envy, given Dara’s renowned temper. A noble slumps forward, having held his breath too long. I see a muscle twitch in Gammal’s cheek, which could signal anger, but I know him well. My grandfather is trying not to laugh.
“Your timing could be better,” I say, saving the king a response. “We are in the middle of a banquet.”
“Then the timing is perfect,” Dara counters instantly, her tongue as quick as her sword. “We’re starving.”
She drops the arm unceremoniously, and a fresh wave of rot rolls from her clothes as she approaches the nearest table. Nobles push away from their plates as she reaches casually for a platter. One woman actually shrieks when Dara smiles at her.
Donil has lost all interest in his sister’s provocation, his quick eyes moving over the room and assessing the size of the gathering, the amount of noble blood gathered in one place.
“What is this?” he asks. “What do you celebrate?”
Father pulls Khosa from behind me. A light groan escapes her as he clamps onto her wrist, and I stifle the desire to strike his hand away.
“The Given has come,” Prince Varrick says, his tone drawing all eyes away from the monster the twins have brought us and reclaiming the evening.
All over the room, heads bow in silent recognition of the moment. Khosa’s very presence is a sacrosanct thing that has been marred by the arrival of two Indiri and a pile of decaying flesh. Donil stays still, gaze riveted on her. Dara is the only one to move, teeth crunching down on a bone as she stalks toward us. Khosa draws deeply for air as Dara approaches her, and though she shrinks from Varrick’s hand, it may be the only thing holding her up.
“You are the Given?” Dara asks, her tone suddenly cold.
Khosa nods, eyes on the ground.
“Then why are your feet on dry land?”
CHAPTER 11
Dara
THE STENCH MAY STICK,” DISSA SAYS AS SHE DRAWS A comb through Dara’s hair, still wet from a thorough bathing.
“Better the stench than a claw,” Dara says, watching the older woman carefully in the mirror of her dressing table. “You’re unhappy with me.”
Dissa sighs before speaking, her fingers catching in Dara’s dark locks. “Unhappy, no. I’m bone weary and worn with the arrival of the Given. To have a rotting creature brought to me during a celebratory dinner requires a new word entirely to illustrate my feelings.”
Dara’s head sinks under the weight of her hair and Dissa’s disappointment. The girl who would snarl at a reproach from any other is undone by the light reprimand from the only woman she can call mother. “We meant only to have some fun, and had no way of knowing the Given had come.”
“I realize,” Dissa says, releasing the comb and resting her hands on Dara’s shoulders. Their eyes meet in the mirror. “But others may take offense.”
“Gammal seemed more amused than anything,” Dara argues. “He has great patience.”
“Patience you try mercilessly,” Dissa says, smacking the back of Dara’s head with the hairbrush. “And he is not of whom I speak.”
“Your husband,” Dara says.
Dissa sits beside Dara on the cushioned bench, their knees touching. “Will you never give him the honor of his title in speech?”
“Varrick’s title was earned only by marrying you, and none of his actions since have recommended him highly.”
“Titles are often given where not earned,” Dissa says, the argument between her and Dara a familiar one. “Even if bedding me is his only achievement, he remains the prince and will become king.”
“If bedding is all it takes, then we could call him by many names—Lord of the Stable, Prowler of the Kennels, Frequenter of Brothels.” Dara ticks off her fingers as she speaks. “He recently acquired the title Defiler of Shepherdesses, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re not,” Dissa says calmly.
Dara picks up the dagger she keeps on the dresser and begins paring away at her fingernails. “Why do you persist in this?” she asks quietly, eyes on her work. “There is no dignity in the man or the marriage. You age in loneliness while he takes pleasure as he will.”
Dissa’s gaze lingers on the Indiri’s skin, still lush with blood from her hot bath, dark lashes long around light eyes, full lips pressed tight against emotion.
“Does he pester you often?” she asks.
Dara glances up in surprise, her grip on the dagger tightening. “Not often, no. That he does at all makes me wish for the sight of his blood on the floor. My hand is stayed only because of the pain it would cause you.”
Given to the Sea Page 4
