Given to the Sea

by Mindy McGinnis

  Those pages are seared onto my memory, it is true, but not for any good reason. On the anniversary of my birth, my hands are splayed, fingers painstakingly traced, feet measured, inked palms recorded, the top of my head to the flats of my feet written down and compared to the royals that came before. I always hovered over the pages as a child, eager to see how I’d grown, only to find that the answer was usually not much, and my measurements tallied well below my ancestors.

  But I keep my voice light when I answer Cathon, not wanting him to know that the sound of his quill scratching, though quiet, always seemed to leave my head aching in its wake.

  “Ah, yes, the measurements,” Cathon says, taking his own chair as Khosa seats herself in the remaining one. “A task for the lowest of Scribes, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “Quite all right,” I reassure him. “And how do fill your time outside of my Arrival Day measurements? I recall your penmanship was remarkable. Are you inking the lines of the histories?”

  Cathon colors and looks away, although I don’t know what I’ve said to offend. “The Elder Scribes hold tight to their quills,” he says. “My tasks are relegated to bringing new histories to the library, and delivering older ones to those who require them for study, and recently of aiding with the calculation of the rising tides. I have my own projects, of course, but advancement is slow in coming.”

  I nod, too familiar with the feeling. Cathon bides his time waiting for blood to stop flowing in withered fingers that are ink-stained to the first knuckle, his place in life advancing only with the death of another.

  “Vincent,” Khosa says, “I would speak with you . . .” Her words die off, and her eyes go to Cathon, wary and unsure.

  My heart stutters as much as her tongue, to see her so undone. The Khosa I know stares down maps that spell the doom of all without flinching, forgives the man who fired an arrow through her chest without a quaver in her voice.

  “Khosa, what has happened that can put a tremor in you?”

  “It’s not what has happened, Vincent. But what I would have happen.”

  Cathon clears his throat. “My lord—”

  “Please,” I say, raising my palm. “Call me Vincent. I have no use for titles in this room. As Khosa is Khosa only, and not the Given here.”

  “There are some who would like that to be so regardless of where she stands,” Cathon says.

  He watches me as the words sink in, each one ripe with treason and punishable by death. I could call the guard in and have his head off here, and well within my rights to do so. But his words raise no anger, or even fear inside me. All I feel is hope, and know the same thing is what pulses through Khosa, bringing a lilt to her voice and a flicker in her face unknown until now.

  “Count me among them,” I say without hesitation. “If there is a way to deprive the sea of Khosa, I will see it done.”

  Cathon lets out a deep breath, and Khosa’s smile illuminates the room.

  “I said as much to Cathon,” she tells me. “I told him that you would stand with me, but it is no small thing, Vincent. If you see this through, you will be reviled by your people, stripped of your future throne, and remembered in the histories as the Stillean royal who betrayed his country.”

  “What is that to me when the throne is underwater, and the histories floating in it?”

  Khosa exchanges another glance with Cathon, who nods at her to continue. “It may not be so, and I would not mislead you to save my own skin.”

  “What is this?” I ask, looking from one to the other. “With the Horns underwater, we cannot deny the rising of the sea.”

  “It rises, assuredly,” Cathon tells me. “But the offering of a Given prevents a great wave and sudden destruction, not the slow degradation of water enveloping land.”

  I think of the pictures from my childhood book, Tangata desperately clutching tree branches as fingers of water try to tear them loose. “A terrible wave,” I say. “And an equally terrible choice, to send someone I care for to her death in order to stop it.”

  “What if I told you that I and others among the learned do not see it as so?” says Cathon. “The wave has come before, but the idea that the Given is what stops it from returning is shoddy thought, at best.”

  “In Hyllen we had a shepherd who had a favored crook,” Khosa says. “It was his constant companion, with him night and day. He said it brought luck, ensuring easy lambing for his ewes, and that none wandered from his flock while it was in his hand. In his old age he even slipped it under his cot, believing that it kept his dreams tranquil. One morning he stepped from bed and snapped it beneath his heel. He crawled back to bed, proclaiming doom upon his herd and uneasy days for the rest of his life.”

  “And?” I ask.

  “Many of his ewes delivered healthy twins and triplets that year. As for uneasy days, it could be argued that was so, as he had to build additional paddocks,” she says.

  “So the lucky crook was in fact only a crook like any other, and the good fortune he had attributed to it nothing more than coincidence,” Cathon said.

  I take a moment, tossing the logic in my head. “Likewise in Stille the absence of a wave is not due to the sacrifice of a Given but because . . .”

  “I’m saying the absence of a wave signifies only the absence of a wave,” Cathon shrugs. “The Given doesn’t come into it.”

  “You take a great chance,” I say. “Your theory can only be proven wrong with the death of a kingdom.”

  “I know it,” Cathon responds. “And it took some effort to convince Khosa her own life is worth keeping, even if I believe the risk to Stille is small.”

  “And what of the risk to yourself?” I ask. “If you are caught out before proven correct, Khosa goes to the sea, and your neck to the chopping block.”

  “It’s exactly because I value my neck highly that I run the risk,” Cathon says. “Most Scribes are content to write others’ names, use their own breath to dry the tales of deeds they took no part in. I’d see my name in ink, not be the one writing it.”

  “There is an immortality in words, Vincent,” Khosa says. “We are not the Indiri, cannot recall our predecessors by closing our eyes. Stilleans know the names of the Three Sisters only because a Scribe penned them.”

  “And I, too, would be worthy of such a mention if I subvert beliefs we’ve long clung to, knowing no better,” says Cathon. “It’s a risk worth taking.”

  “On your own, yes,” I tell him. “But you bring this to me, of all people? The prince of the kingdom you destroy if you’re wrong?”

  “In all truth, I was against it,” he says. “Khosa assured me. She has great faith in you.”

  “And I in her,” I say, looking at her as the fire plays across her delicate features, every line of her face emblazoned on my heart. I cross the distance between us and place my hand over hers. For once she does not pull away.

  “Whatever you need,” I tell her. “Stille holds nothing for me without you in it.”

  A light not born of the flames dances in her eyes, and I press upon her hand, only to have it slide out from under mine.

  “It’s a lovely sentiment,” Cathon says, reminding me he is in the room. “However, moving Khosa away from Stille is our intention.”

  I reclaim my chair, spine humming with anticipation. “There is a safe place in the Forest of Drennen, known only to the royals and personal guards. It’s well stocked with dried food and could shelter us for a day or two. Once my own disappearance is noticed, it would not be wise to tarry there.”

  “Perhaps that means you should not accompany us,” Cathon replies, and I shoot him a look learned from Dara across boards of ridking.

  “I go with Khosa,” I say. “You are right to trust me. But I come along, or no one goes.”

  It’s a harsh threat, and not one I would make good on, but neither will I set Khosa into
the hidden halls beneath the castle with a man I do not know.

  “I would have him with me,” Khosa says, placing her hand on my arm. It remains there, and I shiver despite the fire at my back.

  Cathon frowns, but nods. “Be that as it may. There are a few Scribes who will assist us, though they prefer to remain anonymous.”

  “And your guard?” I ask Khosa.

  “Merryl is with us,” she says, “and would be to whatever end, except I forbid it. He has a wife and child whom I will not see dragged from their home for a life of wandering. He will take a sleeping draught, and appear victim to those who smuggle me away.”

  “A life of wandering?” I ask. “What plans have you after Drennen?”

  Khosa’s hand tightens on my arm, her frantic pulse beating within. “I do not know, for my plan had always been simply to die.”

  CHAPTER 53

  Dara

  THE FOREST HAS ALWAYS CALMED DARA, THE DRIP OF rain from the leaves, the touch of wind on her face. Even when storms approach, sharp cracks of dead trees falling and dragging down the living ones nearby, she loves it. The wildness of the woods, with the heady scent of life bursting forth, undershot with the constant rot of death from an unlucky animal or the carpet of leaves beneath her . . . this is her home.

  She has come to it for comfort more than once, but as she’s grown older, the calm emanating from dirt and mud can’t compete with her desires, her need for Vincent to see past the flecks on her face and into her heart. He was close, that night at the fire, but Dara will accept nothing short of an absolute acceptance of his untarnished love for her, buried—she is convinced—somewhere deep inside.

  A branch snaps beneath her hands as she bends it for firewood, her anger vented on what she cares for, as usual. Brush rustles nearby, a deep-throated growl warning her that Tangata roam. She tosses half the branch in their direction, followed by an Indiri curse, and the cats fall quiet. Tonight Dara fears nothing, except the spinning of her own heart, freed now from the tethers that held it for so long.

  Seeing Vincent go to the Given’s chambers unmoored it, and she felt it slip around in her chest like a pebble in a bottle, glancing off her insides while each sob tore everything loose along with it. She’d never been one to cry and nearly choked on her own misery while she made her way outside, not wanting any in the castle to see the Indiri girl was weeping.

  Now in the dark she can see the castle, a wave of light passing from one end to the other as the sconcelighters make their rounds. She knows all the windows, Vincent’s most of all, and the dark spot where a light should be gnaws through what is left of her resolve as the dam breaks and tears flow again. Even now, after she dragged herself from the hall, wandered into the woods, and set a fire, he is not where he belongs.

  He is with the Given.

  That he should go to her was not in itself a shock. Dara was not immune to the tug of the flesh, and had seen the fire in men’s eyes spark at the sight of women. Though she has allowed herself the daydream of Vincent taking her to wife, she has always known that he would wed a girl with unmarked skin, a Stillean of good blood.

  That he would find another she knew. That he might actually love the girl, she has not prepared for. The fire climbs, and Dara watches it, letting the heat obliterate the shed tears on her cheeks. Quietly, the forest falls silent around her, and she with it, her heart slipping back where it belongs, bringing with it a darkness that had not been there before.

  CHAPTER 54

  Witt

  THEY WON’T BE LURED OUT, NO MATTER THE BAIT,” Pravin predicts, brow furrowed as he bends over a map of Stille and the surrounding area. “With Hyllen burned, there’s no good place to launch an attack from, and only a fool would march unblooded soldiers for days and then ask them to fight.”

  Witt nods his agreement. “A long march takes the fight out of many a man, no matter how great the speech at the beginning of the trail. It would be unwise, but what do we know of this new king in Stille?”

  “He is rash and driven by greed,” Ank speaks up. “But not a fool. He’s correct in that he’s not going to leave a stronghold with an army he can keep happy, fed, and warm in their beds until the battle comes to them.”

  Witt and Pravin both turn in surprise at the smooth-skinned Feneen’s contribution, and he smiles, exposing his stained and broken teeth.

  “I’ve met the man, after all,” Ank says. “Can you claim the same? Or did you invite me to a war counsel only to look upon my pretty face?”

  “If it’s a pretty face we want, we’ll ask you to turn your back,” Hadduk says, and a hearty laugh erupts from behind Ank, where Nilana sits in her harness.

  Witt avoids the Feneen woman’s eyes. As the Lithos, he is not to be distracted, but her alarming beauty combined with lack of limbs would bring stares from anyone, man or woman. Her eyes dance over the map, and she mutters something to Ank, who tilts his head so that the others cannot hear.

  “I offered my people to you as lambs to the slaughter,” Ank says, once they are finished conferring. “But we may surprise you by being useful as more than flesh shields for Pietran soldiers.”

  “How is this?” Witt asks.

  “We can take you across the river,” Nilana says, pinning him with her eyes as if daring him to contradict her.

  “There is no bridge,” Hadduk counters. “The ones built in the past have been washed away, with no solid soil to rest on. And as for boats—”

  “Boats are for the dead. Yes, I know,” Nilana interrupts in a tone that makes it clear what she thinks of the Pietran belief, making Hadduk’s black eyebrows come closer together.

  “No Pietran soldier would set foot in a boat before fighting a battle.” Witt smoothly steps in between them. “Even if their Lithos told them to, it would unsettle them badly. No man fights well with a shaking sword arm.”

  “We don’t swim either,” Hadduk goes on, arms crossed defiantly. “And we’re in no hurry to learn.”

  “No one is asking you to,” Nilana says. “Come to the banks with your men, and we’ll get you across the river.”

  “Maybe earning your respect at the same time,” Ank adds. “The Stilleans will expect a frontal attack, our first wave announced by the sound of the timber fence they’ve built crashing to the ground. What an advantage we will have if instead we approach from the beach, feet silent on sand.”

  Witt studies the map, mouth set in a thin line. He doesn’t like Ank making suggestions that uproot his entire battle plan, but at the same time, he can’t argue the logic of it.

  “Assuming you can get us across here,” Witt says, touching the map where the river cuts through the Hadundun forest, “we can then follow the river on the opposite side, making our way toward Stille where none would look for us to travel.”

  Nilana nods, seeing Witt waver. “The Pietra and Stilleans both dread water. Overcome your fear, and give them a new nightmare.”

  Witt doesn’t glance up, eyes still on the map, finger trailing the five-day march to Stille, where the river empties into the sea. “We recross here?”

  “By what unknown Feneen magic?” Hadduk demands, but stills when Witt raises a finger.

  “No matter their method, once on sand, our footsteps will fall quietly, the tide hiding the rustle of sword and spear, and the unguarded belly of Stille before us, defenseless as a pried-open clam.”

  “You may have won my respect already,” Witt says, meeting Nilana’s eyes and stifling the shiver that threatens to tear through him when she winks.

  “Wait until I fight at your side,” she says. “Imagine what that will win me.”

  “Tides, woman,” Hadduk says. “How do you intend to fight with no arms and no legs?”

  She cocks her head, and a slight bulge appears on the side of her cheek right before she curls her tongue and spits at him. A thorn flies through the air, embedding itself in the leat
her of Hadduk’s belt, right above the groin.

  “You’ll want to put on a glove before you remove that,” she says. “The poison will drop you dead in a moment.”

  Witt prepares to stop a lunge from Hadduk, but instead his commander’s lips spread into a misshapen smile. “I always said women were snakes, but I never met one who could kill the same way. Tell me,” Hadduk goes on, smile slipping into a leer. “When you’re on your back do you writhe like one, too?”

  “I imagine if you were to learn the answer to that, I’d drop dead from the amount of wine it would take for it to come to pass,” Nilana answers coolly, and Witt covers a smile.

  “Enough,” he says. “If you say you can get us across the river, I’ll take you at your word, but I won’t wager all my men on it. Hadduk, you’ll take a battalion to the banks in the morning. Ank, you’ll perform whatever miracle you have at your employ to get Pietra to the other side, and I’ll trust you with more.”

  “They won’t even wet their feet,” Ank assures him, and Witt leaves the room, nodding to Nilana as he goes. Hadduk and Pravin follow, their boot heels echoing down the halls along with his.

  “Hadduk, you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head to Nilana,” Witt reproaches him, and his commander heaves a sigh.

  “You may not be distracted, my Lithos,” Hadduk says, “but it’s easy enough to get my attention, even if she is only a torso with a pretty head attached.”

  “Hadduk,” Pravin growls, and the commander waves him off.

  “Fair enough, my Lithos. But if it comes to making half-Pietran babies with a Feneen to honor a bargain after the battle is done, I’m willing to make the sacrifice of taking a tumble with her.”

  “Your selflessness will be remembered,” Witt says evenly, earning a slap on the back as Hadduk slips down a side hall that leads to the barracks.

  Pravin waits until his footfalls have died away before speaking. “You realize that Ank brought her to the proceedings to illustrate that your choice of Feneen wife may not be such a hardship after all, yes?”