by Bex Hogan
Bile rises in my throat. ‘What is his crime?’
My father shrugs. ‘None.’
Oh no, please no. Surely there is more to my Initiation than a cold-blooded execution? There has to be.
I stare at my father, who evenly returns my gaze. Panic spreading, I glance at Grace, whose face is set like stone, though her eyes betray her concern. The tension in the room is palpable and I wonder whether anyone other than my father is actually breathing.
‘You want me to kill him? An unarmed man? An innocent man?’ For the first time my voice reveals a hint of disgust at my father’s orders and instantly displeasure flashes across his face.
‘Yes.’
The room begins to spin, and I close my eyes, trying to stop myself from falling. This is it, the moment I have been led towards my whole life. It is time to pass my father’s test and take my place at his side – there is no escape, no other choice. It is this, or death.
And with absolute clarity I know I can’t do it, that I won’t do it. My arm remains close to my side, the pistol pointing firmly at the floor. I refuse to become his monster.
When my eyes meet my father’s his disbelief is obvious. ‘Kill him!’
I shake my head, and though I know what my mutiny means, it’s such a relief to finally make my stand. ‘No.’
With one step my father is in front of me and the crack of his fist meeting my jaw sends me staggering backwards so quickly I drop to the floor, the pistol falling from my grasp. Towering over me he shouts again, ordering me to be an executioner, threatening to hurt me until I obey, even as he rains blows down on me. Knowing it was coming doesn’t stop me cowering away from him, nor does it make the pain any less real. I can do nothing but endure my beating, protecting my face as best I can with my arms, wondering how long it will last, knowing it might never end.
A shot pierces the air. My father freezes as all eyes move to the prisoner’s body slumped on the floor and then to Bronn who stands over it, his pistol still smoking. While the room remains frozen with shock, Bronn meets my astonished gaze. Seeing the warning there in his eyes, I do what I should have done long ago. Run.
I hurtle back towards the forest, my mind astonishingly sharp despite my beating, knowing my survival depends on it. Though night is falling fast I plunge into the trees, retracing the path I took with Grace. Branches reach out to snatch at my face, but I pay them no attention. The real danger is the one behind me.
By the time the trees begin to thin and I can hear the reassuring lap of water against the shore, the stars are all that illuminate the ground. There are twigs and leaves lodged in my hair’s wild tangles, and my face is well and truly scratched.
Ignoring my wheezing breath and the panic that’s threatening to consume me, I race to where Grace hid the boat, and push it frantically down the shore and into the water. I scramble in, willing my damn legs to stop trembling, and start to row.
I’m shaking all over and I have no idea if that’s because I’m freezing or terrified. I suspect both. Because there’s no way back now.
I challenged my father. In front of all his men. At my Initiation.
He will not forget this, nor will he forgive. And what about Bronn? What was he thinking shooting the prisoner? My father will be furious with him. What will he do? How will he make Bronn suffer? Why, after all this time, would Bronn risk so much to help me? Or was it prearranged that should I fail, then Bronn would finish the job to illustrate my weakness? Was Bronn in on it all along?
Every second the throb in my jaw reminds me of my father’s fists, my eye already swelling from its battering, and I wish I had some second-salve with me. Instead I’m alone, carrying only two daggers and Grace’s compass, bobbing about on an ocean I fear, wondering how much of a head start I have. If Grace tells them where we landed, they could run on to the shore and spy me any minute. But even if she doesn’t, the Maiden will catch up with me soon enough, unless I manage to find someplace to hide.
So I press on. Every stroke of the oars shoots pain through my body, but there is no time for discomfort. My best chance is to travel further round the island, putting as much distance as possible between myself and where the Maiden is anchored. I can stay closer to shore than she can and if the moon stays hidden behind cloud, I might just manage to remain invisible. If I make it through the night, then I’ll worry about tomorrow.
Though my survival should be the only thing on my mind, I can’t stop thinking about my Initiation. The simplicity of it confuses me. It was supposed to be a series of tests. I’d spent years preparing so I could show my skill in combat, reel off history and lore, prove I could contribute as a member of crew. If he just wanted me to kill in cold blood, what had been the point in all that study?
Oh.
That was the point.
Initiations are all individual, and killing is the one thing I have consistently shied away from, the one thing I needed to prove I could do. When it came to taking a life I was untested. No, more than that. I was unwilling. And you can’t be an assassin if you won’t kill.
Not that it matters any more.
I stare up at the sky. The stars are as many and as scattered as the freckles on my face, and I remember Bronn telling me if I were lost they would guide me home. They tell me nothing. I have no home – the price of freedom it would seem – just a little boat that carries me slowly away from the only life I’ve known.
The night is long, with no breath of wind to keep me company; only the ripples I make disturb the tranquillity. By dawn I’ve reached the other side of the island and there is still no sign that I’m being followed. Perhaps no one is coming for me after all. Maybe my father has better things to do than track down his rebellious child. Does failing Initiation mean I’m no longer considered an asset worth recovering?
I can’t hide in the coves of the Third Isle for ever, and the absence of any pursuit gives me the courage to head out into open water – a dangerous but necessary part of the plan I’ve cobbled together overnight.
I’ve had no sleep, and the lack of food and water is causing unwelcome dizziness. Even just after daybreak the sun is already fiercely hot, and beads of sweat trickle down my forehead to hang like diamonds from my lashes. I’m seriously thirsty, and I am sorely tempted to drink from the sea, though I know it’ll only make me sick. Blisters have formed on both my hands, the chafe of wood taking a layer of skin off with every stroke, and my lips aren’t faring much better, cracking with dehydration.
Several hours later, I allow myself a brief pause. I dip one hand at a time into the sea, letting the salt burn then soothe my broken skin, before thinking better of it. There are all manner of creatures lurking beneath who would consider my bloody fingers a tasty treat, and I’m cursing my lapse of judgement when I catch sight of a boat on the horizon.
My initial reaction is panic, but after a second I scold myself for being childish. The boat approaching is a relatively small brig with only one sail raised and is clearly not the Maiden. It’s probably traders, which means they’re more than likely to have food aboard. That’s enough to make up my mind. I’m as good as dead if I remain drifting in this heat, so I’m going to have to get on that boat.
I stand up, ignoring the rocking my unsteadiness causes, and begin to wave for attention. It only takes a moment for the boat to change direction and move swiftly towards me. The daggers at my side give me some reassurance, but I’m nowhere near calm. I close my eyes and focus. If they’re not friendly, if they won’t allow me to hitch a ride, then I’m going to have to commandeer their vessel.
I realise which it’s going to be as soon as the brig pulls alongside my little boat. There are three men aboard, all ageing badly, their skin weathered and loose on bony frames. Life has no doubt been hard on them, but the moment they see me all of them light up in the same way Cleeve used to when his eyes lingered too long on my chest.
Nothing’s ever easy.
With their intentions obvious I know what I have to do,
though the prospect gives me no pleasure.
‘Morning, young lady,’ the one with a beard says. ‘You in need of assistance?’
‘I am,’ I say, and I can see the men think I’m easy prey. ‘I don’t suppose you’re headed towards the Fourth, are you?’
‘Can’t say as we are,’ Beardy replies with an unpleasant leer. ‘But we might be persuadable.’
‘Thank you,’ I say as Beardy tosses over a towline, which I quickly fix to my boat.
One of the other men, who has all of his top front teeth missing, offers me his hand, and though I could easily climb aboard myself, I want them to believe I’m helpless and let him pull me up on to their deck. His gummy grin turns my stomach a little, but then my eyes fall upon the crates of produce they’re transporting. Food.
‘It’s a good thing we found you,’ Beardy says. ‘These waters aren’t a safe place to be alone.’
‘Especially for a pretty little thing like you,’ Toothless agrees. I am in no doubt I was safer alone than with them.
‘Well, I’m in your debt,’ I say, and don’t flinch when the third man, the one with a patch over his right eye, reaches to stroke my face.
‘We’re making for the Second Isle,’ Beardy says. ‘So if you’re wanting us to detour all the way back to the Fourth . . .’ He lets the thought linger.
‘That would be very kind.’
Beardy’s eyes narrow. ‘Then we’ll be wanting to see some of that persuasion we talked about.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say with what I hope is enough innocence to convince these despicable creatures that I am no threat, that they should step closer. I’m surprised at how completely my disgust outweighs any kind of fear at this point.
‘No need to be coy,’ Toothless says as he lunges to grab hold of my right arm. Patchy clutches my left, while Beardy pulls a dagger from his boot and waves it through the air, a threat dancing before me.
‘Now don’t struggle,’ Beardy says, raising the blade. ‘I don’t want to mark such a lovely face.’
I steady my nerve, waiting, and the moment he’s close enough, I strike. Using the two men’s hold, I push my legs off the ground and kick Beardy hard under his jaw. He stumbles backwards, dropping the knife.
The other men loosen their grip in surprise and I easily break free of them, my left hand jabbing Patchy in the throat while my right simultaneously snatches Toothless’s wrist. With one twist I bend his arm up behind his back. The snap, along with his scream, tells me it’s broken, and he drops to the deck. A quick knee to the groin sends Patchy down to join him and then I pull out my knives as I stride over to Beardy, knocking his blade out of the way with my foot.
‘Think you all need to learn some manners,’ I say as they stare at me in confusion, nursing their injuries. ‘Now get up and sit over there.’
The men are cowards, so stunned to have been attacked by a woman that they don’t retaliate further and instead willingly sit in a huddle by the stern. I wrap some rope round them, my heart aching a little as I tie a triple knot Bronn devised himself. He told me if I were ever in need of something really secure, this was the one to use. I wonder what that old Bronn, the one who was my closest friend, would say if he could see me now?
Toothless’s cries grow louder, presumably from the rope pressing hard on his fracture, so I oblige him with a fist in his face, knocking him out cold. I tear Patchy’s shirt and fashion gags and blindfolds for them all, and once I’m certain they can’t disturb me I waste no time in plundering their crates, which I discover are full of mangwyan fruits. The tough skins preserve their juicy flesh for long periods of time, making them ideal food for sailors, and I eat until I’m fit to burst, revelling in what I just accomplished. The thrill of the fight has given me as much cause to smile as the gentle breeze blowing me towards my destination.
Grace’s birthday gift couldn’t have come at a better time. My studying of charts has paid off and I know exactly how far south-east I need to travel to reach the Fourth Isle. With a good wind in my sails I should be there in two days – so long as I don’t have any more undesirable encounters. It’s possible my father could be bound for the same place, but my gut tells me he’ll head for the Second Isle, given its closer proximity to the Third. His opinion of me is so low I’m certain he’ll expect me to take the easier route.
My instincts serve me well and I sail undisturbed all the way to the Fourth Isle. By the time I arrive in the shallows I’ve fully raided the traders’ supplies and am well fed. Though I’ve not felt safe enough to fall into anything more than a light doze, I’m partially rested and ready to leave the ship. My prisoners remain tied up, though I’ve watered them, which is possibly more than they deserve, but I’ve just run away from the Maiden to avoid killing people. I’m not going to start now.
We see no other ships, which is strange. Unless I’m mistaken, I’m travelling in what should be busy trading channels, and though I’m grateful to pass unnoticed, the emptiness of these popular passages is troubling.
I help myself to one of the men’s satchels, removing the tatty papers inside and replacing them with food and coins, pausing only briefly to consider my bandit-like behaviour. I shrug off any guilt with the certainty that had they behaved in a more gentlemanly manner I would never have considered stealing from them. As it is I’m more concerned about my own survival than theirs, and make sure my flask is full with water from the barrel.
When I climb down into my little boat, ready to row to shore, the men hear me leaving and start to raise their objections through muffled screams. I ignore them – someone’s sure to come to their aid sooner or later (hopefully much later, when the wind has carried them far away) – and focus on getting to dry land.
Though it is the smallest, the Fourth Isle is, in my admittedly limited opinion, the most intriguing of all the Eastern Isles. The Floral Island. In my studies I’ve learned about the peaceful meadowlands where flowers of all colours grow in abundance, and the people are famously as tranquil as their surroundings. I’ve read that on the higher ground there grows a plant known as day’s end. At sunset the wind whistles through its russet spires like melancholy music. The blossom woods are said to flower all year round, the black petals of the ashblossom a startling contrast to the luminous orange of the sunblossom, both gently complemented by the pale pinks, mauves and whites of the sweetblossom. As older petals fall to make way for new ones, the ground becomes a vibrant tapestry laced with the sweetest perfume. And most intriguing to me are the fields full of inkbells, a flower that shifts from pale green through to darkest blue depending on the light, and which ripples in the breeze like the ocean, so that at a first glance many have mistaken it for actual water.
My father only landed here once to resupply and never bothered again. There is no vast wealth to be excavated, just rolling hills and breathtaking beauty. It wouldn’t occur to Father to seek shelter somewhere with such simple settlements and lack of resources, and I can only hope his prejudice will outweigh any suspicion that I might be drawn to such a place. If so, I might just be able to disappear, away from his vengeful eye, and start a new life free from bloodshed and violence.
Following Grace’s example, I drag the boat far up the beach, concealing it behind the high sandbanks, and then retrace my steps to smooth over the drag lines. A warm breeze caresses my hair and I pause, leaning my head into its touch. The strangest urge grips me: to launch the boat back on to the water and head west. Somewhere my father would never go looking for me. So strong is the impulse that I’m halfway back to the boat before I come to my senses. Mounting an expedition into dangerous and forbidden waters is a bad idea at the best of times – right now it would be certain death. So I silence the voice whispering into my ear and I set off, heading as far inland as I can manage.
I reach the first settlement without seeing another living soul. Not even a mangy dog scavenges on the streets, and my skin prickles with unease. The settlement seems as abandoned as the road that led me here, the s
keletons of cobbled buildings bound together by ivy. And yet I can sense I’m being watched. Somewhere in the shadows, behind closed doors, my presence is being monitored. I realise too late how exposed I am. If my father comes looking for me, he has but to ask these people and they will point him my way.
Suddenly someone grabs my wrist from behind. Both the shock and the force with which they pull me round pushes the air from my lungs, and I fear the worst, but find myself face to face with only an old woman, her hair wilder than a storm, her skin plagued with boils, and her breath so foetid it could skin a cat.
‘You’ll be looking for me, miss,’ she says, and my eyes water at her stench.
‘No, thank you,’ I say, trying to pull away, but her grip is tight.
‘Old Tatty’s been waiting for you. Potions, is it not? Remedies you’re after? I’ve got them all.’ And she licks her lips as if in some sort of invitation.
Years of hiding my emotions pay off. I remain impassive despite wondering how she could possibly know of my interest in healing.
‘I’m not looking to buy anything.’
Old Tatty reaches up a gnarled hand and touches my cheek.
‘There’s more than a touch of magic about you,’ she says. ‘Snake.’
My blood turns to ice as she laughs at my paling skin. Fear is pounding in my ears, and I pull myself free from her grasp. How could she know that? Nothing about my appearance ties me to the Viper. Walking quickly away from her, I block the sound of her laughter from my ears, wanting to put as much distance between us as possible. I have the strangest feeling that in her presence my secrets are no longer my own and protectively hold them close to my chest. If I am to survive, they must stay buried deep within me. Even to my grave.
As soon as I’m past the settlement I veer off the path and take a slightly more scenic track towards the centre of the island. Once I’m safely in the middle of nowhere I’m happier, but I can’t help but wonder why this place is so lifeless. What has made everyone so afraid that they hide in their homes during daylight? In such a magical landscape it’s hard to imagine anyone being anything but calm. The air is fresh, the sun warm, and though fear is a constant echo in my mind I wonder if this is what freedom might taste like in a world where the Viper didn’t exist.
