Floodpath

by Emily B. Martin

  It lasts several minutes, the crying. We sit pressed together on the little couch, her forehead against mine, my tears seeping through my clenched fingers. To my surprise, I find, as the crying continues, that I feel better and better. I hadn’t expected that, the little release with each thick breath, the way it feels like I’m pulling something ugly and raw out of my chest. All that dust. Slowly my fists loosen, and after a while she can circle her fingers around mine, her thumb brushing the back of my hand, right over my sun tattoo.

  When my tears have slowed to just bleary breaths, and hers are quiet, too, she kisses my forehead again. Slowly, I look up and meet her eyes. From this close, I can see the small shifts and shadows of emotion in her face that from far away only looked like stone—not the broken-open grief of the ambassador. Something just as real, but less frightening in its intensity. Something quieter. Something warm, something comforting.

  Something that, deep down in the farthest depths, I remember.

  I wonder if I should say something, and not just stare, but any words that surface seem alien and awkward. She doesn’t seem to expect words, though, content simply to hold my gaze, her thumb tracing my cheek. I blink, and two more tears slip out. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a handkerchief, cloudy white and embroidered with little plants.

  I wave at it, trying to dash my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I’m . . . so dirty, I’ll ruin it . . .”

  “Embroidery is a nervous habit of mine,” she says seriously. “All my friends and family possess an overabundance of personalized handkerchiefs.” To prove her point, she reaches into her other pocket and pulls out another one, identical to the first.

  Gingerly I take the one she offered. On closer inspection, I realize the little plants woven in thread are cattails—the symbol of Lumen Lake, and my saving grace. I blot my face with a corner. Sure enough, I leave grimy streaks on the fabric.

  “I need a wash,” I mutter.

  “I do, as well,” she agrees. “But right now, I think it’s only kind to let your father and sister in. Rou is likely beating his head against a wall. Remember what I told you, and try to see things from his perspective. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and the fact that he hasn’t burst in here and sobbed over you in his arms means he’s showing greater restraint than I’d have expected from him. Be gentle with him.”

  I take a breath and nod. “All right.”

  She glances at the door. “Before he comes in, though, just a few more things.” She turns back to me. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention, Lark—you’re older than Eloise. You’re my firstborn, which technically makes you the first in line to the throne of Lumen Lake.”

  A bubble of panic swells in my chest, right in the place my tears had cleaned out. Quickly, she holds up a hand. “I only want you to be aware. No decision has to be made right now. I have already rewritten the laws of my succession more than once, and I have no issue with doing it again. Eloise has been raised her whole life to be a queen and could take the crown tomorrow, if the circumstance arose. But I wanted you to be aware that it is officially your birthright.”

  “I don’t want it,” I say hurriedly.

  “That’s fine,” she replies. “And I want you to understand, too, that you have no obligation to leave Alcoro, if you don’t want to. Obviously, we all desperately want to have you with us, but that is your decision to make. If you prefer your life here, you don’t have to come to either Cyprien or Lumen Lake. I don’t want you to feel pressured otherwise.”

  “I didn’t think you liked Alcoro,” I say, and then bite my tongue.

  “It’s not a bad place,” she says mildly, looking around Colm’s study. “What little I’ve seen of it so far. It’s time I let go of some things in the past, and my own stubbornness. What I like, though, is not relevant right now. Your preference is more important. If you choose to stay, this will be just the first of many visits.”

  I fidget with the handkerchief. “Is there . . . I mean, I suppose there’s a place for me at Lumen Lake? I mean a—a room, or somewhere?”

  She nods, without any hint of amusement at what I’m sure is a silly question. “Oh yes. There has always been a place for you at Lumen Lake.”

  “I think I’d like to come back, at least . . . to see what it’s like,” I say. “Then maybe I can decide?”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “I’m not really sure what I’ll do there,” I admit. “I don’t know what I’d be good at.”

  “If you’ll permit me to be honest with you, Lark, I don’t give a single pin whether you’re good at anything or not,” she says, with a hint of wryness. “While I expect there’s plenty you can do, you could lie on the shore and throw rocks at ducks all day, and I will still personally exile anyone who says anything against it.”

  A choked laugh slips from my lips. On the floor, Rat thumps his tail a few times. The queen brushes her fingers over the last tear tracks on my cheeks, and then she rises from the couch.

  As she turns for the door, though, something else suddenly springs to mind. My hand shoots out and touches her sleeve. “Um.”

  She turns. “Yes?”

  “What . . . what should I call you?”

  “What do you feel comfortable calling me?”

  I think a moment, fiddling with the handkerchief. “Mona?” I finally say.

  “Mona is fine.”

  “And . . . ?” I gesture helplessly to the door.

  “That may be harder. Eloise calls him Papa. I know he would be an extremely happy man to hear you say the same, but he can wait.”

  I nod and sit back. She squeezes my shoulder and then turns for the door again. I take the moment to scratch Rat behind both ears, pressing my forehead to his. He huffs another sigh, confused. The door opens and Mona murmurs to the group in the room beyond. I blow a breath out through my teeth and stand.

  Eloise comes in first, followed by Rou. He moves slowly, wearily, without the same intensity as before. I’ve let him down twice already, first by running from him in Pasul, and just now by recoiling out in the parlor. Mona closes the door behind them.

  “Thank you for giving us some time,” she says. “Rou, please call Lark by her name, not Moira.”

  He makes a sound deep in his throat, not taking his eyes off me. I swallow and rub my damp palms over my trousers.

  “I, um . . . ,” I begin. “I’m sorry for running, for leaving you in Pasul. I . . . didn’t know what to think. I panicked. I’m sorry I made you upset.”

  I realize I don’t know how to initiate a hug. I hold out my hand, as if waiting for a handshake. His gaze falls on it, and he moves forward and takes it in both of his. But still, he holds back, keeping empty space between us.

  “You, um—you can hug me,” I say awkwardly. “I’m really dirty, though, just so you—”

  He pulls himself forward with his grip on my hand and wraps his arms around me, pressing his face into my hair. One arm clings tight along my back. He lifts his other hand to cradle the back of my head, like someone might do to a child.

  Yes, just like that—like a parent holds a child.

  “Oh, my precious girl,” he whispers. “Oh, my precious, precious baby.”

  I’d have thought I was all out of tears, but my nose goes stuffy again, muddling that scent of coffee and cinnamon. Behind him, Eloise presses her palms to her cheeks, her eyes glistening. Mona turns to her and gathers her in her arms, stroking her hair. They haven’t seen each other, I realize. This is the first time in months that they’re seeing each other, after her long, dangerous trek to and from Moquoia.

  “I’m so sorry,” Rou says, his cheek resting against mine. His voice is strung with emotion. “For what you went through, for what you had to endure—I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” I say thickly. “I got through it okay.”

  His grip tightens. “Oh, my girl. I know you did.” He heaves a breath. “More than anything, I’m sorry for giving up our hope—for leaving
you to think we didn’t love you. Do you know how much we love you—how much we’ve always loved you?”

  I let myself sag a little closer, my fingertips pressing the back of his embroidered vest.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I think I’m starting to.”

  Veran

  It’s another half an hour before Lark comes out of the study with Queen Mona, Rou, and Eloise. By now my voice is hoarse from telling the others the story of our trip, and I’m glad attention can finally shift away from me. Colm is the first to rise when the others come in. He approaches Lark, who looks bleary-eyed but not nearly as anxious as she did when we first arrived. She starts to apologize to him for wrecking his coach, but he doesn’t let her finish. He wraps his big arms around her, nearly lifting her off the ground. I grin and lean back against the couch as the others get up and head toward her.

  Vynce stays behind with me. He combs through his coppery hair.

  “This is wild,” he says. “I can’t believe you did all that.”

  “A lot of it was dumb luck,” I say, watching Mama introduce herself to Lark, first with a handshake and then with a kiss to her forehead. Lark has to bend down to accept it.

  “That stuff in the water scrape, though, and in the canyons . . . I mean, damn, even on all our training runs, when Ma likes to set stuff on fire and all that, we still know there’s water somewhere. We still know there’s someone to bail us out.”

  I squirm on the couch. Lark is talking to Mama and Papa now, and her hand keeps flicking in my direction. Over the murmuring of the others, I can’t hear what she’s saying, but they’re listening closely, and it’s making me nervous.

  “It’s like any other landscape,” I say absently. “There’s power in it, and you have to respect it. It’s just a different kind of power from home. I wouldn’t have made it without Lark.”

  He snorts. “Always quoting right from the handbooks. I swear, you know more by heart than my entire rank.”

  “Mm.” I tear my gaze away from Mama. “I notice you’re not in uniform. You’ve decided to travel as a civilian now?”

  He takes a jam pastry from the coffee tray. “Now and forever—I turned in my badge.”

  “You what?”

  “Yeah, a few months ago. I guess you’d left already.” He takes a bite and says through it, “Not my thing.”

  “Not your . . .”

  He wipes his mouth. “Well, it was always kind of a guilt thing, working toward Woodwalker. We all thought it would break Ma’s heart if none of us took up scouting, and everybody else had one reason or another not to. Viya’s always been eyes-deep in politics—it’s her first time as regent when both Mama and Papa are gone, we’ll see if the mountains are still standing when we get back—and dear old Fighting Ida was always headed to the Armed Guard. And then of course you, and Susi hates to do anything that might tweak a knee and keep her from dancing. You know she’s taking lead for the Festival of Emergence this year? Anyway.” He shrugs, polishing off the pastry. “I always felt like it was sort of me or nobody. But I never really wanted Woodwalker. I’ve always enjoyed my music lessons more. I kept showing up late to training because I was playing with the canopy ensemble . . . you should see the drum Hiley’s got, it’s got three kinds of jingles . . .”

  The rest of his words wash over me without registering. Instead, that one phrase cycles in my head over and over, like a moth around a flame.

  And then of course you.

  And then of course you.

  You, who never had a reason to not be a scout. You, who just were—you, who just are, inherently, by nature of being you, unfit for it.

  I stare into the space between us and the group around Lark while Vynce rattles on about fiddle strings and whistles. The thought of him so casually picking up and then tossing away the thing I’ve wanted my whole life boils in my stomach. Just because he didn’t want it. Just because he didn’t feel like it.

  Lark is still talking to my parents, but now the group is drifting back toward the couches. Beside me, Vynce is still going.

  “. . . so after I missed the next ridge run, Ma sat me down and told me that I shouldn’t be training if I wasn’t going to commit to it, and that if there was something else I’d rather be doing, I should do that instead . . .”

  “We’re one seat short,” I say abruptly, shooting to my feet. Before he can respond, and before the others can fully turn their attention away from Lark, I scoop up my coffee and sidle out of the cluster of furniture. On the pretense of heading toward Professor Colm’s study for a chair, I slip instead to the staircase leading up to the second floor.

  I pad as quietly as I can, leaving the murmur of their voices behind. Clutching my coffee, I head down the hall between the bedrooms—through the door to the spare room I see the floor littered with blankets and pillows, where Lark’s campmates have been sleeping. I reach the smaller staircase at the end and climb up it to the door to the roof.

  Like most homes in the canyon hobs, the roof of the house is another living space, with a corner filled with garden plants, and another occupied by a hutch of nesting grouse. I go to the corner nearest the canyon and set my coffee down on the adobe wall. I lean forward on my hands, my gaze on the space between my thumbs. The sun is sinking toward the far rim, bathing everything in a rich golden light and throwing purple shadows. In the street below, a line of my parents’ guards stand quietly around the house, drawing stares from passersby.

  I drag in a breath, my fingers tightening on the wall. I have to remind myself that I’m not angry at Vynce. There’s no one to be angry at, because it’s nobody’s fault. It’s just my stupid life, always bringing me right back to this reality. Lark was right, all those weeks ago, way back when she and I were traveling toward Utzibor.

  Life can’t be changed, she’d said. We’re just meant to react to it.

  I’d disagreed with her then, but I’m not sure I do now. Frankly, she’s the one who probably thinks differently now. Her life has changed. Her reality is completely new. But even with everything that’s happened, everything we’ve been through . . . my reality is still the same. It’ll always be the same.

  The hatch to the roof creaks. I turn to see Mama appear from below. She climbs through and beats some of the dust off her uniform trousers.

  “I saw you sneak off,” she says. “What’d your brother say to get you all hot and bothered?”

  “Nothing,” I lie. “I just wanted to give everybody some space with Lark.”

  “You might want to reconsider.” She joins me at the wall and leans on her elbows. “She’ll probably want a familiar face close by these next few days.”

  “I’ll go back down soon,” I say. “But you’ll see—if anyone can take care of themselves, it’s Lark. She doesn’t really need me.”

  “Sounds like you both needed each other on more than one occasion.” She looks sideways at me. “Navigating the water scrape with no gear, huh?”

  “And flirting intimately with dehydration, yeah,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “Not to mention seizing a couple of times and making Lark deal with it.”

  “Did you expect anything different?” she asks.

  “No,” I say automatically, before realizing that yes, I absolutely had been expecting something different. I’d expected to make it to Utzibor and back without my body giving out.

  She hooks a finger under her silver shoulder cord where it’s gotten twisted. “Seems to me taking on the Ferinno—more than once—is pretty significant even for someone who doesn’t have to listen quite as closely to their body.”

  “If I’d been by myself I’d probably have died of exposure,” I say flatly.

  “I didn’t say taking on the Ferinno by yourself. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  I stop short of pointing out the two-night solo trip every trainee has to go through before becoming a scout, but I can’t stop my gaze from flicking sideways, landing briefly on the silver florets tacked to her collar, the first mark of rank any
scout earns. Hers are tarnished with age, standing out against the more brilliant silver of her badge and the circlet over her brow. Badges and pins may come and go, but scouts don’t replace their florets unless one gets lost or broken beyond repair.

  I let what I hope is a decent amount of silence lapse before I can change the topic.

  “Vynce said he’d quit the Guard,” I say casually.

  She puffs a strand of hair out of her face. “It was about damn time, too. He was setting a bad example. I’ve been telling him for years he didn’t have to keep it up, but like all my darling children, he doesn’t listen to me. He kept thinking he was going to break my heart if he quit.”

  “Didn’t he?”

  “Earth and sky, no. I kept telling him I’d rather he commit to something he really loved, but instead he drove me to insanity and made himself miserable in the process.”

  “You don’t have any of us as scouts,” I point out.

  “Your lives are yours, not mine,” she says. “I’ve always tried to push you all to make your own decisions.”

  I nod, lifting my coffee cup. “Except me.”

  “Why except you?”

  I wave a hand to appear flippant. “Like the time you wouldn’t let me join the Wood Guard.”

  “When you were ten?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” I take a hasty sip from my cup.

  “When you were ten you were having three or four seizures a week. You remember that time as well as I do—the cushions around your chair, the flock of folk who traveled with you all over the palace, the ban on riding and wading and standing at the top of a staircase. Those years, we were all trying to figure out how best to keep you safe and let you live your life.” She sighs. “I never thought you weren’t capable, just inconvenienced for a while.”

  I force myself to stare out at the canyon—which hurts, because the sun is beaming directly across the rim. I drop my gaze to avoid the glare. “Then why didn’t you let me start later, when I started having fewer seizures?”

  She looks at me, and from the corner of my eye I can see her eyebrows lift. “Because by that point you were getting ready to go to university. You’d been writing to Colm for a year without telling me. I thought you’d moved on, settled on something else. And after you left for Alcoro, you were here in Callais more than you were home.”