by David Estes
“Then who?” I ask, getting more confused by the second.
“Have I ever told you about the foreigners?” he asks.
The men have filled the bags of seaweed and are loading them into the boat, two in each hand, four total.
“You mean the Stormers?” I say.
The admiral leans on the rail. “There’s them, but obviously I don’t mean them. There are others, too.”
Like the Heaters, I think, but I stay silent.
“You’re not surprised?” he says, piercing me with a sudden stare.
“Uh, no, I mean, yes…I mean, I guess not. I always assumed there were others out there somewhere.” I didn’t, at least not before Jade.
“Hmm,” Father muses. “I suppose you would. Have you heard of ice country?”
Jade only mentioned fire country, but she did say something about “Icers.” Something about them being involved in the trade of the Heater children and the bags of seaweed. Why is Father talking about them now?
“No,” I say.
“It’s a country that’s high up in the mountains, where it’s always cold. They have many beautiful white-skinned girls there. One of them would suit you just fine. And I’ve heard they’re obedient to their husbands. Or at least more so than Soaker women, especially when they have something to motivate them.”
“What are you talking about?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
Father frowns. “Mind your tone, Son. I know this is a lot to take in, but I’m still your commander and father. If you must know, I’ve arranged everything. A perfectly suitable bride will be brought from ice country. The ice country King, his name is Goff, wrote a long letter telling me her name is Jolie and that she’s very pretty and moldable.” The way he says the last word makes me think of the clay that the men sometimes dig up in storm country for the children on the ships to play with.
“Jolie,” I say, trying out the name. It’s pretty, but… “Why would she marry me?” I ask, still not understanding where this is all coming from.
Father shakes his head. “Son, she’s a girl, it doesn’t matter what she wants, only that she will. Your mother…” He trails off, as if he’s thought better of what he was about to say.
“What about her?” I say, sharpness creeping back into my tone.
“Nothing,” Father says. “She was just a hard woman to live with sometimes.”
How dare he? How dare he speak of her like that? My fists clench and my teeth lock and I know I’m dangerously close to doing something stupid, but…
My mother was an angel.
And I couldn’t save her.
“There’s something you should know about her death,” he says, and that’s when the rains start falling from the dark clouds I didn’t even notice moving in overhead.
~~~
Our conversation ends at the worst possible moment, because Father’s off and making sure the men on all the ships are placed to capture the rainwater, which will save the men onshore a lot of effort of finding drinking water in creeks and streams.
And I’m left as alone and muddled as the puddles forming in depressions on the decks. I just let the water dampen my hair, stream down my face, soak through my clothes. Because my world’s been turned upside down. A bride from ice country? Something my father has to tell me about my mother’s death? When did the sky become the ocean and the ocean the sky? When did the sands from storm country pour onto our decks and the saltwater and fishes become the beach? When did I become so stupid?
And then she’s there, watching me, clinging to the mast, as drenched as I am. She motions to The Mermaid’s Daughter and I turn to look. The solitary boat is being hauled aboard, along with its contents: the bags of dried seaweed.
I nod and turn away from her, because I feel a presence nearby. Hobbs is behind me, looking at her, and then at me. “I’m all over you,” he says.
I push past him, back to my cabin.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sadie
With Passion nibbling grass around the trunk below me, I watch the Soakers from a branch high above. Many men come ashore, moving off into the woods a safe distance from me, presumably to gather food and water. A couple men scoop seaweed into bags. The stuff they trade to ice country for the children. Don’t they know what we’ve done to the Icers? That we’ve killed the Icer King?
A few blue-clad men mill about on the ships. Officers, giving orders. Two stand out, because they’re keeping so still, next to each other. From a distance, they are but two blue lines, one somewhat taller than the other. They appear to be watching the seaweed gatherers.
Eventually, however, when the seaweed boat is returning to the ship and the rain has begun to fall, the two blue men split apart. The way the small one walks reminds me so much of the boy I almost killed.
You have to decide…
My father’s words run over and over in my head as I climb down, never touching the ground as I climb onto Passion’s back. Never has a choice been easier, I realize as we gallop back to the camp.
I’ll kill that Soaker boy if it’s the last thing I do.
~~~
Our tent—no, my tent—despite its relatively small size, seems enormous with only me in it. I stretch out onto my back and extend my arms and legs as far as I can in each direction, but there’s still so much empty space. Space usually filled by…
I can’t be here. Not tonight. Or at least not until I’m so exhausted that the moment I slip inside my feet collapse beneath me and I fall asleep before I even hit the ground.
I leave with that goal in mind, wearing my Rider’s robe, pulling the hood over my head against the wind and the rain, which comes in waves.
The night is quiet, save for the rain patter and occasional murmured conversations of the border guards. I consider going to the stables, but I won’t begrudge Passion her rest, not after our long run across storm country.
To my surprise, a ridiculous thought springs to mind. I picture myself sneaking into Remy’s tent, waking him up, forcing him out to keep me company. A girl with less pride might take the thought seriously, but I cast it away before it can so much as dig a single root into my head.
Instead, I make for the edge of camp. I pass by two border guards, who are sitting and smoking pipes. They stand quickly, open their mouths as if to refuse me exit from the camp, but then close them even quicker when they realize I’m a Rider. Privileged to come and go as I please.
I ignore them as I stride away.
With an occasional burst of moonlight through the clouds, and from memory, I guide myself into the forest, relying on outstretched arms and cautious feet to avoid colliding with anything dangerous.
Thankfully, the place I’m looking for isn’t too far in, and I know I’m close when I hear the unceasing gurgle of the creek I drank from earlier that day. When I slide my back down the trunk of the tree, I’m not surprised to find the ground dry beneath me.
My father died here today.
“Father…” I say aloud, because I’m tired of hearing only wind and rain.
Yes, he answers, on the wind. I know it’s not really him, but I can still hear his voice.
And then: I love you, Sadie.
“I love you, Papa. I’m scared without you.”
You are strong. Stronger than even your mother was.
“I’m not.” Am I?
Your choice and your choice alone…
“What does it mean, Papa?”
It will change everything…
“What will? What?”
The voice deepens, darkens, and it’s not Father’s voice anymore, but something that lurks, that tears at flesh and gnaws at bone and enjoys the sound of screaming. You mussst kill the onesss who dessstroyed your family.
“The Soakers?” I ask the night.
Yesss. But not only. Ssstab and ssslice.
“The Icers?” I say, feeling the wood close in around me.
Yesss. Cut and crusssh.
“Who are you
?”
I am vengeance and retribution.
“What? No? Papa says—”
I am life and death.
“You’re not…you’re—”
I am you!
And with a final burst of wind the tree shakes, spraying droplets of water from its leaves, marring the previously untouched circle of dry earth. The heaviness lifts from my shoulders, the clouds part, and the moon shines, shines, shines, full and bright, surrounded by twinkling stars on a night that’s as perfect as my father was.
The forest is evil. As usual, Father was right. Are all the stories true then? That there’s something that lives in the forest, some Evil that preys on the weak, the brokenhearted, filling their minds and souls with dark thoughts. And if so, has it entered me?
Screams shatter the night, and they’re as real as the rough bark of the tree behind me. Death has arrived.
~~~
I charge through the forest, tripping on tree roots and slapping away branches that lash at my face like whips. Tonight there’s more evil afoot than what lurks in the forest.
Even from a distance, I’m surprised to find the camp quiet and black. There are no Soakers brandishing torches and swords, burning and killing. No one at all. What evil is this?
As I approach the edge of the camp, voices murmur from within. Tired voices. Surprised voices. The screams woke my people.
Where are the guards, the border watchmen I saw earlier? I freeze when I see them.
Two black lumps block my path between the tents. One of them groans and rolls over, his stomach slick with blood. The other’s not moving.
Gard appears behind the fallen guards, his black robe thrown back from his face. A half-dozen other Riders trail behind him. The war leader pulls up short when he sees me. His eyes travel down to the guards, back to me. “Sadie?”
“They need help,” I say, my voice coming out as croaky as a frog. “Hurry.”
“Healers!” Gard yells. “We need Healers!”
As the Riders spring into action, securing the area, scouring it for intruders, for clues, making room for the Healers, who arrive with bandages and herbs and steel in their eyes, I wonder to myself: Was it the Evil from the forest? Was it me?
A heavy hand on my shoulder startles me away from my thoughts. Gard looks down at me. “Sadie. What did you see?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I saw nothing.”
~~~
“What were you doing out so late?” Gard asks, and despite his forced-light tone there’s a heavy weight behind his question.
“I was…” What? Talking to my dead father? Discussing matters of vengeance and retribution and ssslicing and ssslashing with the Evil in the forest, the Evil who claims to be me? “…uh.”
Thankfully, Gard’s wife hands me a hot cup of some kind of herbal tea. “Thank you,” I say, cupping my hands around the warm pot. She nods and busies herself with pouring tea for Gard.
“Her father died today,” Remy says. “She was probably having trouble sleeping.”
My head jerks around. Under Gard’s scrutiny, I’d almost forgotten his son was still here, sitting silently in the corner. When Gard had brought me in, our eyes had met, and for a moment—just a bare, silent moment—I could tell we both had the same memory: holding hands as they burned my father’s body.
“Yes,” I say nodding my thanks to Remy. “My tent was so…empty.”
“And you saw nothing?” Gard asks. “You were watching them die.” Heavy words, heavy tone.
“What? No! I mean, yes, but I had just arrived, just found them…it’s not like I was standing there doing nothing.”
“Hmm,” Gard says. Does he believe me? He has to believe me! “Tell me everything.”
I only tell him what’s important to what happened. How I passed them in the night, how I went to the forest to think, how I heard the screams and came running, same as him. Nothing more.
“Are they…dead?” I ask. I am life and death.
“One was dead when we arrived. Sword wound through the heart. He was probably the first to be attacked, too surprised to defend himself; his sword was still in his scabbard. The other was luckier, but not by much. He might’ve had time to deflect the kill stroke—his blade was on the ground, spotted with blood—which sent it through his gut. It’s deep and messy, but the Healers still have a chance to save him.”
“They must!” I exclaim. Gard’s eyebrows jump up, surprised at my sudden outburst. “Because he’ll be able to tell us what…I mean, who did this to them.”
“I hope so, Sadie. I hope so. The Healers have instructions to come to me as soon as his condition changes, for better or for worse.”
“You’ll sleep here tonight,” Gard’s wife says, handing me a blanket.
“No, I’m fine back in my—”
“You shouldn’t be alone,” she says. At the edge of my vision I see Remy watching me.
“Just tonight,” I say.
Are they unwittingly inviting Evil into their tent?
“We’ll see,” she says.
A sudden yawn captures the whole of my face as weariness overcomes me. Can I sleep?
I stand and move to an area of empty space furthest from where Remy sits, spreading out my blanket like a mat. When I lie down I face away from him. I remember his hand curled around mine, so warm, so rough, so there.
No sooner than I think of Remy, my thoughts from before return, taking over my restless mind. Am I evil? Did I somehow let something loose in the forest, my anger and lust for revenge unlocking a beast that’s been hidden for years? And if so, how do I stop it?
You don’t, the voice says.
Everything falls away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Huck
The anchors go up before I can speak to Admiral Jones again.
What did he want to tell me about my mother’s death? Did he want to mock me, berate me, tear down any semblance of foolish pride I’ve managed to muster over the short time I’ve been a lieutenant? Remind me how I failed her, how I failed him?
I have to know. I have to.
I have so many questions I feel like I’m going to burst if I don’t talk to someone about them. But who? Jade’s out of the question, at least until Hobbs goes back to The Merman’s Daughter. I haven’t talked to Cain in what seems like forever—he led the landing party in storm country today, so I didn’t even have a chance to speak to him.
Someone knocks on my cabin door. Barney.
“May I come in, sir?” he says.
“Why not,” I say.
He bumbles in carrying a tray with a steaming pot and several hard biscuits. “I thought you might like something to nibble on before bed.”
Gratefully, I take the tray. It’s exactly what I need. I pick up one of the biscuits, right away noticing something strange. “Barney, why are there bite marks on this one? Wait a minute,” I say, “all of them have bite marks!”
Barney clears his throat. “I had to, ahem, check to make sure they weren’t poisoned.”
I stare at him and he shifts back and forth uncomfortably. “All of them?” I say, laughing.
“I, um, I take my job very seriously.”
“I can see that. You know, you could have broken off a piece from each one, rather than…biting directly into them,” I point out.
“They don’t taste as good that way,” Barney says, looking sheepish.
“Don’t they? You’re eating the same thing.”
“Just the same, I prefer them the other way.”
“Well, I suppose I should say thank you. Are you sure it was necessary?”
“You never know, sir. You can never be too careful these days.”
“These days? Has there been a threat on my life?” I ask, crunching the corner of one of the biscuits, as far away from Barney’s teeth marks as possible.
Barney shifts again, but then rests crookedly on one foot. “Well, no, not directly. But ever since Webb went missing, some of his friends have been stirring
the pot, talking about how suspicious it is that he was your biggest critic and then disappeared. Some of them have noticed the time you’re spending with…up on the mast.”
A question I’ve been meaning to ask for a long time slips off my tongue. “Barney, why didn’t you tell the truth about what the…what she did to me? With the scrub brush?”
“You mean how she knocked you flat out, sir?” he says, smirking.
“I wouldn’t say she—”
“Whack! Right to the forehead, and you went down like a sack o’—”
“Thank you, Barney, I get the picture. Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I ask, breaking off another piece of biscuit and popping it in my mouth.
“Because you didn’t, sir. I followed your lead, because—”
“You take your job very seriously,” I finish for him, my mouth full. Barney was right, they do taste better when bitten into rather than broken off. Strange.
“Aye, that and I have nothing against the bilge. They’re good workers, rarely make trouble—well, except for the one who’s caught your eye, that is.”
“She has not caught my eye, Barney.”
“Of course not, sir.”
“Barney?”
“Aye, Lieutenant.”
“Do you know where the bilge…where the workers come from?” There are crumbs stuck in my throat so I take a sip from the mug. The warm drink slides down easily.
“It’s all very secretive, but I assume we trade with foreigners for them. Somewhere beyond storm country.” Barney scratches his head. “Captain Montgomery once told me—he’d been drinking all afternoon, mind you—that they come from a place called fire country.”
My heart speeds up. I knew she was telling the truth! I knew it.
“And what might be traded for them?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea,” Barney says.
