by David Estes
The boy stares at me with huge eyes. “I—I…” The stutter is back. Him thinking, taking the question seriously. “I…maybe. I don’t know. Maybe.”
His answer surprises me. He sssaysss kill him, ssso kill him. Do it. Do it. DO IT!
I see Paw’s face, so innocent, so much potential. He beckons to me to save him. But the admiral’s son would’ve been only a small child, or maybe not even born, when Paw was killed.
And Mother. It was the Icer guards that killed her, although she never would’ve ridden to ice country if not for the sins of the Soakers. But was this boy really involved in all that? Doubtful. Is he really the one to blame? The one to kill to bring me peace?
Yesss.
“You can kill me,” the Soaker boy says, surprising me once more. “But please, let me see her one more time, let me touch her, let me tell her how sorry I am. For everything.” Suddenly, as young as Lieutenant Jones looks, he’s no longer a scared boy to me, but a man, his words filled with fire and truth. And goodness. I don’t want them to be—want to hate every last thing about him, but I can’t.
Nooo! He tricksss you! The Sssoaker tricksss you!
killkillkillkill
I grip my sword tighter, heat rolling through my knuckles.
killkillkill
Strength roars through me. Enough strength to cut clean through him, to end him.
killkillkill
But it’s not me, it’s not me, it’s…notmenotmenotmenotmenotme…is it? Paw’s face. Mother’s face. Father’s face….Father! His face, his calm demeanor, his words—yes, his words.
Our existence is not all about killing Soakers…the more important choice is not when to take a life, but when to spare one…your choice and your choice alone…it will change everything.
But no, it’s not my choice. The Evil, whatever it is, has taken over, is controlling me. Its lust for blood must be satisfied.
Yesss!
No! It is my choice. You are not my master. You are not me.
That’s when I realize.
I realize.
The. Evil. Is. Me.
It has been all along, my lust for revenge, a hot desire to bring someone—anyone—to justice for the death of my family. My choice and mine alone. Not the forest, not some mythical Evil forcing me to perform horrible acts. An excuse to make bad decisions. A scapegoat for my own anger.
Me.
KILL!
“No!” I scream, startling the boy, making him jump back, his hands shooting to his neck as if he expects to have to hold it together because I’ve stabbed him. But I haven’t.
You will never find peace, the Evil says.
“I already have,” I say.
The Evil spits and screams and fades…fades…fades…away, until it’s gone. And I know it’s gone forever.
I turn Passion and ride back toward the battle, determined to help end it.
Huck
What was that?
Jade’s face was flashing over and over and over in my mind, and I knew it was because I was going to die, and all I wanted was to see her before I did. But then…
Then the Stormer Rider turned away. She spared me.
My hands return to the boat, and all I want to do is push off, to paddle back to the Mayhem and make sure she’s okay.
Something stops me. A feeling. Guilt mixed with strength mixed with anger. Someone has to end this, and it might as well be me.
I run—no, sprint—up the beach, chasing after the Stormer Rider girl. Beyond her the battle rages fiercer than ever. Riders, on horse and on foot, battle seamen and officers alike, cutting, slashing, ending each other’s lives.
My father is locked in a one-on-one battle against the Stormer war leader. He’s outmatched, but his red-faced, deep-lined hatred is making up the difference. So much hatred.
Enough for all of us.
Enough to fill the world.
Enough!
The Stormer leader pushes Father back, seems to have him right where he wants him, and then he—
—I can’t believe it but he—
—he stumbles, loses his balance, falls.
My father springs at him and the war leader barely manages to block his attack from his knees, raising his sword.
Enough!
I make right for my father—who continues to slash at the fallen Stormer leader—from behind, and he doesn’t see me coming. I’m almost positive Gard sees me, but he doesn’t give my presence away with his eyes, just continues to protect himself from my father’s slashing sword.
I’ve got him in my sights, closer, closer, closer, on silent feet. I close my eyes and—
—lower my head, flexing every muscle in my body in preparation for the impact, and—
—crash into the backs of his knees, sweeping him off his feet, only then opening my eyes to find my arms wrapped around his legs, his body flush with the drenched sand.
His sword scattered off to the side.
And Gard’s sword at his neck.
Father’s face is awash with the paleness of surprise, just a flicker as he stares at me in bewilderment. But the flash is gone in an instant, replaced by an anger so red and so fierce I wonder if his head will explode. He spits in my face, but he has so little moisture in his mouth that I can’t feel it amidst the rainfall. “You’re no son of mine,” he says.
“If only that were true, Father,” I say. “If only.”
I stand, turn toward the remains of the battle, which is finally winding down, with most warriors on both sides exhausted, injured, shooting glances in our direction, trying to figure out what’s happened, which leader won the day.
“STOP!” I scream.
Any heads that were facing away from me turn, the Soaker girl who saved my life included. Her eyebrows lift in surprise, as if I’m the last person she expected to see back up on the beach.
“Stop,” I say more calmly. “Enough. Admiral Jones is defeated. We must fight no more. The time for war is over. He”—I point at my father—“is to blame.”
My father goes to say something, but Gard warns him off by poking him in the skin, drawing a trickle of blood.
“He’s lied to us all,” I say, my voice gaining strength with each honest word. “He created our hatred for the Stormers, because he lives for violence, for control, for war. When really it’s him and him alone that has brought us here. He trades bags of dried seaweed for the children of fire country, only to force them into battle, only to be slaughtered by his own men. You should be ashamed of yourselves. We all should.”
There’s silence, and then a laugh.
My head twists back to my father, whose entire body is convulsing with laughter, oblivious to his neck bouncing against Gard’s sword, which continues to slice into him, spilling blood from ragged breaks in his skin.
He looks completely mad.
“Shut it or you die,” Gard says.
“No,” I say. “Let him speak.” Gard’s eyes bore into me, but then he pulls the tip of his blade back an inch.
My father’s laughter fades. “So what?” he says. “So what if I live for this—for all of this? So what if I get my slaves for worthless bags of sea plants? So what? It’s my life, I’ll do what I want.”
One of the Heater warriors—the girl with the sword—steps forward, by my side. “What the scorch did you say ’bout them bags of sea plants?”
The admiral laughs again. “Goff, Roan—your leaders are fools! They perpetuate the child slave trade to save their own lives from the disease, but guess what? There was no magical Cure! They were just worthless plants! None of us are safe from the Scurve. None of us. Which is why none of this matters. What we do, what side we’re on, who we kill. We’ll all die in the end anyway.”
“Kill him,” I say. He has nothing left to offer us. He’s caused so much death, drove my mother to take her own life. “Kill him,” I repeat.
My father snarls at me. “You don’t give the commands! You’re nothing! You never were! You couldn’t ev
en save your mother’s life.”
No more. I will hear no more. Calmly, I draw a knife from my belt, step forward, and drive it into his heart.
Sadie
Although the lightning is distant now, the storm moving past us, I’m as shocked as if every bolt is running through my body. He came back. The boy came back.
No, he did more than that. Much, much more. He helped end the battle, killed his father. Showed he’s not like him at all—not the enemy.
He leaves the knife stuck in his father’s chest, stands, looks away, out to sea, toward one of the ships.
Still riding Passion, I approach him and he shrinks back slightly, eyeing my sword warily.
“I’m sorry about before, I didn’t—”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I understand.”
I nod. That’s all I need. “Go to see her—the girl you were talking about. We’re okay now.”
If I chased him with my sword he wouldn’t go any faster. He sprints away, down the beach, shoving a boat with all his might and clambering on board, his arms working the paddle wildly.
I look away from him, take in the carnage around me. Bodies—so many bodies—broken and bleeding, many of them not moving, some of them groaning and rolling about in agony. Realizing the battle is over, the Healers who rode behind the Riders are creeping from the forest, picking their way through the bodies, tending to those that still have life in them.
Gard says, “That was unexpected.”
I shrug. “My father was right,” I say. “As always.”
Gard looks at me strangely, but doesn’t respond.
“Is it really over?” I ask.
“There is always evil in the world, Sadie. But for now, I think it’s over.”
The pain in my hip screams out, but I ignore it, urging Passion toward the plains, where I last saw Remy.
Skye and Siena wave at me to stop, but it’s Passion they should be heralding, because she halts without any command from me. “Where’s that wooloo boy goin’?” Skye asks, pointing out at the water. I turn and follow her gaze. Lieutenant Jones is halfway to the ship that’s missing the wind-catcher, the one where all the activity was when we first arrived.
“To see a girl,” I say.
“He told Feve and Circ there’s a girl on the ship that looks like us.” This time it’s Siena who speaks.
“Go,” I say. “Find your sister.”
They look at the water, then back at me. “Uhh…”
“I can take you,” a man says, striding forward. He’s weaponless, his face covered in streaks of blood. He’s clutching one of his arms, blood seeping through his fingers. He’s wearing a dirty and torn blue uniform.
“We don’t need anything from you,” I say.
“My name’s Lieutenant—” I wait for him to finish. “Name’s Cain. Just Cain,” he says. “I’m friends with the boy…the young man that just killed the admiral. I’ll take you to where he’s gone. As long as you do the rowing.”
“Yes!” Skye and Siena say at once.
“I don’t know a searin’ thing ’bout what rowin’ is,” Siena says, “but we’ll do whatever you tell us if you can take us to our sister.”
“Are you sure—” I start to say.
“Yes,” they repeat, once more in unison.
“I don’t know anything about your sister, but I’ll take you to meet the Heater girl that Huck’s going to see.”
Excitement flashing in their eyes, Siena and Skye follow Cain down the beach to one of the boats.
Again, without command from me, Passion trots up the wet-sand beach and clambers over the dunes. The plains are rain-drenched and muddy, but she never misses a step. I try not to look at the bodies staring unblinking and vacantly at the sky.
Remy waves to me as we approach. Dazz is being worked on by a Healer, his friend Buff hovering over him.
All of a sudden I find tears springing up as emotion swells in my chest. The desire to be close to someone again hits me so hard I swear someone’s pounding on my stomach. I have no one to hold, no one to comfort me. My mother and father are still with me, yes, but too far away to give me what I need. I have no family.
Remy stares at me, his eyes wet with sadness. Or is it just the rain in his eyes?
I start to dismount, but a flame of pain shoots through my hip. With everything that’s happened, I’ve almost forgotten about my injury. I’m pretty sure it’s not life-threatening, but it hurts like being dunked in a bath of spearheads.
But I don’t need to dismount, because Remy runs to me, grabs me around the waist, pulls me down. The shock of the pain in my hip and his hands touching me is overwhelming, swarming over my skin and through my blood like a warm blanket and a lightning strike and the thrill of battle.
My legs wrap around him and the pain melts away and he holds me in his arms, kisses my neck, nuzzles me with his head. I want to kiss him, but not now, not with the bodies around us, not with the lives of our people so casually ended.
But I will hold him, forever and ever and ever if he lets me.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Huck
As I climb the rope ladder to the deck, I’m scared about what I’ll find.
When I left her there was so much blood. Should I have fought my father then? Could I have? I know the answer is no, that he wouldn’t have hesitated to kill her then and there, but I still wonder.
I whipped her half to death. At least I hope it’s half and not whole.
Just before I swing my leg over the railing, I whisper a silent prayer. Deep Blue let her be alive. If only so I can say goodbye properly.
The moment my eyes find their way above deck, my heart beats erratically.
Because she’s there. Not unconscious and lying in a pool of her own blood—the blood that I beat out of her—but standing, looking right at me, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
My feet are nailed to the planks. I can’t move toward her, because what will I say? What will I do?
One of her hands pokes through a gap in the front of the blanket. Her fingers gesture me to her.
Does she mean it?
I lift a heavy leg, then another, stumbling forward. I don’t care if she forgives me, don’t care if she ever wants to see me again after today. None of that matters, because she’s alive. Of her own strength, she’s alive.
When I’m two or three steps from her, I stop again. Her black hair is wet and hangs in shiny strands around her face. She looks so calm, her wounds hidden behind the blanket and her emotionless expression.
What do I say? Should I even try for her forgiveness?
She speaks first. “Huck…”
I wait for it. For the anger, for the blame. It’s what I deserve. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. I have to try. “I’m sorry for everything. I’m a terrible, terrible person and I’ve lived a terrible, terrible life. Everything I’ve touched has turned to—”
“Huck,” she says again, but I wave her off with a hand.
“No,” I say. “I have to say this. I’ve hurt you in so many ways. I never should have let it go this far. I was weak, still am, but maybe a little stronger than before. My father will rule me no more. He can’t—not from where he is.”
“Huck,” she says once more.
But I’m not listening, my mouth on automatic. “You should hate me, you should leave me far, far behind. Never look back, Jade. Never look back at these miserable yars. Forget about—”
“Huck!” she says, this time more forcefully. “I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to move on. I forgive you.”
“What?” My vision blurs, but I blink my way back to clarity. “You can’t mean that.”
“I do,” Jade says, stepping forward, closing the gap between us by half. “You risked everything for me. You killed for me. You hurt me to save me. I heard what your father said. If you didn’t…do it…he would’ve killed me. I don’t blame you.”
She steps forward again, right up against me, her face
just below mine. My arms want to wrap around her, but I can’t because of her ripped, torn back. I can’t hold her because of what I’ve done to her.
“Are you sure?” I say, feeling her breath on my lips as she breathes—really breathes!
“Yes,” she says, and then she rises up on her tiptoes and kisses me. Soft and tender and forgiving, and she doesn’t want to leave me, doesn’t wish to forget me, and I’ll never do anything to hurt her again—never ever ever—and although I’ve never kissed a girl before, it’s easy, because it’s her. It’s her.
I curl my hands behind the back of her head, careful not to touch anywhere that might be raw. We kiss twice, thrice, four times, just little pecks, before pulling away to look at each other.
And in that look is everything I’ve ever wanted. The pride of someone who cares about me. It never had to be my father—never should have been my father—just someone. Someone worthwhile. Someone like Jade.
If a rainbow were to appear, falling from the sky, coming down to shine colors for each of my emotions, it wouldn’t have enough colors. ’Cause I’m feeling so much, every emotion there is and everything in between, streaking through me and around me and across me and in me.
I’ll never let this girl go. Never ever ever. Not in my heart, at least.
“Jade,” a voice says from behind.
Siena
The boy’s taller’n her and partially blocking her, but there’s no doubt in my mind that it is her.
“Jade,” I say, calling out to my long lost sister.
Her little head that’s so much bigger’n it should be—or at least bigger’n how I remember it—pokes ’round the Soaker boy, the one who helped end the battle.
She’s the spitting image of my mother, beautiful from head to toe, although I can’t see much of her ’cause of the blanket ’round her shoulders.
Skye pops up beside me, a moment behind on the ladder. “It’s her,” I whisper, but I don’t hafta say it, ’cause she knows too.
“Burnin’ chunks of tugblaze,” she says, but her voice is way behind me, ’cause I’m already running, crossing the wooloo moving wood floor in five steps. The boy blocks my path.
