I think about Tiam and how I’ve always wanted to hear those words, but from him. But he never wanted me, only Star. Ethereal, perfect Star. The pain of that is like a dagger in my chest. I find myself moving closer to Finn, as if there’s some unstoppable force pulling me toward him. Maybe I just want to be wanted, and it doesn’t matter by whom. “Why?” I murmur.
“Because I want to take care of you,” he whispers, pressing the wire heart into my palm, which is moist with sweat. My pulse quickens. He knows these words are what I—what all of us—have been craving. He knows he is offering me something that is just as precious as dry land.
Then there is a noise below, on the rungs. People have begun to climb for formation. I stand spear-straight, and he does the same, then whispers, “Think about it.”
I move away from him silently, and am halfway to my spot when I open my curled hand and find the wire heart in my palm. I touch it with my finger, telling myself, I can do this. I can live. I can be okay without Tiam.
I whisper those words over and over again until I think I finally believe them. By then, everyone is standing in their place and high tide is close.
But it can’t be. It can’t be, I realize, as my maniacal chanting slows to a stop. And I’m left with a giant hole, as if something is missing. Something so basic but so necessary, like the air I breathe. And then the realization comes crashing down on me like the waves. I can’t live, and I can’t be okay. Ever, as long as I live in this world.
Tiam.
Fern grabs my hand and finds the heart there, but she doesn’t ask what it is. “Where is he?” she squeaks instead, moving her head side to side. More than a head taller than her, I have a better vantage point, but already the bodies have closed in around us, pressing together so that the smell of lavender is drowned out by the stench of sweat and seawater. But that’s not the reason I’m having trouble breathing. The reason is the one gaping hole to my left, one that has never been there before, as wide as the ocean. Despite us all pressing together, I feel alone. Open to attack. Clutching the heart, I try to think of Finn, but instead all I feel is the cold damp air on my left side, where Tiam should be.
Shortly after, the whispers begin. Did he become the latest scribbler victim? Did he fall asleep somewhere and miss formation? There are only so many places on the island one can hide, and nobody has seen him for most of a tide.
Today the ocean is calmer than usual. When it bears down on us and reaches the edges of the formation, Mutter whoops. “Number three is gone. Let’s all move to the right one space.”
I glare at him, and at that moment the horn blares above us. We all look up, and from our position just the tops of three heads are visible. From the sparkling jeweled crowns, I know the king and princess. And beside them is the blond hair and tanned forehead I’d know anywhere.
Something in my throat tastes sour. I know I should be happy he’s safe, but seeing Tiam and the princess, together, I feel lonelier than ever.
Everyone looks up silently, shielding their eyes from the sun with their hands. I exhale slowly as the princess calls down to us. “I know it will come as a shock to all of you, but my father is dying.” She pauses dramatically and waits for the gasps, but either they’re muffled by the wind or, more likely, everybody already knows. Star knows little of how fast news can travel down here.
“And what will we do?” someone calls up to them.
“I will be marrying Tiam, a commoner like yourself, at the evening of the next full moon. The king has given us his blessing, and most importantly, he has given Tiam rule over Tides.” She pauses. “He is reaching his sixteenth Hard Season, and so, he will be your king.”
This news, though clearly not a surprise, sends shock waves through the platform. It’s almost like high tide striking all over again.
“He’s not our ruler!” Mutter shouts. Vixby pumps his fist angrily in the air. Someone shouts, “No!”
Everyone is staring up at the balcony. So I feel heat rise in my cheeks when I search among the angry faces and see Finn, his eyes on mine. His face is strangely calm, as if to say, I told you nobody would accept this.
The horn blares again, which is our signal to bow before them. I look around, but I already know what is going to happen. Nobody even attempts to bow. Not a single person. Well, Mutter does, but it’s with a mocking flourish. The horn blares again, but voices rise in protest to meet it. Tiam’s face is stone, as if he expects it, but I’m frozen, unable to believe that this is happening. That this is what the rest of our world has been reduced to. I want so badly to show him that I’m not like them, that I accept him, but Finn is looking at me, and I can hear his voice. You have enemies.
Suddenly, rocks bounce off the edge of the tower with a thud, and sand showers down on me, stinging my skin. People are throwing sand and whatever they can get their hands on. The tower is too tall for them to do any damage, but nevertheless, the royal family retreats without another word. The last thing I see is a flash of pink cape, disappearing beyond the balcony.
I’m completely dazed as I trudge out of formation with a few others, who are still muttering with their heads down. “I’m not letting him tell me what I can and can’t do,” Vixby mutters to the men beside him. They crowd together, whispering, until I can’t tell what they’re saying. I’ve never before cared to be a part of the crowd, to know the secrets they share.
Now, I realize, I’m too afraid to know.
* * *
As I’m lying on my mat in my quarters the following evening after formation, I keep thinking about Finn’s words. If I were king, I’d want you to be my queen, he’d said. I think of my father. I’ve been spending many sleepless moments wondering what my father would tell me to do in this situation, and I still don’t know. I know that he liked Tiam, and that he liked Finn, too. I know that he taught me to respect authority. But I also know he’d want me not to be stupid, to do whatever it took to keep myself alive.
And that is why I couldn’t bow. And why, if it means saving myself, I’ll have to vacate my new position. As much as Tiam wanted it for me, because he thought it would make me safer, even he can’t save me now. He has enough to deal with on his own. I have to save myself.
While I’m thinking, a commotion brews in the open window. Men are shouting, and their voices drift up to me. For the first time, I peer outside to see a crowd of a dozen or more people fumbling in the moonlight at the water’s edge. Someone is lying there, in the center of the huddle, but I can only see the sweaty backs of the fishermen glistening in the light and a pair of ruts in the sand, heel marks of the person’s feet. Someone screams something about a “fishing accident.” I cringe. Another scribbler victim.
Far above me, I can just about make out the tower balcony. Someone up there—it sounds like the king—shouts, “Bring him to the doors. At once!”
To the doors? I wonder. Whatever for? Our medics can’t perform miracles; they can bandage a cut or tie up a sprain, but we have no medicines, no means to perform complex operations. Usually when a person has been stricken by a scribbler, the wound is severe, and they are tossed into the waves so that the scribblers can finish their meal. Curiously, I watch as four of the heftiest fishermen reach down and bring the victim up to their shoulders, so that his bloodied face and stomach greet the moon. There is a huge gash just under his collarbone.
The fish chowder I’d eaten earlier gurgles in the back of my throat.
Tiam.
No.
Unaware of how I end up there, I find myself breathless and trembling at the top of the staircase, watching the doors swinging open and the fishermen carrying him inside. They stand at the entrance, their bodies glistening with sweat in the orange torchlight, gazing at the hall just the way I did the first time I was brought here. “Drop him,” one of the guards says.
And they do drop him, as if he’s a thing instead of a human. A
s if he’s something without a soul. Without hope. He’s not conscious, and when they carelessly throw him to the floor, his head flops to the side, his mouth falls slack and a trickle of blood escapes. I feel tears on my hand, and my hot breath burns my palm; it’s fastened over my mouth because I know otherwise I will scream. Everything left in this world that’s worth something is lying in broken pieces on that floor.
I rush down the steps. Halfway down the stairs, I become aware of the severity of his wound. The gash is so deep that the white of his collarbone is visible among the torn sinews of muscle. I’m about to run to him when the king’s voice booms behind me. “Guards, escort those commoners out at once.”
Turning, I see the king, his face ashen and swollen, eyes yellow with sickness. He is at the top of the staircase behind me, his pink robe swishing along the marble floor. The logical part of my brain urges me to fasten myself against the wall and let him pass, but another part, far stronger, is teeming over, ready to explode. It’s the part that knows time is of the essence, and the king is moving at too leisurely a pace to help him. “He needs medical attention at once!” I yell at him.
King Wallow raises his head toward me sluggishly, a peculiar expression on his face. I clench my teeth. My direction was supposed to get him to act in haste, and yet now he’s standing still, staring at me. I want to grab him, get him to move, to act, but as his gaze hardens on me, I cringe. A shiver overtakes my body and a trickle of sweat runs down my rib cage. When he nods at a guard, I know I’ve said too much already.
The guard steps forward, turns his spear to the flat end and raises it over his head, and it whistles down over me. I feel crushing pain in my skull as I’m falling head over heels down the remaining steps of the staircase, coming to rest in something sticky, wet and warm. The last thing I remember is thinking, Please, please, please, don’t let it be Tiam’s blood.
Eight
The Valley of Dying Stars
It feels like a hundred tides later when I wake up with a start. I’m on the mat in my quarters, and the ropes holding it in place squeak as I throw my legs over and rush to the window. About two steps later my skull feels as if it is being crushed between two stones, and I fall forward, against the window ledge. The ocean crashes somewhere in the distance. I peer over the ledge, but everything is just a blur. Blinking furiously to get my eyes to work, I finally make out a line of blue in the distance. The tide has not yet come in. I exhale. I’m safe.
There is a sloppy bandage over my eyes, and when I bring my hand up to touch my forehead, my fingertips are coated in blood. My garment splattered with it. My face and neck feel tight from where it has dried on my skin. Dizzy, I crawl to the mirror to inspect the damage, and suddenly, one image hits me and sends me reeling back against the wall, sobbing.
Tiam.
Tiam. Gone.
I can’t put the words together in my mind. All my life he’s been beside me in formation. And I’d always thought that he’d get a prime spot in the formation while I was cast out to the dangerous edge. I always assumed he’d outlive me. I think of that horrible wound, his body covered in blood, his limbs tight and lifeless, and wonder what they did with his body once the last of his life was drained. Did they throw him out into the ocean as carelessly as they’d dropped him on the ground? Will no one else mourn him?
I think back to that morning, when he told me about being king. He was so hopeful and excited. I think I can help us. I think I can do good. The words keep ringing in my ears because after my father, Tiam was the last person. The last person on the island capable of making a difference. The rest of us just exist, flailing helplessly on the shore like fish struggling for air, waiting for the waves to come and wash us off the map.
Across the room, I finally focus enough to see my reflection in the mirror as I huddle pathetically on the ground. My hair is hanging in mangy black ropes over my face, which is ruddy with dried blood, except for two pale streaks under my eyes that my tears have washed clean. A horn blares above me, deafening, signaling the end of low tide, but I don’t even flinch.
I don’t even care.
I’m done.
Let the tide take my last breath. Let the scribblers get the rest of me.
“You’ve come to,” a voice says from the hall. I know it’s Burbur. “Good.”
Nothing is good about this. I don’t answer, don’t even turn to look at her. I just lie there, pressing my face against the cold wall below the window, wishing my heart were broken enough to stop beating.
Guilt tangles my thoughts. I think back to him standing at the balcony, looking so regal. I was too afraid to bow to him. He deserved my allegiance. He deserved my respect. And I was too afraid to show it.
“Now, don’t pout. Why in the world you would speak to the king without first being spoken to is beyond me,” she continues. I hear water pouring into the tub. “Come, now. Brought you some fresh water to bathe in. No lavender, of course, but good and clean. Come, now.”
I don’t move. I hope she’ll think I’m dead and just leave me alone.
A moment of silence passes, so I think it worked. I wait another moment, and then another, then lift my head up and turn toward the door. She’s still standing there, though, holding a pile of fresh towels. She reaches down and pulls off my garment. I’m too weak to fight, so she manages to shove me into the warm water easily. My bloody skin instantly turns the water brown, but it still relaxes my muscles, comforts me. She dunks me, and I wish I could stay under forever, but when I come out, she’s whispering, “That’s a good girl,” in a way that makes me start to weep all over again.
“Tiam,” I whimper. “Tiam.”
“Shh,” she says, lathering up my hair. “Let’s get you all clean, and then you can go to see him.”
I choke on some soap. “See him?”
“He only wants to see you.” She makes a “tsk” noise with her tongue. “Which seems odd to me considering he is betrothed to the princess.”
“You mean, he’s alive?”
“Yes. For now. He’s in the room across the way,” she answers. “The medics have been wanting to treat him, but he says no. He wants only you. Did nobody tell you this?”
I shake my head and dunk myself under the water again, then jump to my feet, hastily swab off and throw on the new garment that Burbur has hung at the door. My body is still wet, so it clings to me, but I barely notice. I wring it out, rake my hand through my hair and quickly cross the hallway. Before I get there, I can already hear the moaning. Why, if he’s in that much pain, does he want to see me?
I creep into the room. His face is strangely serene, his eyes closed. In the torchlight, it appears as if he’s just catching the last few moments of his evening sleep. There is a blanket over him, and underneath, his chest rises and falls in spasms with every breath. But there is something odd there, something where that hideous wound had been earlier. Whatever it is, it’s tenting the blanket up over his body.
Suddenly he moans again, making me jump. Arching his back, he exhales, his breath coming out in spurts, face twisting with pain. I move closer, calculating every footfall on the floor so as not to make a noise that will wake him. When my thighs are pressing against the side of the bed, I slowly reach down to lift the blanket.
Lightning fast, his hand whips out from under the blanket and grabs my wrist. His eyes dart open. I stifle the yelp in my mouth as his face softens. “Coe,” he breathes, his voice weak and gravelly. “It’s only you.”
When I’d heard he only wanted to see me, some small, pathetic hope ignited in me, but it’s only you makes me wonder if he’s disappointed. Of course he is. Burbur is wrong. He wanted Star, not me.
“Yes, it’s me. How are you? Do you need anything?” I ask, coming closer. His eyes are unfocused, and they seem to be staring at the space below my shoulders. I look down and notice that in my has
te to dress, the white tunic is sticking perfectly to the curves of my body. The dark outlines of my nipples are visible. I wrap my arms over my breasts and blush as I sit beside him.
He quickly looks away, focusing on the wall ahead of him. “Coe, I’m sorry. I should have told you about Star.” His voice is only a whisper.
I shake my head. I think about him, standing on the balcony a tide ago, perfect and healthy and ready to rule. I didn’t bow to him. And now look at him. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”
“I need...” he whispers, grabbing for my hand. “I need you to keep them away from me. The medics.”
“What? Tiam, the medics will help you,” I say. “That’s what they’re for.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. Everyone wants me dead.”
“The king will protect you. He will make sure that—”
“The king couldn’t even protect himself. I made a mistake. I mean, who was I kidding, thinking I could just...” He labors to swallow. “I thought that people were rebelling against the king because they wanted someone else. Someone who understood them. But they don’t.”
“They want Finn. I—”
“No. They don’t want a ruler. They don’t want anyone.” He motions me closer. “I don’t think I’m going to live through this, so I want you to know. My plan was to get us, all of us, out of here....”
Get us out? He’s delirious, babbling nonsensical things. I shiver. “Tiam, you’re hurt. You’ve just had a bad fishing accident, and you’re not thinking straight. Right? It was just an accident. You need someone to care for you.”
“No. I just wish I could have made a difference. For you. For Star. For everyone. That’s what I wanted.” He pulls back the blanket, and I gasp. Under his shoulder is a terrible wound, black with blood, and in the center, poking just above the surface of his skin, is a pale bluish spike. What I’d thought was his bone earlier is actually the jagged edge of a scribbler’s nose. “Look what I got for my sixteenth Hard Season.”
Drowned Page 10
