Water & Storm Country (11 page)

I shake each of their hands in turn,
squeezing hard to avoid getting my fingers crushed. Budge, Ferris,
and Whittle.

Budge is meant to be an oarsmen, built like
an anchor, heavy and compact, but usually he can’t even get enough
men to join him. Until today, that is.

Ferris is a lookout, small and thin, and
apparently very good at climbing. The crow’s nest is his post.

Whittle stinks like tobacco and has a face
that only a mother could love, with dozens of scars and pockmarks,
and she’d have to be a pretty understanding mother at that. He
manages the bilge rats, which is evidently one of the reasons they
seem to do such a fine job keeping the ship clean.

“There’s no one to command us,” Norris says,
“so we pretty much run things ourselves, with very little help from
the rest of the crew. You’re very welcome here.”

I nod firmly. Although it feels good to have
a few early advocates, I get no warmth from it. I’ll need the
support of every man and woman if I’m to turn things around.

“Thank you, seaman,” I say. “If I could ask
you a question. Who was the woman who shouted Webb’s name
today?”

I’m surprised when Norris and the other three
snicker. “She’s a real jibboom, alright. That was Lyla, my sister.
She’s about your age. She’ll love you for putting Webb in his
place. He’s hated by most of the women, always leering and groping
at them. Sending him to the brig will have gone a long way with the
ship women.”

My cheeks burn because of the way he says it,
all wagging eyebrows and smirking. “Fine. Thank you, seaman,” I
say.

I turn and head for the door, only now
realizing what’s coming next.

It’s time to see my father.

I
’m so angry I march
right through the stables without stopping to see Shadow.

Remy’s right—too right. There’s no way Gard
will let me ride to ice country with my mother.

Mother’s not there, so I skirt the edge of
the camp, taking my normal route to our training area, along the
western border, where Carrion Forest is but a stone’s throw away.
The heavy clouds comb the green manes of the trees, turning them a
deep shade of gray. The squeal-grunt of a wild boar shrills through
the air. Perhaps he stumbled upon one of our traps. My father says
the forest is an evil place, full of dark magic and sorcery, but I
see it only as the place where we get our food. Conies and boar and
plump fowl live there, the latter roosting high in the branches of
the trees, where a well-placed arrow or a good climber can reach
them quite easily. The forest is the lifeblood of my people.

We refuse to eat from the sea like the
Soakers. My father says eating the sea creatures leads to
madness.

A few of the men and women in the watch tents
offer greetings as I pass, but, afraid that after my encounter with
Remy my voice will come out filled with venom, I offer only a nod
in response to each of them.

When I reach the broad, grassy area, I stop
abruptly.

Mother is there already, as I suspected, and
she’s practicing her sword work by herself. I duck behind a tent so
I can watch without her knowing. Every motion perfectly fluid, like
running water, she moves with a grace and litheness that cannot be
taught. Again and again, her sword flashes out and back, blocking
and attacking an invisible foe.

Paw’s killer, maybe?

Her feet are always perfectly balanced as she
dances, spins, leaps around. If she is imagining herself fighting
Paw’s killer, or some other Soaker enemy, you can’t tell from her
face. Her cheeks are hard with concentration and her eyes flash
determination, but there’s no anger to be found.
Anger is
weakness
, she’s taught me. Of all her sayings, that one scares
me the most, because I feel angry so often. At my father’s
weakness, at the Soakers, at whichever one of them took Paw’s life
before it really got started. How do I thrust off the anger?

I watch for a few more minutes, my awe
growing at the perfection that is my mother.

When I step out of hiding, she spots me,
stopping in mid-swing. I’ve just saved an invisible Soaker’s life.
Pity.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” she says,
which makes me lift my eyebrows. Why wouldn’t I come?

When she sees my confusion, she explains,
“Because I slapped you.”

Oh. That. To be honest, I’d pretty much
forgotten, but now the embarrassment comes back with the speed of a
flash storm. I raise a hand to my cheek, remembering the sting. “I
deserved it,” I say, meaning it. I was acting like a child, being
exceptionally disrespectful to my father.

“You did,” she says with a smile, making me
smile too. “But that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”

And just like that, all is forgiven and
forgotten. “Mother, do you think Father is right?” I ask.

“Defend!” she says, leaping forward with her
sword. My blade is out before her feet touch the ground, blocking
her attack, the swords ringing out in the early morning, as if
welcoming the sun to the sky.

Excitement and energy courses through me as
we battle across the plains, sword fighting, circling, jumping,
kicking, swinging, faster and faster, until the world becomes only
me and my mother, condensed into a circle around us, everything
else a blur, melting away.

I deflect a blow to the right, to the left,
above my head, backing up swiftly from my mother’s onslaught. And
then she does something completely unexpected.

She ducks and dives, right at my feet, grabs
me around the ankles, knocking me off balance. I whirl my arms and
tumble to the ground, where she points her sword at my neck,
breathing heavily, but laughing.

“New lesson,” she says. “Do something
unexpected, surprise your enemy.”

I nod. “Again?” It’s a question I ask each
time she defeats me, until she eventually has to decline, or we’d
fight all day and all night.

She never says no after one fight.

“No,” she says, grinning.

“But, Moth—”

“Our orders are to burn as much of ice
country as we can, to send a message, but to spare the innocents.
Kill only the king and his men,” she says, cutting me off.

“And this is all because of Father’s
prediction?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Have you forgotten your question?”

I have. “What question?”

“You asked whether I think your father is
right.”

“And then you attacked me,” I say,
grinning.

She laughs. “I needed time to think,” she
says, which makes me laugh. While I’ve been completely focused on
beating her, her mind’s been a million miles away, coming up with
what to say to me.

“So do you…think Father’s right?” I ask.

“He’s never been…” Her voice catches, like
she’s got something stuck in her throat. There’s a faraway look in
her eyes, one I’ve never seen before.

“Mother? What has he never been?” I ask,
sitting up.

“Wrong,” she says, more firmly. “He’s never
been wrong.”

Although her words come out stronger this
time, her eyes are filled with the morning fog, not scared, but
uncertain.

And that scares me the most, because I’ve
never seen her unsure of herself.

~~~

The Plague took another life today.

Jala, a Man of Wisdom, like my father. When
my father lit his funeral pyre, his eyes were red and wet. Although
I’ve been to many death ceremonies, this one hit me harder than
most. Emotion swelled in my chest, and I felt like crying. I
didn’t, but I felt like it.

I didn’t know Jala well, but I haven’t seen
Father cry since Paw died, and though I’ve given him a hard time
lately, between his crying and my mother’s uncertain words from
earlier, well, I’m out of sorts.

There’s tension and sadness in the air as I
carry two buckets of water to the stables. Men and women are
scurrying about everywhere, helping the Riders prepare for their
long ride and for battle.

As soon as I enter the stables, the walls and
roof seem to close in around me. For the first time in my life, I
feel uncomfortable around the horses. While I water Shadow and
place a thin black cloth on his back, which my mother will mount,
my unease grows and grows, until I want to scream. I spot Remy
preparing his father’s horse, Thunder. He smiles at me but I don’t
smile back, because seeing him reminds me of our conversation from
earlier. I hate being told what I can’t do. To hell with waiting
for my sixteenth age day.

Finished with Shadow, I rush from the
stables, brushing past Remy when he steps in front of me. “Hey!” he
says, but I don’t stop.

Even the open air outside the stables doesn’t
ease the heaviness that is now draped over me like a pile of
blankets. The air smells of rain, earthy and green and moist. A
heavy storm might delay the Riders’ departure, but the darkest
clouds are still miles away, so I can’t count on the weather. I
pass Gard, who looks like a mountain next to me as he stomps by,
his thick, black robe swirling around his feet. He wears a frown,
but that’s not unusual for him. Frowning is expected of a war
leader.

Just as I arrive at our tent, my mother
emerges, wearing her own dark robe, which is open at the front as
she clasps her sword belt around her waist. “Mother, I—” I start to
say, but then stop when I see the expression on her face when she
notices me approaching.

She looks sunken, like the earth has pulled
every part of her face down a little. There are shadows under her
eyes and tearstains on her cheeks. I’ve never seen my mother cry.
Never. Riders don’t cry. She told me that herself. One of her many
lessons. And now she’s crying, like some scared little child. She’s
fought the Soakers a dozen times in her lifetime. Are the Icers so
powerful they would scare my mother to tears? This woman, who I’ve
idolized since the day I was born, who’s supposed to be the strong
one, the person I want to be like, driven to tears by fear?

I can’t help the seed of anger I feel in my
belly. It’s small at first, but then sprouts a stem, which shoots
upward into my chest, splitting into several branches which yield
red, hot leaves and burning fruit. The fruits of rage.

I’m so angry I’m trembling.

Her belt clasped, she reaches for me, both
arms extended, beckoning me into their folds. “Mother, no—why are
you doing this?” I say, backing away a step.

She flinches, as if surprised by my reaction
to her affections—but she has to know how ridiculous she’s acting.
“I want to say goodbye,” she says, her voice weaker than someone
stricken with the Plague.

“Why were you crying?” I demand, my hands
fisted at my sides.

She shakes her head. “Your father—he got
upset.”

“Riders don’t cry,” I say, dimly aware that
people are watching us now.

“It wasn’t—I wasn’t—”

“I thought you were strong,” I say. My voice
comes out as a plea, and I feel the burning fruits of rage dropping
like pinecones, bursting into a flood of emotion, welling tears
into pools just behind my eyes. I grit my teeth and hold them back.
My mother may be weak, but I won’t be. I’ll be better than my
master.

“I am, Sadie,” she says. “You don’t
understand.”

But I do. I do. “I’m coming with the Riders,”
I say, keeping my voice even.

The most unexpected expression flashes across
my mother’s face, there and then gone, like a falling star in the
night sky. Not anger, or sadness, or surprise; no, none of the
emotions that would make sense.

For her expression showed only one thing:

Hope.

~~~

The hope I see in my mother’s eyes is no more
than a flicker of light on a distant horizon.

“No,” she says, and she’s back, my mother—the
Rider. The wind has dried her tears and I’ve hardened her jaw, and
she doesn’t reach out to me again.

This is my master, the woman who can’t be
argued with, the woman with the power to give and take away. As
much as I want to go with her, I don’t try to argue, knowing full
well it’d be fruitless. “Be victorious,” I say, using the standard
pre-battle Rider words.

“I will go with honor and strength,” says my
master, who’s now also my mother again.

At arm’s length, we clasp each other’s
shoulders. “I’ll train double for you while you’re gone,” I
say.

She laughs, but it’s more airy than usual,
more high-pitched too, but her face and eyes are still strong, so
it might just be the water in the air. “Keep your father safe,” she
says.

“I will.”

I watch her go, the last of the Riders to
make their way to the stables.

“Come inside, Sadie,” my father, who’s
emerged from our tent, says behind me. I turn, take in his wet face
and bleary eyes, and I have to look away, because his sadness
suddenly hits me like a punch to the gut.

I never realized Jala was such a good friend
to my father.

~~~

With the rain misting down around me, I watch
the Riders go, galloping north under heavy black cloud cover, dark
shadows against the plains.

Just when I’m about to return to the camp,
one of them turns, looks back. A fist squeezes my heart and my
throat constricts, because I know—

—without a doubt in my mind—

—I know.

It was my mother.

I’ve watched her ride into battle many times
before, and she’s never turned around.

“C
aptain
Montgomery,” my father says with a warm smile as he steps across
the planks between The Merman’s Daughter and The Sailors’
Mayhem.

The two men shake hands like old friends as I
watch from afar, standing next to Hobbs, Barney closer than I’d
like on my other side. Although there’s no way my father wouldn’t
be able to see me, he doesn’t offer even the slightest glance in my
direction.