Water & Storm Country (16 page)

Yo ho, we drink the grog harder,

Yo ho, with Stormers we barter,

Their blood for our lives,

Their men for their wives,

Yo ho, like lambs to the slaughter!

My people.

We dance and we sway and we drink away Webb’s
death, Cain and I. The women move in ways that are foreign, but
also exciting, to me.

Eventually, however…eventually, the world
blurs and I feel myself falling, falling, and something soft
cushions my fall.

I dream, my eyes fluttering open into a fog,
thick as Stew’s fish soup, but I’m not alone. She’s watching me, a
lovely brown face with earnest brown eyes, devoid of anger and hate
and all the things I’ve come to know her by. The bilge rat, my
enemy, looking down at me, watching. Her pink lips open.
Thank
you
, she mouths.

~~~

My second ever grog-headache is worse than
the first, worse than the pain caused by the girl’s well-hurled
brush. Severe.

“Get up!” Hobbs shouts, kicking me in the
ribs.

I groan and roll over, relishing the sharp
tweak in my bones that distracts me from the hammer blows to my
skull.

I look up to see Hobbs’ face against a clear,
red sky, the sun already a quarter of the way to its midday
peak.

“Where am I?” I say absently, intending the
external question as an internal thought.

“In water country—on the Mayhem—on the planet
Earth—in Hell—take your pick,” Hobbs says, kicking me again.

“What day is it?” I ask, still not learning
my lesson. Questions mean getting kicked.

Hobbs kicks me and I groan. “Well, it’s
supposed to be the day we lay anchor with the rest of the fleet,
meet with your father, discuss our next moves in the war with the
Stormers…any of that ring a bell?”

“What’s the problem?” I ask, earning a stomp
to the chest. I gasp, clutch at myself, try to breathe.

“The problem is that the brave lieutenants,
Jones and Cain, made a brilliant decision to lay anchor last night
so the men could have a party. While you and the rest of the crew
drunk yourself sick, the rest of the fleet moved further ahead.
We’ll be lucky to catch them by the turn of the day.”

I groan again, but fearing Hobbs’ heavy
boots, I manage to clamber to my feet, swaying for a moment before
getting my legs under me.

I take in the scene before me. The bilge rats
are out in number, tidying up after the previous night’s events.
The rest of the crew are up and moving, too, albeit slowly and like
zombies, going about getting the ship ready for sail.

Norris and Budge are pulling on their shirts.
Ferris and Whittle are rubbing their eyes and yawning. But all that
hardly seems important now.

A man died last night. Because of me. I
killed a man.

It seems no matter what decision I make,
there’s no right answer. Only pain. Only death. Am I wrong? Is it
me who’s to blame?

I killed a man.

The realization comes back like a lightning
strike on the plains of storm country, fierce and jagged, twisting
my insides, cutting, cutting…but then I see the girl’s brown eyes,
stunning and mysterious in the fog, her mouthed
Thank you
,
and my actions don’t feel so…wrong.

Would my father agree? Not a chance.

I push past Hobbs, suddenly eager to do the
only thing I really, truly know how to do: be a sailor. The orders
fly out of my mouth without thought: “You four, Norris, Budge,
Ferris, Whittle—raise the anchor!” “Hurley, Key, Toadstool—raise
the sails!” “Breakfast can wait, you dogs. We have miles to make
up!”

Although the words feel good and right and
like the words of a lieutenant, it’s not until the men snap to
attention and begin scurrying about the ship that I realize: I’m
one of them and they know it, and they’ll work for me.

T
orrents of rain
lash my skin, soaking my clothes through in an instant. But I don’t
turn back—won’t turn back.

I have everything I need to avenge my
mother’s death: the anger, spilling through me and around me and
out of me like a molten stream, scorching my words and my actions;
the strength, coursing through my lean and toned body, built for
fighting, for killing—my mother ensured that; and the opportunity,
foretold by a Man of Wisdom whose visions have come to pass time
and time again, in the form of a battle that will include Soakers
and
Icers, my two most hated enemies.

There is only one thing I’m missing: the
horse. To be a full-fledged Rider, the war leader must grant you a
horse and declare your training complete during the Ceremony of
Lightning and Thunder. All I want is the horse. Surely Gard will
understand that?

The bodies are in neat rows, blanketed by
thick coverings usually used to build tents. Despite the heaviness
of the rainfall, the dead will remain dry tonight. Too bad the dead
don’t care either way.

I give the corpses a wide berth, gritting my
teeth as I count down two rows and across five bodies, the location
of my mother, which I memorized earlier. Under the sheet, she’s
just a bump, but in my mind I can still see her spouting blood from
the mortal wound in her side, her head cradled in my father’s arms.
And I can still hear her last words to me:
Listen to your
father, for he is wise.

Not that, Mother. Anything else, please.

Hunt down my killers and avenge my
death.

Fulfill your legacy as a Rider, Sadie.

Become the strong woman I’ve taught you to
be.

I can think of any of a number of things she
might’ve said to me in her last breath, and I would’ve easily and
gladly obeyed. But
listen to my father?
Already I’ve failed
in that regard, storming out into the rain when he needed me the
most, even asked for it with a soulful plea that extended into the
lines of his arms.

And I walked away.

Is my father wise? If sending my mother to
her death is wisdom, then he has the knowledge of kings. If running
from the fight like a frightened child and letting the Soakers
slaughter my brother is wisdom, then he is Mother Earth in the form
of a man. No, my father is not wise, and though it tears me through
to the very fabric of my being, I cannot obey my mother’s final
desperate command.

Damn Father for putting me in this
position!

Remy is outside his tent, sitting in a brown
puddle, head in his hands. What does he have to mourn? Aria? She
was
like
a sister to him, but not a sister, not really. He
has lost no one who is tied to him by blood, while I have lost the
very person whose blood runs through my veins.
Get up!
I
want to scream.
Be a man, be a Rider! Get your father! For
tonight we take the first steps toward revenge.

But all I say is, “Is Gard inside?”

Remy looks up slowly, rainwater tears
dripping from his eyelashes, his dark hair plastered to his
forehead. The memory of him smiling, shedding his clothes, ducking
beneath the cool ocean springs to mind. A lifetime ago, when we
were both people we’ll never be again. “Sadie,” he says in a heavy
tone.

“No,” I say, because I know what’s coming
next.

“I’m so sor—”

“No!” I shriek. “You’re a Rider—start acting
like it.” The shock on his face is something I’ve wanted to see for
a while, but somehow it’s not satisfying, not anymore.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then
closes it, motions for me to enter the tent behind him.

When I step inside, I’m not sure what to
expect. Something…bigger, more spectacular, full of maps and
miniature horses and Riders and Soakers, all laid out like a game,
with Gard pouring over it, seeking out the weaknesses in our
enemy’s defenses. But instead, the inside of the war leader’s tent
looks much like our tent. The edges are lined with bedding, neatly
folded and ready for use. Animal skins hang from a line that
stretches from end to end. Remy’s mother, a Healer, is notably
absent, most likely working tirelessly to save the few Rider’s
lives that continue to hang in the balance.

Gard is sitting cross-legged, eyes closed,
his big hands in his lap, folded, like two animals sleeping.
Although I’ve always known him to be a big man, seeing him in such
a confined space magnifies the effect, as he takes up nearly half
of the tent which is but a fraction of the size of what I would
expect a warlord to command.

I stand before him for a moment, considering
whether to disturb his meditation or sleep or whatever it is he’s
doing.

I flinch when, eyes still closed, he speaks.
“Your mother was a great warrior,” he says. “She died with honor.
She slew many of the enemy before and after receiving her fatal
wound.”

No apology, no whispered sentiments, no
sadness in his voice. Only pride and truth. His words warm me and
I’m surprised to feel tears welling up.
Never again
, I
command myself. I blink the budding drops away before they can grow
to full size.

“Thank you for telling me these things,” I
say.

“You did not come here for these words,” he
says, his voice deeper than thunder. His eyes flash open with the
statement, two black orbs flecked with fireflies from the
flickering lantern. “You want to ask me a question, yes?”

How does he know? Or is he just guessing? A
quiver of fear runs up my spine and I stiffen, squeezing my muscles
to burn away the coldness seeping into my bones. I won’t ask the
question, won’t leave the matter open for his judgment. I can’t
risk it. My words will be similar, but different. Stronger. My
will.

“I will receive my horse tonight. I will be a
Rider with your blessing or without.” A statement, there and gone,
but the feeling from it still lingering in the silence, broken only
by a thunderclap so loud it rumbles the very earth under my
feet.

“Yes. You will,” he says, and I can’t help my
lips from parting and sucking in a sharp breath of surprise. “You
have your mother’s eyes. And her strength. You will be a great and
formidable Rider.”

“Thank you,” I say numbly, holding back my
pride. Gard stares at me, unblinking, and I can’t help but feel
awkward and un-Rider-like under his intense gaze.

I move to leave the tent, but his words stop
me. “Revenge is only satisfying if the right adversary is
punished,” he says.

I turn, but his eyes are already closed,
leaving me to wonder whether it’s a coincidence that his words
sound so much like my father’s.

~~~

There will be two ceremonies on this night of
nights. First is the presentation of the lost Rider souls to Mother
Earth atop a funeral pyre. Because there are so many, they will be
burned as one.

The soggy ground squishes under my boots as I
shift from side to side, uncomfortable. Not so long ago I wore my
grief on my arms, which covered my face, on my cheeks, which were
wet with tears, in my curled up body, which was wracked with sobs
of hurt and longing. My grief was a luxury I no longer have
available.

My father’s sniffs and sobs are enough for
the both of us, as he stands at my side, allowing the other Men of
Wisdom to conduct the ceremony. He tries to put his arm around me
but I shrug him off.

My mother was a great warrior.

The names are called and I wait, blinking
with each one. Remy is at his father’s side, thankfully tear-free
now. He glances at me a few times, but I pretend not to notice
until Aria’s name is called.

A shot of warmth plumes in my chest when I
see his reaction. He’s stoic. Although, like me, he blinks, but his
face is free of emotion, his eyes dry, his arms hanging loosely at
his sides.

A Rider must be stronger, more careful
with their words and actions, a model of control of body and
mind.
Even from atop the burning pile of the dead, my mother
speaks to me. I notice Remy’s head cock to the side, as if he hears
her too.

When he looks at me, there’s understanding in
his expression.

And yet I can’t forgive him. Not when he
stayed my hand when it was raised to strike down the Soaker officer
boy, the one from my father’s vision. The act that might have
changed everything.

When Remy nods at me I look away.

My mother’s name is called and I shut my ears
to my father’s wails, clench my fists, and watch her burn with the
others, holding my breath to the charred odor of burning flesh.

When the names have all been called, I raise
my head to the sky with the others, watch the souls rise to meet
our Mother, to become the clouds that provide the water we drink,
the food for everything that grows.

And when I raise a fist in the air, I don’t
have to look to know that the other Riders are doing the same. My
brothers and sisters.

My calling.

At least my father got one thing right.

The horses of the fallen—at least those which
survived the battle—each receive a smack on the rump, and it’s like
they know. They know. Their whinnies and nays keen the air,
splitting it in half, and they run, free again, Riderless and
lost.

Shadow is the fastest horse of them all.

~~~

The second ceremony will include every young
Rider over thirteen years on this world. Although I’d like to think
I influenced Gard’s decision, the reality is that he had already
decided before I ever stepped foot in his tent with my demands.

We are beside the stables, as far from the
human ashes as possible. The entire camp, save for the Healers and
wounded, are here, waiting for Gard to speak. Hundreds of men and
women and children. The night is unusually warm, as if the earlier
bonfire has been infused into the air. Smoke curls above the camp,
as if transporting the final lingering souls to the clouds.