Water & Storm Country (30 page)

“No,” Dazz says quickly. And then, “Well,
yes, but not because we wanted to. The Riders were fighting the
castle guards; we were only trying to get to the king, to get to my
sister. We only fought those who tried to stop us. There were
Riders who mistook us for their enemies.”

Cold fingers run along the back of my neck.
He might’ve been the very Icer who killed your mother
, the
Evil says.
Honor her! AVENGE HER!

I once more raise my sword, which had fallen
loosely to my side, to his throat. “Did you kill any of them?”

“I—I don’t know,” Dazz says. “Maybe. I can’t
be sure. We were protecting ourselves.”

“Sadie,” Gard says. “I was there. It was
chaos, Icer guardsmen streaming from every nook and cranny in the
castle. It’s very unlikely any of these ones had anything to do
with your mother’s death.”

My fingers are sore from their firm grip on
my sword. My teeth begin to ache from the grinding. I shake the
Evil off my back, drop my sword once more. I know Gard’s right.

“Your mother was a Rider?” the skinny girl
says.

“Yes,” I say. “She died from wounds inflicted
during the raid on Goff’s castle.”

“I’m…sorry,” she says. “So searin’ sorry.”
It’s not an empty apology—there’s real sadness behind it—and I
remember her saying how her mother died from the Plague.

“What now?” Feve growls. “Must I die? Because
the anticipation is killing me.” His tone doesn’t match his words
and I realize he’s being sarcastic. This is not a man who fears
death.

“You killed our guards. They had families.”
Gard’s words are unforgiving.

“He didn’t want to,” Dazz says. “We just
wanted to talk to you.”

“I am not a tyrant,” Gard says. “I know your
experiences with tribe leaders have been…
severe
…but I’m not
like them. What would you have me do?”

I’m surprised he’s asking for suggestions
from his prisoners. I’m about to object when the unmarked Heater
guy says, “A life for a life is the only choice. But not Feve’s
life. The lives of the Soakers. They’re the ones who deserve to be
punished, who have brought terror and sadness upon all of us. We
will stand with you and risk our lives alongside you; we will fight
with you.”

My heart races as I watch Gard absorb the
offer. What will he do? My father’s prophecies roar through me.

There will be a great battle with the
Soakers.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Gard says.

You will fight magnificently, maybe more so
than your mother.

“I believe that you’ve been through a lot,
that you’ve been harmed by the Soakers as much as we have.”

You will see him, the high-ranking Soaker
boy in the blue uniform.

“And you shall fight, for war is upon
us.”

You will kill him
, the voice says, but
this time it’s not the memory of my father’s words. It’s the
whispered shadow-voice in my ear. The Evil has spoken.

I
awake to a foot on
my chest, pushing the air out of my lungs. I can’t breathe—I
can’t.

I gasp, clawing at the foot, feeling only
dead air and embarrassment.

No one’s there.

I expel a hot and angry breath, rolling over
onto my stomach. I pound the pillow, once, twice, three times.

Darkness pours through the portal window,
which makes me sigh with relief. Light means day. Day means
punishment.

Can I do it?

Can I really do it?

There will be no blood in the water, for
which I am thankful, but there
will
be blood; reflected in
my eyes with each snap of my wrist.

I rise to my feet, ignoring my boots lying on
their side on the floor and my uniform hanging neatly on the wall.
Tonight I’m ashamed to be Lieutenant Jones, not for my past
actions, but for my future ones.

Hastily, I exit and climb the stairs. The
ship is asleep, its monstrous belly rising and falling on the Deep
Blue’s breaths. Starlight rains down upon me, the beauty of which
is only dwarfed by the full moon that hangs big and bright and low
in the sky, casting a white pathway across the dark ocean, all the
way to the land, which unrolls itself to the edge of the
forest.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t see her, not
when I’ll have to hurt her in just a few hours. But like Soakers to
the sea, I’m drawn to her, as if my every step toward her is as
vital as breathing, as drinking fresh water, as the very beating of
my shadowed heart, which cries bloody tears.

Be strong. Be strong for her.

Chained to one of the lesser, unbroken masts,
she watches me descend to the main deck, her eyes as wide and awake
as mine. Despite the situation, the memory of the first time I saw
her springs to mind—her glare, the anger rising off of her in
waves, almost taking physical form. Unwanted laughter bubbles from
my throat, defeated only when I clamp my jaw tight, allowing only
an animal groan to escape my lips.

The look she gives me now almost seems
impossible considering where we’ve come from.

“I was hoping you would come,” she says,
sounding much older than she looks.

“How could I not?” I say.

“But I’m—I’m nothing.” Her words are
defeatist, but they don’t match the position of her chin, which is
held high. She doesn’t mean
nothing at all
, just
nothing
to the Soakers.
Nothing to my people.

“You’re something to me,” I say, but even
that sounds pitifully like nothing. “Not some
thing
,” I say,
“some
one
. Someone important. Someone that matters.”

“You risked your life,” she says. It’s not
the risk of dying on the storm-angry ocean waters that I think
she’s referring to, but my life as a Soaker, as a lieutenant, as a
somebody.

“All of that is nothing,” I say. That word
again: so absolute, so final. And yet…I mean it with every part of
my being.

“You can’t do this—not for me,” she says.

Do what? Then it hits me like a blast of icy
ocean water. Why I’m here. Why I awoke and came above. Not to see
her. Well, not
just
to see her. I’m here to run away with
her. The realization fills me with more emotions than I can
decipher in the moment. There’s exhilaration, a long-held desire
for adventure and for change that fills me to joy overflowing. But
the fear and the dread are every bit as powerful, grabbing my
heart, squeezing it so tightly I begin to worry it might burst,
leaving me shaking and useless on the wooden deck.

I drop to a knee, trying to catch my
breath.

“I have to,” I say after a few minutes of
silence and breathing. “I want to.”

“I won’t ask you to,” she says, lifting a
hand toward me, rattling her chain. She won’t ask me to throw my
life away. But would I be throwing it away or reclaiming it?

“You don’t have to,” I say, inching toward
her. I need to hold her hand, to draw strength from her seemingly
endless store.

She reaches for me, and I for her, my fingers
buzzing with excitement, a hair’s breadth from hers.

“Son?” my father says.

I jerk back, shuddering, clutching my hand to
my gut as if it’s been stung. I turn to face him, expecting the
worst.

Instead, he says only, “Walk with me.”

Everything in me wants to deny him, to cast
away the lifelong respect and admiration I’ve held for the man who
raised me, who taught me, who
groomed
me to be a leader, but
I can’t. His simple request holds power over me, cutting the
tethers that link me to Jade. I cast an apologetic glance back at
her as I fall into step beside the admiral. Her eyes are flat and
noncommittal.

Together, father and son, we climb the steps
to the quarterdeck. Silent, we walk to the bow, my father’s fingers
grazing the unused wheel as we pass.

He rests his hands on the railing when we
reach it, stretching his gaze out over the endless waters.
Naturally, I do the same, mimicking his movements, like I’ve always
done. When I realize it, I pull my hands away from the wooden
barrier, lean a hip into it, cross one leg over the other. Anything
to look different than him.

“I never had a chance to tell you that story
about your mother,” Father says, raising his chin slightly, the
ball in his neck bobbing.

“No,” I say, dragging out the word, wondering
whether I still want to hear what he has to say.

“You can’t be with a bilge rat,” he says,
changing the subject quickly and drastically.

I snap a look at him, but he doesn’t return
it. He knows. Maybe he’s known since Hobbs first accused me, and
yet…he hasn’t acted upon it—not yet anyway.

“I’m not who you think I am,” I say.

“You’re EXACTLY who I think you are,” my
father says, his tone and demeanor changing as quickly as the topic
of conversation. His shoulders are rising and falling with each
breath, the hard lines of his face quivering.

I say nothing, my skin cold and numb.

“I could’ve made you kill her, you know,” he
says after his breathing returns to normal. His tone is calm again,
controlled.

“You couldn’t have made me do it,” I say
before I can think better of it. But I’m glad for saying it. The
truth seems to scrape the numbness away, spreading warmth through
me.

“One way or another, I could end her,” he
says matter-of-factly.

“Why didn’t you?” I ask, slicing the night
with my words.

“Because I don’t want to lose you,” he says.
I stare at him, and even when he finally meets my eyes, I don’t try
to hide my surprise. “It’s true,” he continues. “I know I don’t
show it often, but I care about you. I want the best for you. And
the best is not her.”

His last words should anger me but they
don’t, because I’ve never seen this side of him—have never
felt
this side of him. Is it real?

“Then don’t make me punish her,” I say.

“Her crimes cannot go without repercussions,”
he says. “And you must be the one to do it, to send a message to
the men, to stamp out the rumors. And then you’ll be moved to
another ship, and you’ll never see her again. It’s for the best,
Son. You are the future of the Jones’ line of Soaker leadership. It
is your duty.”

No!

no!

no.

(no?)

Each time I think the word, more and more
doubt creeps into my mind, because my father believes in me now. He
trusts me to continue the Soaker tradition, to lead our people
someday. How can I deny him that? How can I deny him when I’ve
failed him in the worst way possible? And then I remember how our
conversation started.

“What did you want to tell me about Mother?”
I ask, shaking my head, because just speaking her name causes
images to flash in my mind: her panic-stricken face; my father’s
hardened, accusing stare; the swarming sharp-tooths.

The images are dispelled only when my father
speaks again. “Your mother’s death wasn’t exactly as you remember,”
he says.

I close my eyes, try to remember that night.
For once, when I actually want to, I can’t. I see only black,
spotted with the memory of twinkling stars.

“I saw everything,” my father says, which is
what scares me the most. He saw how I failed—he saw my weakness. I
almost can’t believe we’re talking about that night after so many
yars of pretending it never happened.

“She didn’t fall,” he says, and I realize
he’s in as much denial as I am.

“Father,” I say, unsure of what I’ll say
next.

But I never find out, because he rushes on.
“Your mother arrived early at the rail for a reason that night,
Son. And it wasn’t to meet you. At first she thought she wanted to
see you, to say her goodbyes, but in the end she didn’t have the
courage.”

My eyes flash open, searching for the truth
in my father’s eyes. Goodbyes? Courage?
It wasn’t to meet
you.
Then why…?

Something breaks inside me—a barrier or a
bone or my very heart. And I remember.

I remember.

(I don’t want to, but I do.)

Mother’s at the railing, not looking out over
the water like she normally does, but straight down, into the
depths of the Deep Blue. Her whole body seems tired, slumped, like
her skin’s hanging limply from her bones. She doesn’t hear me
coming. Doesn’t look back at me. There is no wave, no unexpected
lurch of the ship.

She swings a leg over the railing, and I know
exactly what’s happening. Despite my long-held childish beliefs
that everything’s going to be okay, that we’re a happy family, I
know deep in the throes of my soul that nothing’s okay. I’ve heard
the arguing, the fighting; I’ve seen the bruises and the welts, the
days when she can’t show her black-eyed face above deck.

Like in my memory, I run, but not to save my
mother from a tragic accident caused by a rogue wave and a random
loss of balance…but from herself.

She’s going to kill herself.

No, she does kill herself. And it’s not my
fault, not really, but still it is, because I’m too slow—so
pathetically slow—that when I reach her she’s already gone, into
the salt and the spray and the battling fins.

In my memories, I meet my father’s glare and
finally, I know. He’s not angry at me, but at her—at my mother. For
what?

“Father, why?” I say, still in the memory,
forcing a question at his narrowed eyes and tight lips.

But I’ve spoken it out loud in the present,
too, and my father grips my shoulder, chasing away the memory with
a squeeze. “She left us,” he says. “She left us both.”

And then I’m crying into his shoulder, crying
so hard it burns my eyes and strains at my muscles.

He suffers me for a while, his arm stiff and
uncomfortable around me, but finally says, “And that’s why you need
to take a wife from ice country.”

I stop crying suddenly, pull away from him.
“Mother’s death has nothing to do with who I marry,” I say, wiping
at my face with my sleeve.