“True. But even Jode manages to be an incredible hunter.”
“Jode is very unique. Like you.”
“You mean he’s unique, and I’m . . . a little broken.”
“What are you talking about?” Her father was sharp, and his anger almost made him look healthy, so much so that Gryshen was tempted to say something to stir it again, but when she thought of the rest he needed, she thought better of it.
“Nothing, Dad. Just that it sometimes gets to me, my lung thing.”
Her father put his hands on her shoulders and spoke with his usual tenderness. “It only requires an adjustment, Gryshie. Little tweaks. You must make it a priority to stay fueled. No one would know the difference. You can swim just as fast as anybody else.”
“Why am I supposed to hide it then?” Her question startled him, and herself a little. She didn’t know that it was waiting there.
“You—you don’t have to hide it,” he signaled a bit defensively. “It’s simply that it’s nobody’s business but your family’s. That’s all. No one knew I was ill until they had to know.”
Gryshen nodded, then thought of another question that had been sitting back behind that one, but she didn’t dare ask. She’d upset her father too much. Another time.
And with the realization that she was running out of “another times” with her father, she felt the sting of ink in her eyes and turned her head quickly to hide it.
“Okay, Dad, well . . . I know you’re expecting Apocay, and—”
“And you have somewhere to be.” He gave a small smile, tilting his head in the direction of the nearest air chamber.
Gryshen obeyed, and the minute the oxygen hit her lungs, she felt wrapped in a comfort that had been missing for hours.
And in the days that followed, Gryshen tried to heed Frall’s warnings.
She made it a point to frequent the air chamber much more often than was even necessary, mainly to keep him from worrying. It was a small gesture she could make to seem up to the task of leading. Of course, she was dubious about proving her ability, since not only was she certain she didn’t have it, she was even more certain that if she swept confidently into a leadership position, her father might mistake it for permission to die.
Gryshen also strived to remain civil with Morfal, and polite with Coss—the latter proving more difficult than the former. She could fake her way around dealing with the cold chieftain, but his son . . . there was now an unspoken intimacy that threatened to unravel her if she was around him for too long. Mother forbid she wind up alone with him again—she had no idea how she could handle it.
They shared meals with the royal groups, or in the evening with their pod in the hub. Coss remained consistently warm, as if he was completely unfazed by what had transpired between them. Sometimes she would catch that glow in his eyes, but turn away quickly as if he were a mythological monster that could transform her. Only instead of stone, that look threatened to peel everything back and reveal her innermost feelings.
She pretended not to notice or care when the leens of her tribe flirted with him. Unlike Jode, he didn’t seem to appreciate Rone’s most eligible and beautiful ceasids offering him food from their hands at feasts, showing off treasures they’d recovered from sinkings, or demonstrating their often-questionable singing abilities. It wasn’t that it bothered him; he just didn’t seem to care. And this pleased Gryshen more than she’d admit.
When she was around him for too long, she practiced excusing herself, rushing away in a similar tone to the way she did when she was moving to the air chamber for a draw of oxygen.
Gryshen often found herself on her shore, on the rocks and bricks of ice that jutted out and sheltered her from view. The larger building was the only thing in sight sometimes, but when she felt bolder, she’d heave herself up higher on flat sheets of rock to soak in the rare sunlight, and when she did this, she could see the tiny stone cottage that lay directly behind it.
On these stark winter days, the lady did not come out as much. Gryshen might glimpse her walking with the old man into the wood structure, a group following not far behind. When the warm season was upon them, she could see the lady hanging her laundry on a line, or picking wildflowers. In both freeze and thaw times, in rougher weather or clear skies, she would hide behind the largest rock and watch the lady staring out to sea. Sometimes the woman would shade her eyes from the sun and peer intently; other times it seemed like she was just absentmindedly watching the water. There was only a small dock on this edge of land, and boats rarely came to it. Gryshen would turn to look in the direction of the woman’s gaze and wonder what it was she saw. The humans here seemed nonthreatening, peaceful . . . a small village on an icy land.
But Gryshen was careful, always careful.
She had known that humans feared what they did not understand, that landkeepers had forgotten what the ceasids always knew: That they were brothers, cousins, maybe even twins, so long ago. That in the beginning one chose to stay in the water while the other explored on land.
When it came to landkeepers, there was always a deep sense of mistrust. The old tale suggested that it was because of the memory of long-ago treachery that sat deep within an iloray’s bones, that the landkeepers could never really be trusted.
But Gryshen had never actually known one . . . all she knew was what she could glimpse of the old man, the woman drying her clothes, and the groups that huddled into the old worship house.
For her, there wasn’t really anywhere that was perfectly safe. Between her passing father, the descending crown, her growing feelings for Coss, and the stretch of shore that sat dangerously close to the humans, sanctuary was tricky to come by.
Chapter 5
Restraining her emotions whenever a certain iloray was around had become a necessary challenge.
It had been about seven sleeps since the Rakor first descended upon them, and Coss was only becoming more interesting. When she was asked to accompany them to a meeting in the following days, she did her best to avoid his gaze, did her best to keep herself contained during some incredibly dull discussions on territory history, interpod history, and laws of tribal goodwill, that were only livened up by threatening innuendo and barely veiled power grabs from Morfal.
It was after a midday meal that Coss asked for her help.
“I’ve seen all within your home, but I have yet to really explore around it,” he signaled as she trailed a crew of ilorays leaving an air chamber.
“But you joined Jode on his last hunting expedition.” Gryshen was not going to be swayed. She was grateful to be freshly filled with oxygen. It helped her feel less woozy around him.
“Yes, but that was hunting. We were focused on the kill. I would just like to spend more time focused on . . . other things.”
Gryshen felt her pale ash cheeks fill with a purple hue, the blood drawing from everywhere in her body. She looked away for as long as she could without appearing obvious.
“Well, let me see if Sodaren is available to take you on a ride.” She signaled louder than she meant to, attracting the attention of the others swimming ahead.
“Gryshen, please. Let us show proper hospitality! Take our guest for a ride.” Her father nodded at her.
Gryshen knew Frall was trusting her, and she would not fail him.
The water was smooth and clear, as if Coss had made it so for their travels.