“Son.” There was no warmth in his address. If it weren’t for the word he used, one wouldn’t assume any relation between the two at all. And yet, there they were, Coss bowing slightly in submission, as if his father’s gaze was lecture enough. But it wasn’t enough, not for a Rakor. The water pulsed in and out in bullet-like movements as Morfal used his own tribe’s sacred signal.
Of course, Gryshen couldn’t decipher what he was saying, but no real translation was necessary.
Coss lifted his gaze at one particular burst, eyes widening, meek no more. Fluid spears now shot between the pair, their tones sometimes audible, sometimes out of range for Gryshen’s untrained ears.
Their faces seemed to come as close as hers and Coss’s had just before they shared a kiss. It would have been a little funny if it weren’t for the rattle of whistles, grunts, and . . . blood?
It took a moment for her to realize that Morfal had just slammed his palm against his son’s mouth. The chief let that be his goodbye as he swam away.
Before Gryshen could think, Coss had grabbed her hand, pulling her farther down the quiet corridor.
“Are you okay? He hit you! I can’t believe your father—”
“You can’t?” Coss asked.
“Well, I guess I can. But, are you—I just—you’re bleeding.” She reached out to look at his lip.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“What did he say? What did your father say about us?”
“That doesn’t matter either. Not to me, at least.” His hands now felt warm as they wrapped around her thin face.
“It doesn’t matter to me, either.”
“Marry me.”
“What?”
“Will you bind with me, Gryshen?”
“Are you serious?”
“Look, I don’t care what my father thinks, you don’t care what he thinks, and I know your father wants you to step into your role as leader. I love you. I believe that you love me. We’ll both have more power in our tribes if we’re married. We’ll have more respect, be able to make more decisions. We’ll unite the tribes in peace! Finally.” His hands seemed to almost burn.
“I think I’m ready,” she said.
“I know I am,” said Coss.
And again, they kissed, tying up their secret. It was a secret she would tell her father when the time was right. Maybe he’ll be relieved. The thought comforted her. Maybe he would see the power, the strength in her move. The leader. Finally, she was stepping into her place. She didn’t need more guidance, and she didn’t need the instructions from her mother’s grave that never came. She just needed to keep hold of these twisting fingers that curled around hers. It was more than a long trip to the oxygen chamber, this rush. It burned and it burned in this coldest of cold places.
Now she floated like a steady ship, like the ones that flanked the bone pit. The instruments in her mind whirred, knitting together a plan. Coss was right, of course; a union unites. Still, this was hardly on her radar. Gryshen hadn’t exactly considered the possibility of being a bride, not this young. Her own mother was a dozen seasons older when she bound with her father. But with Coss, there was no question for her to ask; she knew she had to. She had to lock herself into this. Her only fear was that he might change his mind.
The ugly idea crossed her thoughts in the time that followed, but every moment she spotted him staring into her at the hub, or in a corridor, it swam away.
She wouldn’t tell her father. Not yet. Morfal had gone from enraged back to cold indifference, as if he hoped that by ignoring it, this little “problem” might go away. Coss had not told him of their plan, of course. No one knew.
Gryshen could keep a secret, and she loved keeping them with him.
Her father and Morfal had spent another morning discussing technicalities of territories surrounding the channels that stretched between the Rone and the Rakor’s tropical home, another morning in which she and Coss tried their best to not look too long at each other in front of the chieftains, when her father asked her to stay behind before they rejoined for lunch.
Morfal, Coss, and finally Bravis filed out of the room.
“I’ve sent for your brother,” Frall signaled as they waited in his chamber.
“What are we doing?” Gryshen asked, now wondering if her father had grown suspicious. Perhaps Morfal had said something.
Jode swam in. “Yeah?”
Frall studied the both of them. “Have you ever heard of tea?”
“What?” Jode asked, while Gryshen just stared.
“Tea. Have you heard of it? You know, from this?” He untied one of the nets that hung on his walls and fished out a pot. Gryshen recognized it. It was a teapot. It held lava sand beneath its lid. The stuff was hard to find, but when you got it, you used it. Sparingly.
He smiled at Gryshen. “You remember when this was rubbed into a maker’s fin after he was stung so badly?”
That’s exactly what she recognized it from. The maker was a lampworker, and it was a risk of the profession, but his attack was especially brutal. It was as if all the jellyfish had conspired against him. The iloray still bore some scars, but when the healers applied the lava sand to his wounds, they probably saved his life with the poison they drew out.
“I’ve seen that used before, after that coastal hunt a few years back. With the stingray. But why do you have it, Dad?” Jode asked. “I thought only shamans kept that kind of potion.”
Frall grinned. “Well, I am the chief. And if you hadn’t noticed, I’m not the shark I once was.” Any attempts at humor surrounding his illness were always wasted on his children. “So Apocay set me up with some. A small sting to you could be . . . a little worse for me. But you know this has other properties.” Frall held the sunshine-colored ceramic pot in his thinning fingers. He grasped the handle with one hand, and began to pour a little of the potent granules out of the pot.
Flecks of glittering back swirled in a tiny cloud, and their father leaned into it, whispering, “Jode.”
It was as if the bits of sand were slowly pulled into a straggled formation.
“Can you see it?” he asked them.
“See what?” asked Jode, but Gryshen saw immediately.
“The spearhead,” Frall said.
The sand had formed the shape of a triangle pointing skyward.
“Warrior,” Gryshen quietly signaled. She now realized they had all been speaking in their native code.
Was that how their father had called them in? No one was around. What was he concerned about?
“Cool.” Jode reached out to touch it, but as he did, the particles of sand scattered into the current.
“But I thought I had to go through my paces first,” Jode signaled. “I thought that was the only way you could find out what you’re made of.” Not that it wasn’t obvious to anyone who’d ever met Jode what he was.
“Oh, this is just a good guess, what you get from working with lava sand. It’s not always accurate. But usually, the sand seems to get it right, if you know how to use it,” Frall said.
“What about Grysh?” Jode asked. Gryshen hadn’t bothered, because she knew. At least with Coss by her side, being a leader wouldn’t be so painful. Coss. She let herself drift into the warm thought of him momentarily.
Frall paused and looked over at his daughter. “Would you like to see, Gryshie?” he asked, already pouring out more from the teapot. He blew gently into the granules, murmuring her name just as he had her brother’s.
The tiny bits of sand spread and swirled.
And washed away.
“Wait, what was that?” Gryshen asked, trying to catch a glimpse of some shape, some hint as they separated and drifted.