By the light of the torches, the harpoon wound could be generously described as a fissure. It looked identical to Jode’s fish hook tear from one of his many entanglements. And the story sounded an awful lot like a very dressed-up version of what had happened to one of the elders of her pod. Only, that lax was missing three-quarters of his fin, and had swum with an odd tilt since anyone could remember. And he preferred not to get into much detail about his misadventure, as the memory was truly painful.
But Gryshen often thought of a grandmother’s suggestion that the landkeeper was much like the shark: often unsure, and not wanting to harm unless threatened. It was the consensus that humans were best avoided, and earthly exploration best left to the wise ones of the tribes, for they knew of the safest, most private lands.
Gryshen was again yanked from her reverie when Bravis, rather scoldingly, kept repeating her name. “Gryshen. Gryshen!”
“Yes, Bravis?” she said, trying to sound casual. Trying to sound as if she hadn’t been lost in thought when she was supposed to be focusing.
“You don’t get it, do you?” He shook his head. “I’ve been giving you a concise history on crucial battle over territory, threats narrowly averted against our pearl, things a chieftainess must know. Am I boring you? Do you think I just like to hear myself talk?”
Perhaps. Gryshen kept this thought to herself. “Sorry,” she signaled quietly.
“I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to care. This is your life. This is about our pod’s very survival.”
Behind his frustration, she saw the worry. Ah. The exasperation masked his fear. He wore it like a veil. Bravis looked guilty, and softened.
“Grysh”—he never called her this—“I know that losing your dad and gaining a queenship and the responsibility of our pod is a terrible burden to bear. You know that your dad’s been like a father to me.” His own parents had died in a beast attack when he was small. Bravis never spoke of them. He had to grow up almost as soon as he was born.
Gryshen felt for him. And then the rattling in her lungs shifted to a scraping sensation. She needed air.
“Let’s go,” Bravis signaled, recognition in his face, “You’re long overdue for a breath.” As he finished locking up the door to the pearl’s keeping, they swam out of the chamber, the guards once again flanking. On they went past the seemingly endless rows of guards. They both remained silent, until Frall passed them, wearing the same tired expression.
“Dad? Are you . . . where are you going?”
“To get some rest, I hope,” Bravis signaled, and Gryshen couldn’t help but agree.
“Yes, yes.” Frall smile couldn’t cover the exhaustion that seemed to hang on him no matter how much sleep he got. “Just a little more rest.” And despite the shun’s erosion, his silvery tail flicked merrily, his silver hair blooming down his back as he swam away.
The winged seraphs collected from ship prows smiled sweetly upon them as they entered the mouth of Breathing Chamber Number Three. There were five laid out in the pod’s cavern; otherwise, it was easy once outside the cave to swim up for air. They were a triumph of the makers, these oxygen contraptions, marrying form and function. Each chamber was slightly different, using pipes in varying sizes, an array of gears, bellies of ship stoves, and brass tubes from old ship kitchens. Each breathing chamber contained four or five oxygen tubes. These configurations quickly speckled, green with algae and rust, and had to be periodically replaced with other salvaged pieces. The individual spouts connected to arms that reached into a large metal stomach, which was topped with a wide cylinder that stretched up to the surface of the water. A lid with a tightly woven hinge rested on the cylinder like a flat cap several feet above the sea. A steering wheel from a ship sat at the entrance to the room, which allowed the whole piece to be mechanically lowered to avoid being spotted or hit by the occasional passing ocean vessel. Smaller gears sat next to the mouthpieces, allowing ceasids to open the lid at sky level, as well as pump out water that had seeped into the metal belly.
It was a gathering place, a chance to catch up with the tribe during the day. At night they could store an abundance of oxygen in their bodies for sleeping. Come morning, these chambers were often packed, sometimes with lines to breathe. Gryshen preferred to time it so she didn’t have to encounter too many others. She was never there for conversation.
Now it was a trickle of ilorays, a couple of mothers and their babes. They spotted Gryshen and Bravis, and the mothers exchanged a knowing look, shooing their young away from the entrance to the air pipes in the back. Gryshen pretended not to notice. Somewhere along the way, other ceasids in their pod had become aware of her more urgent need for oxygen.
They don’t have to look at me like a specimen. She couldn’t completely shut out the curious glances. She had struggled, waited too long for a sip in an air chamber, only a handful of times in her whole life. It was usually away from the crowd, but secrets were hard to keep in the cavern. Every other iloray she knew could comfortably go with one visit to the breathing chambers upon waking, perhaps another visit mid-day, and once more before sleep. Ceasids breathed in the water through the small gills that rested on the sides of their throats, fresh air from above being a small part of their survival. Gryshen could never be sure if it was her unique problem, or something else that kept her at a distance from so many in Rone.
Bravis offered the onlookers a polite nod, and, getting the hint, they finished their breaths and swam out. Gryshen hadn’t wanted them to see her hungrily reach for a brass tube, the sting in her chest more pronounced, the air cooling it as she drank the salt-laced oxygen, propelling out the excess water, drinking clean breaths. Bravis drank the air, too, though Gryshen suspected it was only for her benefit. He always did things like that.
They made their way back to the central hub, where they found Jode surrounded by a gang of friends and gawking, adoring ilorays. Their glances passed over her and Bravis, and returned to the source of entertainment. Gryshen drifted slightly back from the crowd, as usual.
Jode was interrupting his story about his last hunt with his own laughter. Her brother had the same jet-black hair and fair skin as Gryshen’s—only where her flesh was grayer, his had a little pink to its tone. A bit more life to it. His eyes were a bright blue with a smile tucked inside them, as if Jode was constantly retelling a private joke in his head. Gryshen loved his sense of humor, loved how light he was . . . except for this moment. In this moment, she resented him. Life would always be easy for the young prince. All the fun of royalty with none of the burden. He didn’t even know how bad Dad’s condition was. Dad had always coddled him, and she didn’t want to be the one to break the news.
“Look what I brought back for my favorite sister!” He was beaming at her while he held a perfectly braided ring of fish bones. “I claimed these from a carcass. Cleaned it and wove them on the way back. Thought it’d be a pretty nice crown, huh?” His ear-to-ear grin answered his own question. The older laxes hoisted their nets on their backs, boasting about their catches of octopus, manta ray, and swordfish; the younger ones held nets full of crab and shrimp. Off they swam into the bleeding chamber to clean their catch. Gryshen shuddered. She preferred to avoid the blood room, especially when they cleaned their hunt. It was so, well, bloody.