“You’ve falsely accused my son and now you want to stay on the Mayhem?” my father says.
“One week,” Hobbs says. “That’s all I ask.”
My father sighs, looks at me. “Do you object?”
Aye! I want to scream. But to do so would be to admit guilt. And I have nothing to hide, right? Just because Jade and I have formed a friendship doesn’t mean I’ve done anything wrong. I shake my head.
“Very well, Hobbs. You stay,” the admiral says.
“Thank you, sir, you won’t be sor—”
“But if you throw any more wild accusations at my son, I will not be so forgiving.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Hobbs says weakly.
“As for you…”—he turns to me—“is the bilge rat girl trained in sail repair?”
“Aye, but—”
“Good. Stay away from her. Let her do her job, so you can do yours.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” I say.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sadie
I have no one but me and my horse.
When I fetch Gard, Remy is there and I can tell he knows. He gives me a nod, but not a smile.
Gard carries my father back to the camp, sets him atop the funeral pyre, makes the arrangements. I just sit there, arms wrapped around my knees, numb. Paw’s death was because of me. Only one of us could be saved, and Mother Earth chose me. But why? Father said there’s an important choice I’ll have to make, but how can one newly proclaimed Rider change anything? And how can I live with myself knowing I blamed Father all these years when it was really my fault? Paw died so I could live. A life for a life. Father let me believe he was weak, a coward, so he could protect me from blaming myself.
I’m broken with shame, with wasted years and misplaced anger.
Although the rain has long passed, my cheeks are still wet from running through it, leaving my father’s body in that bare circle of dryness. None of the wetness is from tears. Not another shall fall. Not one single tear.
“Hi,” Remy says, snapping me out of my stupor and flopping down beside me.
I have the urge to look at him, but can’t because I’m afraid I’ll see myself in his eyes. Instead, eyes forward, I say, “How’s your horse? How’s Bolt?” A normal conversation, twisting and wrenching in my gut.
“Sadie…” he says softly.
“Please,” I say. “Please.” A favor for a promise. Don’t talk about my father and I’ll never be unkind to you again.
Remy kicks my foot and I’m glad for it, glad he does something that takes me back to when we first met, how many times we’ve fought and argued since. I kick him back.
“Bolt’s amazing,” he says. “Although he prefers to run straight ahead with his head down, as if he thinks he can charge through most anything. I’m trying to get him to turn now and again. So far I can get him to go right, but not left just yet.”
The laughter springs to my lips before I can stop it. I raise a hand to my mouth to silence it, but then it just comes out muffled. I’m looking at Remy before I can remember I’m not supposed to. When I look at him, somehow I don’t feel so alone.
“It’s not funny,” Remy says, but he’s smiling. “Do you know how hard it will be to fight the Soakers if my steed will only charge forward and to the right?”
Straight-faced, I say, “You know, turning right three times in a row will get you going left just fine.”
Now it’s Remy’s turn to laugh. “Rare wisdom from a young Rider,” he says. “I can see it now. My leftward enemy holds up his sword, dripping in Rider-blood, ready to cut me down. ‘Wait one minute, Bloodthirsty-Soaker, while I force my horse to turn three times to the right so I can look you in the eye before we do battle.”
A crowd is gathering, but I pretend they’re not there and that they’re not watching me talk and laugh, like it’s any other day, any other funeral. Like their whispers of “Isn’t it sad?” and “Both parents so close together…” are about someone else.
“We should stand,” I say, but Remy shakes his head.
“Not yet,” he says. “How’s Passion? Any problems turning her to the left?”
“She’s…” A dozen words spring to mind—perfect, incredible, majestic, and on and on—but none of them do her justice. None of them sum up what I really think of her. “She’s everything,” I finally say, and it’s true on so many different levels, especially now that father is...
He smiles. “I’d feel the same about Bolt if not for the no-left-turn thing. So for now he’ll have to be almost everything.”
I smile but this time it’s not a real smile, because I know…
It’s time.
I stand, hating funerals. Hating this funeral.
My knees are weak, trembling, so I squeeze my leg muscles tight to keep them still.
Gard stands at the front of the crowd, partially obscuring my father’s body, which lies behind him on the pyre. He will likely call many of the Men of Wisdom to speak of my father’s talents, of his visions, of his wisdom. Of his life.
“I could speak for hours of the goodness of the man we’ve lost today, but what I would have to say would be but a tip of the spear of what another can say. Sadie, will you come forward?”
My heart races. Me? Even at my mother’s funeral I wasn’t asked to speak. How can he expect me to say anything when the pain is still so near, hiding just below the surface of my skin, ready to pour out like beads of sweat. The damn tears well up again and I grit my teeth to keep them from spilling. Never again.
A hand on my back pushes me forward. “It’s okay,” Remy says.
I almost turn on him, tell him it’s not okay, will never be okay, but instead I just flash him a glare and walk stiffly toward the front. When I reach him, Gard leans down to whisper in my ear. “Your father was a great man,” he says.
I nod. Take a deep breath. Let my eyes linger on my father for a long moment. Turn around to face the people.
“I—I…” Good start. Words have never been my thing. Fists and feet and action and speed: those are my things. I start again, feeling the words line up in my head like they never have before, as if my father—a man who always had the right words—is guiding me. “I know my father was a great man,” I say. “No one has to tell me that. Not ever again. So when you offer me your condolences, please tell me stories of him as he was, of the things he did that will hold fast in your memories for years and years to come.” I pause, search my soul for what’s been there all along, how I feel. Not the obvious feelings, like sadness and anger and fear, but for something more—the feelings behind the feelings.
“I feel…no…I am lucky to have been born to my parents,” I say, holding back an entire ocean of tears, pausing after each sentence to compose myself. “They were the perfect combination of wisdom and strength.” Pause. “Only what I never knew until just today, was that I was wrong about that.” Swallow. “They were both full of wisdom, both full of strength. More so than I’ll ever be. Mourn not for me, but for the loss of my father, for today the world has given back someone who cannot be replaced. I love you, Father,” I finish, and it’s all I can do to get the last word out before it’s all too much.
I step down quickly, avoiding eye contact with everyone until I return to Remy’s side. Gard moves forward, torch in hand. “We send your soul to Mother Earth!” he says, lighting the wood at the base of the pyre.
As red and orange flames climb the pile, Remy holds my hand and I hold back, wondering how I’ll ever let go.
~~~
Passion lets me rub her nose longer than usual. Normally she grows restless after a few passes of my hand, pawing and shaking her head, but today she allows me to stand for a long while, stroking the white butterfly between her ears.
“He’d want us to be happy,” I say to her. “They both would.”