“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.
“Your mother was a hard woman. Disobedient. Like that bilge rat girl of yours. You need someone who will do as they’re told, obey you, support you in all things.”
“Don’t speak ill of my mother, or Jade,” I say, feeling a sudden urge to lash out, to hit him, regardless of the consequences. I hold my hands firmly against my hips, shocked at my own impulses. I’ve never had thoughts like these before. I’m changing…
But why? And do I want to?
I look away from him, wishing he’d disappear.
His hand is on my throat in an instant, squeezing hard enough to make breathing difficult, but not enough to cut it off entirely. “From this point on, you will do as you’re told. Until I die, I’m still the admiral of this fleet and your commander. You will whip that girl, you will leave this ship, and you will take a wife from ice country.”
He throws me to the deck and stomps away, leaving me gasping and clutching at my neck, just as the sky begins to turn pink on the horizon.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sadie
Although I think we all trust the foreigners—probably more than we should—they remain tied in the tent as a matter of prudence, and so they don’t frighten the rest of the camp. Only Riders are permitted to see them. When the time comes to fight, they’ll be fitted with weapons and, only then, set free.
I don’t know quite how I feel about it, but I’m not dissatisfied with the result. Not when their appearance has finally set in motion the future predicted by my father. My future, my destiny—one that will give me the opportunity for vengeance.
Preparing for war isn’t difficult or time consuming, not when you’ve waged war your entire life. The horses are armored with thick skins. Swords and knives are sharpened. Extra food rations are allotted to each Rider.
But are the new Rider’s ready? Are the horses ready? Will Passion and Bolt and the other new horses run toward violence when it’s asked of them? Or will they run away, back toward safety?
We won’t truly know until the time comes, when death stares us in the face in the form of the sword-wielding Soakers. We can only hope the limited training has been enough and that Mother Earth will protect us.