“Stop,” I say, cutting him off. I have no idea what he’s rambling on about, but it sounds honest, like he’s ashamed of some things and proud of others, but all in all it doesn’t sound too good. Killing people, hurting people, saving people. A lot of stuff about Heaters. “Do you deserve to die?” Why am I asking him? Why am I delaying what I know I have to do?
The boy stares at me with huge eyes. “I—I…” The stutter is back. Him thinking, taking the question seriously. “I…maybe. I don’t know. Maybe.”
His answer surprises me. He sssaysss kill him, ssso kill him. Do it. Do it. DO IT!
I see Paw’s face, so innocent, so much potential. He beckons to me to save him. But the admiral’s son would’ve been only a small child, or maybe not even born, when Paw was killed.
And Mother. It was the Icer guards that killed her, although she never would’ve ridden to ice country if not for the sins of the Soakers. But was this boy really involved in all that? Doubtful. Is he really the one to blame? The one to kill to bring me peace?
Yesss.
“You can kill me,” the Soaker boy says, surprising me once more. “But please, let me see her one more time, let me touch her, let me tell her how sorry I am. For everything.” Suddenly, as young as Lieutenant Jones looks, he’s no longer a scared boy to me, but a man, his words filled with fire and truth. And goodness. I don’t want them to be—want to hate every last thing about him, but I can’t.
Nooo! He tricksss you! The Sssoaker tricksss you!
killkillkillkill
I grip my sword tighter, heat rolling through my knuckles.
killkillkill
Strength roars through me. Enough strength to cut clean through him, to end him.
killkillkill
But it’s not me, it’s not me, it’s…notmenotmenotmenotmenotme…is it? Paw’s face. Mother’s face. Father’s face….Father! His face, his calm demeanor, his words—yes, his words.
Our existence is not all about killing Soakers…the more important choice is not when to take a life, but when to spare one…your choice and your choice alone…it will change everything.
But no, it’s not my choice. The Evil, whatever it is, has taken over, is controlling me. Its lust for blood must be satisfied.
Yesss!
No! It is my choice. You are not my master. You are not me.
That’s when I realize.
I realize.
The. Evil. Is. Me.
It has been all along, my lust for revenge, a hot desire to bring someone—anyone—to justice for the death of my family. My choice and mine alone. Not the forest, not some mythical Evil forcing me to perform horrible acts. An excuse to make bad decisions. A scapegoat for my own anger.
Me.
KILL!
“No!” I scream, startling the boy, making him jump back, his hands shooting to his neck as if he expects to have to hold it together because I’ve stabbed him. But I haven’t.
You will never find peace, the Evil says.
“I already have,” I say.
The Evil spits and screams and fades…fades…fades…away, until it’s gone. And I know it’s gone forever.
I turn Passion and ride back toward the battle, determined to help end it.
Huck
What was that?
Jade’s face was flashing over and over and over in my mind, and I knew it was because I was going to die, and all I wanted was to see her before I did. But then…
Then the Stormer Rider turned away. She spared me.
My hands return to the boat, and all I want to do is push off, to paddle back to the Mayhem and make sure she’s okay.
Something stops me. A feeling. Guilt mixed with strength mixed with anger. Someone has to end this, and it might as well be me.
I run—no, sprint—up the beach, chasing after the Stormer Rider girl. Beyond her the battle rages fiercer than ever. Riders, on horse and on foot, battle seamen and officers alike, cutting, slashing, ending each other’s lives.
My father is locked in a one-on-one battle against the Stormer war leader. He’s outmatched, but his red-faced, deep-lined hatred is making up the difference. So much hatred.
Enough for all of us.
Enough to fill the world.
Enough!
The Stormer leader pushes Father back, seems to have him right where he wants him, and then he—
—I can’t believe it but he—
—he stumbles, loses his balance, falls.
My father springs at him and the war leader barely manages to block his attack from his knees, raising his sword.
Enough!
I make right for my father—who continues to slash at the fallen Stormer leader—from behind, and he doesn’t see me coming. I’m almost positive Gard sees me, but he doesn’t give my presence away with his eyes, just continues to protect himself from my father’s slashing sword.
I’ve got him in my sights, closer, closer, closer, on silent feet. I close my eyes and—
—lower my head, flexing every muscle in my body in preparation for the impact, and—
—crash into the backs of his knees, sweeping him off his feet, only then opening my eyes to find my arms wrapped around his legs, his body flush with the drenched sand.
His sword scattered off to the side.
And Gard’s sword at his neck.
Father’s face is awash with the paleness of surprise, just a flicker as he stares at me in bewilderment. But the flash is gone in an instant, replaced by an anger so red and so fierce I wonder if his head will explode. He spits in my face, but he has so little moisture in his mouth that I can’t feel it amidst the rainfall. “You’re no son of mine,” he says.
“If only that were true, Father,” I say. “If only.”
I stand, turn toward the remains of the battle, which is finally winding down, with most warriors on both sides exhausted, injured, shooting glances in our direction, trying to figure out what’s happened, which leader won the day.
“STOP!” I scream.
Any heads that were facing away from me turn, the Soaker girl who saved my life included. Her eyebrows lift in surprise, as if I’m the last person she expected to see back up on the beach.
“Stop,” I say more calmly. “Enough. Admiral Jones is defeated. We must fight no more. The time for war is over. He”—I point at my father—“is to blame.”
My father goes to say something, but Gard warns him off by poking him in the skin, drawing a trickle of blood.
“He’s lied to us all,” I say, my voice gaining strength with each honest word. “He created our hatred for the Stormers, because he lives for violence, for control, for war. When really it’s him and him alone that has brought us here. He trades bags of dried seaweed for the children of fire country, only to force them into battle, only to be slaughtered by his own men. You should be ashamed of yourselves. We all should.”
There’s silence, and then a laugh.
My head twists back to my father, whose entire body is convulsing with laughter, oblivious to his neck bouncing against Gard’s sword, which continues to slice into him, spilling blood from ragged breaks in his skin.
He looks completely mad.
“Shut it or you die,” Gard says.
“No,” I say. “Let him speak.” Gard’s eyes bore into me, but then he pulls the tip of his blade back an inch.
My father’s laughter fades. “So what?” he says. “So what if I live for this—for all of this? So what if I get my slaves for worthless bags of sea plants? So what? It’s my life, I’ll do what I want.”