(He would.)
He wouldn’t.
(He would.)
As if in response to my inner tug of war, a voice startles me from behind. “Lieutenant Jones,” he says.
I stare at the fins cutting circles in the ocean, take a deep breath. Wipe the drool off my lips with my shirt. Comb my dirty-blond locks away from my face. Turn to face him.
“Father,” I say, feeling horribly underdressed in my vomit-stained shirt and three-quarter-length britches. His pristine blue uniform gleams with metal medallions. So does his sword when he slides it shrieking from its scabbard.
I shrink back when he points the tip of the blade at me, but I have nowhere to go, my back pressed against the railing.
I can feel the sharp-tooths swarming below, hungry for the blood of another Jones. My mother wasn’t enough to satisfy their insatiable hunger.
Red flashes across my vision, and it’s not the clear crimson sky overhead. Blood in the water. So much blood.
“Admiral,” he corrects, but I can’t see him through the red. “Your assignment is in, Lieutenant. You’ll board the Sailors’ Mayhem shortly, just after we make landfall.”
The ship rolls on a particularly high, wide wave and I feel whatever I’ve got left coming back up, and it’s too late to turn, and I know I’m about to
(throw up in front of my father.)
but I can’t stop it now, and so then I do.
I throw up all over my father’s polished black boots.
I don’t feel any better though, because my mother’s blood is still in the water and I’m still leaving everything I’ve ever known to work on the Mayhem.
Chapter Six
Sadie
Drenched and cold and shaking in the stables, I feel much better.
I hold my knees to my sopping chest, my wet and stringy hair falling around me like a black veil.
The unceasing drumroll of the rain on the roof drowns out my thoughts.
Something about being near the horses calms me. The light stamp of their feet showing their agitation at the storm raging around them; their smell, musty and leathery and alive; their soft whinnies and snorts: all of it centers me, steadies me, like how driving a stake deep into the ground anchors a tent.
I remember Paw. No, not really remember him. More like the idea of him. The feeling of him. Even after all these years. Even after all that’s happened. Although in my memory his face is blurry now, as if smudged with dirt, my heart leaps when I think about how I looked up to him, how we ran around waving swords and practicing to be Riders even before we started our formal training. Paw never had the chance to train, but I know—I know—he would have been amazing.
Abruptly the chatter of the rain and the smell of the horses aren’t enough to soothe my rising temper. I slam my fist into the dirt, which is fast becoming sludge as a river of rainwater finds its way inside.
My father, a Man of Wisdom, ha! He wasn’t wise enough to know to save his own son from death. But even in my anger, I know in that burning place in my chest it had nothing to do with wisdom—it had everything to do with fear. Fear of the Soakers and their swords, fear of dying, fear of not fulfilling some strange and mystical destiny that Father believes is his.
“Mother Earth, please bring him back,” I pray, blinking back the tears. It’s a fool’s prayer, and yet I feel better for having whispered it in the dark.
Shadow stamps and I stand up, lift a hand to his nose, let him nuzzle against my palm. When I rub him between his ears, he lowers his head so I can easily reach him. “Shadow,” I murmur, and he responds to his name with a slight jerk and a snort.
I’ve known Shadow forever. He was only three when I was born, so we’ve grown up together. Although I shouldn’t be allowed to play with him because he’s a Rider’s horse, Mother always made exceptions for me. We used to run, run, run through the long grass, stopping only so I could make myself a soft bed, and so Shadow could eat it out from under me. Mother lets me ride him sometimes, too, but only when she’s around. “Shadow may look friendly,” she always says, “but he’s still a Rider’s horse, and he’s seen great and terrible things.”
Although I don’t think Shadow would ever do anything to hurt me, I won’t betray my mother’s trust by riding her on my own, although Mother Earth knows I’ve been tempted before. I’m tempted now, but instead I just keep rubbing him, counting down the days until I’ll have a horse of my own. A Rider’s horse, one of the Escariot.
I hear a noise that doesn’t sound like a horse. A scuffle and a splash, like someone’s stumbled and stepped in a puddle. Probably Father coming to make peace, as he does. “Hello?” I say.
Silence for a moment, and then, “Who’s there?” A man’s voice, only without the gruffness.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I say to Shadow, who seems content as long as I keep rubbing him.
“Remy,” the man-not-a-man’s voice says.
My heart stutters, because I know exactly who he is. Son of Gard, the leader of the Riders. Not six months after my father laid his hands on my head and declared me a Rider, he did the same for Remy. Until we were twelve, we attended the same fire speeches, sitting around a campfire with all the other children while my father taught us the ways of the Stormers, of the Soakers, our history. Why we fight and why we kill.
For most of my childhood, Remy tormented me. Up until we parted ways for our individual training, he’d pull my hair, try to trip me, whisper gross messages in my ear. Back then I didn’t have the strength I do now. I tried to ignore him and eventually he gave up.
“Sadie,” I say firmly.
“I know you,” he says, his voice closer now.
“Good for you,” I say.
“Where are you?” he asks.
I say nothing.
“What are you doing out here in the rain?” he asks.
“I’m not in the rain,” I say, “and again, I could ask you the same thing.” My tongue feels sharp and I’m glad. My hand stops moving on Shadow’s side as I listen for his response.
“True and true,” he says. “My father asked me to check on Thunder.”
Of course. What else would he be doing out here? Hiding from his parents like me? Not likely. Not when you’re the war leader’s son.
“The horses are fine,” I say. They always are, even in the worst storms. They’re used to the thunder and lightning by now. Even the young ones do okay, so long as their mothers are nearby.
“I know,” Remy says. “But you know Riders and their horses.” He says it in such a way that makes me laugh, but I cut it off right away. I shouldn’t be out here. I shouldn’t be laughing with him. Already I feel unsteady on my feet, unfocused, not something I can afford when I’m so close to…
“Won’t you be a Rider soon?” Remy asks.
Is Remy also training to become a mind reader? “I’m already a Rider,” I correct. The moment a Man of Wisdom says we’re Riders, we’re Riders, even when we’re just little babies who don’t know a horse from a mossy stump.
“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean it like that.” His voice is much closer now, and I realize it’s coming from the stall next to Shadow’s, through a gap in the wood.
I peer through and see him watering Thunder, holding a tin bucket up so the horse can slurp it up without bending over. His other hand’s on Thunder’s nose, stroking it much the same way I rubbed Shadow’s.
Lightning flashes and for a moment his face is fully illuminated, sending crackles of warmth through me, as if I’ve been struck by the storm.
He’s pleasing to look at. That’s all I’m saying.
Warm, brown eyes, close-cropped dark hair over a well-shaped head, lips that are quick to smile, which he’s doing now, something I remember about him from my father’s fire speeches. But that’s all I’m saying, for real this time.
I pull away, embarrassed with myself for staring for so long.