Ice Country

Trained like me, by fire and the sword.

“Sadie!” I hear someone yell.

I turn, see my father beckoning to me, hisface neutral but serious. Hesitating, my eyes flick to where thewarriors are disappearing behind the tents, soon to emerge asRiders, their steeds snorting and stomping in preparation for war.All I want is to watch them go, to see my mother flash past onShadow, her face full of the stoic confidence I’ve seen on the rareoccasions she’s been called to arms.

Unbidden, my legs carry me toward my father,who graces me with a grim smile, his dark skin vibrant under themorning sunlight. His thin arms and legs look even thi

“Come inside,” he says.

“I want to watch,” I admit.

“I know,” he says. “Come inside.”

Of course he knows. He knowseverything. But I follow him into our tent anyway.

Even when my father seals the flaps at theentrance, the thin-ski

When my father, the Man of Wisdom, turns tolook at me, I say, “I’m almost sixteen, Father.”

“You’re not yet,” he says patiently,motioning for me to sit.

I ignore the offer. “I need to see this,” Isay.

Father sighs, sits cross-legged, his bonyknees protruding from the skirts of his thin white robe. “You donot need to see this.” Who am I to argue with the wisest man in thevillage?

“I’m not your little girl anymore,” I say,pleading now. I kneel in front of him, my hands clasped. “Just letme watch.”

He grimaces, as if in pain, and I wonder howI came from him. My mother makes sense. She’s strong, like me, likeGard, like the other Riders. But my father is so…weak. Not justphysically either. I know he’s wise and all that, but I swear he’sscared of his own shadow sometimes.

“Please,” I say again.

He shakes his head. “It’s not your time,” hesays.

“When will be my time?” I say, slumping backon my heels.

“Soon enough.”

Not soon enough for me. It’s not like I’masking to fight, although Mother Earth knows I want to do that too.I want to see what the Riders do, for real, not some trainingexercise. I want to see my mother fight, to kill, to knock back theSoakers to their Earth-forsaken ships.

I’ve got nothing else to say to the great Manof Wisdom sitting before me, so I don’t say anything, keep my headdown, study the dirt beneath my fingernails.

The cries outside the tent die down,dwindling to a whisper as the clop of the horses’ hooves melt intothe distance. The world goes silent, and all I can hear is myfather’s breathing. My heart beats in my head. Weird.

I look up and his eyes are closed, his handsout, his forearms resting on his knees. Meditating. Like I’ve seenhim do a million times before, his lips murmuring silent prayers.In other words, doing nothing. Nothing to help anyway. Meditatingwon’t stop the Soakers from killing the Riders, from barging intoour camp and slaughtering us all like the frightened weaklings thatwe are, hiding in our tents.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, I rise and movetoward the tent flaps, careful not to scuff my boots on thefloor.

I creep past my father, and then he’s behindme and my hand’s on the flap, and I’m about to open it, andthen—

—his hand flashes out and grabs my ankle, hisgrip much—much—firmer than I expected, holding me in place, hurtingme a little.

“Nice try,” he says, and I almost smile.

When I start to backtrack he releases me.Dramatically, I throw myself to the ground and curl up on ablanket, sighing heavily.

“There’s nothing to watch anyway,” he says inThe Voice. Not his normal, everyday speaking voice, but the onethat sounds deeper and more solid, like it comes from a place deepwithin his gut, almost like it’s spoken by someone else who livesinside of him. A man greater than himself, full of power,barrel-chested and well-muscled—like Gard, a warrior.

The Voice.

When people hear The Voice, they listen.

Even I do. Well, usually. Because The Voiceis never wrong.

I set my elbow on the ground and prop my headon the heel of my hand. “Why not?” I ask, suddenly interested ineverything my father has to say—because he’s not my fatheranymore. He’s the Man of Wisdom.

Maybe the meditation wasn’t him doing nothingafter all.

His cheeks bulge, as if the words are rightthere, trying to force their way out. But when he blows out, it’sjust air, nothing more. Then he says, “Listen.”

I cock my head, train my ear in the air, hearonly the silence of a camp in hiding.

Silence.

Silence.

And then—

—the chatter of horses’ hooves across theplains, getting louder, approaching a rumble, then becoming thedistant growl of thunder.

“Now you can go,” Father says in his normalvoice, but I’m already on my feet, bursting from the tent opening,ru

I charge out of the camp and onto the plains,my footsteps drowned out by the grumble of the horses gallopingtoward me. Gard’s in the front, leading, and he flies past me likeI’m not even there. Another few Riders pass in similar fashionbefore I see her.

My mother, astride Shadow, her skin and robeso dark she almost looks like she’s a part of her horse, a strangehuman-animal creature, fast and dangerous and ready.

She stops in front of me, perfect balanced,her sword in her hand.

“What happened?” I say.

She motions with her sword behind her, where,with the sun shimmering across the water, the white ships aresailing off into the distance, barely visible now.

“They’re gone,” I murmur.

Water & Storm Country by DavidEstes, coming June 7, 2013!