Water & Storm Country

I take his hand, which crushes mine in a firmshake. I try to squeeze back but his grip’s like iron. “Huck,” Isay, forgetting myself. “I mean, Lieutenant Jones.”

“You did well today, Lieutenant,” Norrissays, looking me in the eyes. “They’ll come around. They just haveto get used to you. There are a few of us who’ve been waiting forsomeone like you.” He motions to three other men behind him. “Meetthe real crew,” he says.

I shake each of their hands in turn,squeezing hard to avoid getting my fingers crushed. Budge, Ferris,and Whittle.

Budge is meant to be an oarsmen, built likean anchor, heavy and compact, but usually he can’t even get enoughmen to join him. Until today, that is.

Ferris is a lookout, small and thin, andapparently very good at climbing. The crow’s nest is his post.

Whittle stinks like tobacco and has a facethat only a mother could love, with dozens of scars and pockmarks,and she’d have to be a pretty understanding mother at that. Hemanages the bilge rats, which is evidently one of the reasons theyseem to do such a fine job keeping the ship clean.

“There’s no one to command us,” Norris says,“so we pretty much run things ourselves, with very little help fromthe rest of the crew. You’re very welcome here.”

I nod firmly. Although it feels good to havea few early advocates, I get no warmth from it. I’ll need thesupport of every man and woman if I’m to turn things around.

“Thank you, seaman,” I say. “If I could askyou a question. Who was the woman who shouted Webb’s nametoday?”

I’m surprised when Norris and the other threesnicker. “She’s a real jibboom, alright. That was Lyla, my sister.She’s about your age. She’ll love you for putting Webb in hisplace. He’s hated by most of the women, always leering and gropingat them. Sending him to the brig will have gone a long way with theship women.”

My cheeks burn because of the way he says it,all wagging eyebrows and smirking. “Fine. Thank you, seaman,” Isay.

I turn and head for the door, only nowrealizing what’s coming next.

It’s time to see my father.

Chapter Twelve

Sadie

I’m so angry I marchright through the stables without stopping to see Shadow.

Remy’s right—too right. There’s no way Gardwill let me ride to ice country with my mother.

Mother’s not there, so I skirt the edge ofthe camp, taking my normal route to our training area, along thewestern border, where Carrion Forest is but a stone’s throw away.The heavy clouds comb the green manes of the trees, turning them adeep shade of gray. The squeal-grunt of a wild boar shrills throughthe air. Perhaps he stumbled upon one of our traps. My father saysthe forest is an evil place, full of dark magic and sorcery, but Isee it only as the place where we get our food. Conies and boar andplump fowl live there, the latter roosting high in the branches ofthe trees, where a well-placed arrow or a good climber can reachthem quite easily. The forest is the lifeblood of my people.

We refuse to eat from the sea like theSoakers. My father says eating the sea creatures leads tomadness.

A few of the men and women in the watch tentsoffer greetings as I pass, but, afraid that after my encounter withRemy my voice will come out filled with venom, I offer only a nodin response to each of them.

When I reach the broad, grassy area, I stopabruptly.

Mother is there already, as I suspected, andshe’s practicing her sword work by herself. I duck behind a tent soI can watch without her knowing. Every motion perfectly fluid, likeru

Paw’s killer, maybe?

Her feet are always perfectly balanced as shedances, spins, leaps around. If she is imagining herself fightingPaw’s killer, or some other Soaker enemy, you can’t tell from herface. Her cheeks are hard with concentration and her eyes flashdetermination, but there’s no anger to be found. Anger isweakness, she’s taught me. Of all her sayings, that one scaresme the most, because I feel angry so often. At my father’sweakness, at the Soakers, at whichever one of them took Paw’s lifebefore it really got started. How do I thrust off the anger?

I watch for a few more minutes, my awegrowing at the perfection that is my mother.

When I step out of hiding, she spots me,stopping in mid-swing. I’ve just saved an invisible Soaker’s life.Pity.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” she says,which makes me lift my eyebrows. Why wouldn’t I come?

When she sees my confusion, she explains,“Because I slapped you.”

Oh. That. To be honest, I’d pretty muchforgotten, but now the embarrassment comes back with the speed of aflash storm. I raise a hand to my cheek, remembering the sting. “Ideserved it,” I say, meaning it. I was acting like a child, beingexceptionally disrespectful to my father.

“You did,” she says with a smile, making mesmile too. “But that doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.”

And just like that, all is forgiven andforgotten. “Mother, do you think Father is right?” I ask.

“Defend!” she says, leaping forward with hersword. My blade is out before her feet touch the ground, blockingher attack, the swords ringing out in the early morning, as ifwelcoming the sun to the sky.

Excitement and energy courses through me aswe battle across the plains, sword fighting, circling, jumping,kicking, swinging, faster and faster, until the world becomes onlyme and my mother, condensed into a circle around us, everythingelse a blur, melting away.

I deflect a blow to the right, to the left,above my head, backing up swiftly from my mother’s onslaught. Andthen she does something completely unexpected.

She ducks and dives, right at my feet, grabsme around the ankles, knocking me off balance. I whirl my arms andtumble to the ground, where she points her sword at my neck,breathing heavily, but laughing.

“New lesson,” she says. “Do somethingunexpected, surprise your enemy.”

I nod. “Again?” It’s a question I ask eachtime she defeats me, until she eventually has to decline, or we’dfight all day and all night.

She never says no after one fight.

“No,” she says, gri

“But, Moth—”

“Our orders are to burn as much of icecountry as we can, to send a message, but to spare the i

“And this is all because of Father’sprediction?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Have you forgotten your question?”

I have. “What question?”

“You asked whether I think your father isright.”

“And then you attacked me,” I say,gri

She laughs. “I needed time to think,” shesays, which makes me laugh. While I’ve been completely focused onbeating her, her mind’s been a million miles away, coming up withwhat to say to me.

“So do you…think Father’s right?” I ask.

“He’s never been…” Her voice catches, likeshe’s got something stuck in her throat. There’s a faraway look inher eyes, one I’ve never seen before.

“Mother? What has he never been?” I ask,sitting up.

“Wrong,” she says, more firmly. “He’s neverbeen wrong.”

Although her words come out stronger thistime, her eyes are filled with the morning fog, not scared, butuncertain.

And that scares me the most, because I’venever seen her unsure of herself.

~~~

The Plague took another life today.

Jala, a Man of Wisdom, like my father. Whenmy father lit his funeral pyre, his eyes were red and wet. AlthoughI’ve been to many death ceremonies, this one hit me harder thanmost. Emotion swelled in my chest, and I felt like crying. Ididn’t, but I felt like it.