Water & Storm Country

“My cabin. One hour,” he says.

Chapter Sixteen

Sadie

The world flashes byin blurs and blustery whispers. There’s dark skin and pulled-onclothing, and I should be embarrassed by mine and Remy’s exposednakedness, but I’m not, and we’re not even looking at each otheranyway, because…

There are so few Riders returning from themission. My mother—his father: Are they among the survivors?

I’m breathless and frantic, and I can tellRemy’s in a similar state because he keeps stumbling as we run sideby side back to camp, hearts pounding.

The Riders are already there when we scramblebetween the borders, past the circles of tents, and into thecenter. Dark horses stamp and snort, their hides crusted withdark-red dried blood. One of them falters, its legs giving way,crumbling beneath its weight. The young Rider atop the horsetumbles off, clutching her side, red staining her fingers. It’s notmy mother, but familial bonds don’t matter now.

I rush to her, help her put pressure on thewound, which is deep and gaping, her robe shredded to the skin.“Help!” I scream. Her name is Aria, but the Riders call her DemonBlade due to the quickness with which she wields the duel daggersthat are her weapons of choice.

But no amount of deft knife-work can save hernow as I press my palm against her wound, my flesh the only thingkeeping her insides from spilling out.

Remy’s at my side, mouth agape, yelling forhelp, too, but his voice, like mine, is lost in a chorus of men andwomen with similar pleas.

Aria’s eyes roll back as blood trickles fromthe corners of her lips. She stops breathing at what seems like theexact moment her horse does. I want to cry for them both, but Ican’t because my mother might be out there, and because I’m a Riderand I have to be stronger than the common Stormer.

Remy clutches at Aria’s robe and I rememberthat she was like a sister to him growing up, that when her motherand father died of the Plague, Remy’s family took her in as one oftheir own, clothing and feeding and training her.

I grab his hand and pull him to his feet,slap him hard across the face. The time for mourning will come.

He stares at me with blank eyes, but lets mepull him away from Aria, away from his pain, which, based on hisexpression, tries to cling to him like mud on a rainyafternoon.

Through the chaos we move like skeletons,stiff and numb and searching. Dark-robed Riders stride here andthere, some spattered with blood, some clean because they weren’tsent on the mission. All carrying the injured, trying to get theminto the hands of the Healers, who are visible due to the whiterobes they wear.

We force ourselves to look at the faces ofeveryone who passes.

Eventually we see Gard, as upright andgregarious as ever, bellowing orders and pulling the wounded Ridersfrom their horses, carrying two at a time to the area that’s beenset aside for healing.

“Father!” Remy shouts, but his voice is awhisper. He releases my hand and runs to Gard. The bubble of joythat bulges in my stomach is popped instantly by the dozens ofneedles of jealousy and fear that prick my skin and dart through myinsides like tiny hunters.

He’s found who he’s looking for and I’m aloneagain. I start to turn, anger and frustration and sadness burningin my chest, when I hear him say, “Have you seen Sadie’smother?”

I whirl around, shocked.

Gard places two groaning Riders on the groundnext to a line of five other groaning Riders. Two waitingwhite-clothed Healers immediately begin cutting their clothing offto inspect their wounds. He looks past his son, sees me, and Iknow—I know. His face is grim and he shakes his head, butthen he says something that makes me gasp. “I brought her backmyself—she’s in her tent,” he says, answering his son’s questionbut speaking directly to me.

And I’m gone and leaping over the body of adead horse, my bloody hands churning at my sides. Our tent is wideopen and I dive inside, nearly colliding with the Healer who’stending to my mother.

Her head is up, held by my father, who’ssqueezing drops of water from a wet cloth into her mouth,whispering words that sound eerily similar to ones spoken whilehe’s in his deepest meditation. The front of her robe is cut awayand ragged on the ground next to her, revealing her wound.

Her wound.

It reminds me of Aria’s wound, a deep chasmspilling endless streams of blood and showing pink tube-like partsof her that were never meant to be seen.

I choke and the tears are hot flashes oflightning in my eyes that burn and blind me. “Save her,” I croakout, as if it will empower the Healer to perform miracles that onlyMother Earth is capable of.

But my words don’t have power. And my tearsare for nothing.

Because there, in our tent, my mother’s eyesfind me, her lips part, and she says, “Listen to your father, forhe is wise,” and then she dies.

~~~

The clouds will forever be darker, the rainsharder, the lightning brighter, and the thunder louder. For myanger is in the sky, in the air that we breathe, in my every actand my every word. It washes the sadness away to a place where noone will ever find it.

“You knew!” I scream at my father. “You knewand you didn’t try to stop her!”

The heavy rain pounds our tent, but I canfeel every drop on my skin, as if I’m one of the dead lying in thecenter of town, awaiting the passing of the storm before they canbe burned atop the funeral pyre. Like my dead mother.

He says something, but I can’t understand himbecause he mumbles into his hands and the anger-infused thunderbooms at just that moment, drowning him out.

“Why?” I scream. “Why did you let hergo?”

I’m standing and Father’s cowering. Hischeeks are wet with tears and mine are dry. I allowed myself theweakness of tears for half a day, my head buried in my pillow likea child, until I could take it no more. When I wiped away the wetand salt, the anger swallowed me in red and black and questions. Iwon’t cry ever again.

Not ever again.

“It wasn’t my choice,” my father says, and Ithink he’s repeating what he said a moment ago, when the thunderoverwhelmed his grief-stricken voice.

I shudder as a burst of cold finds its waythrough our tent. “She knew?” I ask, my voice losing a smallmeasure of its sharpness.

He nods, buries his face in both hands.

I look away, at the wall of the tent, whichis dancing with shadows. Our shadows: anger and grief.

“Tell me everything,” I say to the tent.

My father’s shoulders are shaking,convulsing, his tears spilling between his fingers like riversthrough cracks in the rocks. Like blood through flaps of tornskin.

“Tell me,” I say more firmly.

His shaking stops, but the tears keepdripping off his hands. I should go to him, comfort him.

I don’t.

A few minutes pass, and when he finally looksup his face is shiny black and puffy. “Sadie, I—”

“You owe me the truth,” I say through myteeth. “Tell me what you should have told me from thebegi

He tries to speak, but his voice falters. Hestops, takes a deep breath, starts again, his voice clearer thistime. “I had a vision, Sadie.”

“Of a battle,” I say, not trying to hide thefrustration in my voice. “That much you told me.”

He shakes his head. “There was more. Anotherbattle.”

What a novel idea! Of course, why didn’t Ithink of that? I close my eyes, count to ten, try to breathe. “Whatother battle,” I say, eyes still closed.

A pause. And then: “One you were fightingin.”

My eyes flash open, meeting my father’s,which are red and swollen, his tears drying around them in whitecircles. “Me?” I say, finally feeling like I’m talking to a humanand not a Man-of-Wisdom parrot.