Water & Storm Country

My mother was a great warrior.

The names are called and I wait, blinkingwith each one. Remy is at his father’s side, thankfully tear-freenow. He glances at me a few times, but I pretend not to noticeuntil Aria’s name is called.

A shot of warmth plumes in my chest when Isee his reaction. He’s stoic. Although, like me, he blinks, but hisface is free of emotion, his eyes dry, his arms hanging loosely athis sides.

A Rider must be stronger, more carefulwith their words and actions, a model of control of body andmind. Even from atop the burning pile of the dead, my motherspeaks to me. I notice Remy’s head cock to the side, as if he hearsher too.

When he looks at me, there’s understanding inhis expression.

And yet I can’t forgive him. Not when hestayed my hand when it was raised to strike down the Soaker officerboy, the one from my father’s vision. The act that might havechanged everything.

When Remy nods at me I look away.

My mother’s name is called and I shut my earsto my father’s wails, clench my fists, and watch her burn with theothers, holding my breath to the charred odor of burning flesh.

When the names have all been called, I raisemy head to the sky with the others, watch the souls rise to meetour Mother, to become the clouds that provide the water we drink,the food for everything that grows.

And when I raise a fist in the air, I don’thave to look to know that the other Riders are doing the same. Mybrothers and sisters.

My calling.

At least my father got one thing right.

The horses of the fallen—at least those whichsurvived the battle—each receive a smack on the rump, and it’s likethey know. They know. Their whi

Shadow is the fastest horse of them all.

~~~

The second ceremony will include every youngRider over thirteen years on this world. Although I’d like to thinkI influenced Gard’s decision, the reality is that he had alreadydecided before I ever stepped foot in his tent with my demands.

We are beside the stables, as far from thehuman ashes as possible. The entire camp, save for the Healers andwounded, are here, waiting for Gard to speak. Hundreds of men andwomen and children. The night is unusually warm, as if the earlierbonfire has been infused into the air. Smoke curls above the camp,as if transporting the final lingering souls to the clouds.

I stand with nine others, my age or a yearyounger, in a line. Remy was already waiting when I arrived, and Ichose a position on the opposite end. One of us is last and onefirst, depending on which direction Gard chooses to start from.

Gard begins by clearing his throat.“Stormers, we have faced a grave threat and have been victorious!”I stay silent while the camp cheers. “The Icer King is dead!” Morecheers. “But the war is not yet won. Although we have cut off thehead of the dragon that would deliver children to work as slaves onthe Soakers’ ships, the true beast slides along the blue crests ofthe sea untouched. We have lost many Riders, our protectors,defenders of good and warriors against evil, but WE are notlost. Not while we still have breath in our lungs, blood in ourveins, honor in our hearts.”

Gard pauses, scans the crowd. “We mustreplenish our numbers earlier than we’d pla

The people are a blur of faces, featureless,a mob of flesh and bone and responsibility. Mine to protect. Mineto honor. I ca

And then one face rises above the others andit’s my father, weeping. Are his tears still for my mother? Or isit joy, because I’m finally taking my rightful place among thehero-filled fold, to a position he ordained for me fifteen longyears ago?

He mouths something, and I think it’sRemember, but I can’t be sure, and I can’t possiblyinterpret his lips or the meaning of the word, not when Gard’scalling my name, and I’m realizing I’m first, and Remy’s last, forwhat it’s worth.

I pull my eyes away from my father’s wet faceand phantom word.

Remember.

I walk across to Gard, kneel before him asthe ceremony requires, having seen it done many times, each andevery year since I was old enough to attend.

Remember what?

I feel his hands on my head, pressing downfirmly, listen to him speak the sacred words—“The power is in you,let it speak. The strength creates you, let it build. The firerages, let it burn. Fear nothing but failure. Seek nothing butvictory. Find nothing but honor. You are a Rider, like you’vealways been. Claim your partner.”—feel the power and the strengthand the fire roar through me with his words and histouch.

Remember my mother? Remember what the Icersdid to her? Remember that it was the actions of the Soakers thatcaused it? Remember how my father ran the other way when Paw wasmurdered?

Remember, remember, remember…the wordstrikes me to the heart like a lance.

When the weight of Gard’s heavy hands liftsfrom the crown of my head, I look up and the war leader nods. Istand to cheers and thunder from stomping feet, stride toward thestables, invincible, where a horse is being led toward me.

With a sleek, black hide, long, black mane,and fierce brown eyes, she’s everything I always imagined she wouldbe. Stamping her feet, pulling at the ropes, snorting heavy plumesof breath out of her flaring nostrils, she’s unbroken. It takesfour strong men, Riders, to control her, and even then, she’suncontrollable. Wild. Hungry. Mine.

As I approach, I notice a mar on the completedarkness of her coloring: A single patch of white sits high on hernose, almost between her ears, shaped like a butterfly. Whitewings.

Can she fly?

I’m still admiring her wild and untamedperfection, wondering where she was found, how hard it was for theHorse Whisperers to lure her close enough to capture her, whethershe put up a fight, when one of the ropes are thrust into myhands.

Thankfully, I have enough sense to grab itfirmly, to hold on, to remember the words my mother taught me, letthem flow freely through my mind. I am yours, you are mine, weare one. A warrior and a steed become a Rider. Fight with me evenas I fight with you. Separate, our strength is breakable, matchedby many; combined, our power is above all, unstoppable.

The words roll over and over in my mind as Itake the second rope, walking my hands up the thick strands,feeling them burn my palms as the horse bucks and strains againstthe bonds that are so foreign to a creature that has known onlycomplete freedom while roaming wild on the plains.

Freedom is an illusion. I’m surprisedto hear my father’s words in my head while I’m so focused onapproaching my horse. I shake my head and resume my chant, thistime out loud, first as a whisper and then louder and louder as Iget closer and closer. The horse isn’t calmed by my words, but Iknow she hears them, because she’s completely focused on me now,and I’m oblivious to the ceremony that continues behind me.

Passion. The name occurs to me justlike my mother said it would, right when one of the Riders arethrown down when the horse charges sharply to one side.

“Passion,” I say, and she stands perfectlystill, matching the intensity of my gaze. “Sadie.” She snorts, asif my name is but a cricket under the stomp of her grand feet. Andso it is.

I shouldn’t be this close, not at the firstmeeting. My mother told me, but it takes Passion to teach me.