Water & Storm Country

“They’d reached camp,” I say, kicking theblack grass with my toe. Though brittle, the stalks don’tbreak.

“Yes. The weak, the untrained, the sick, thechildren: that was their goal.”

The heaviness of his words presses on myshoulders and I can taste blood in my mouth, the inside of my cheekchewed away.

Stop, I will him again. To speak theword would be weakness, so I chant it over and over in my mind,hoping he’ll hear. Stopstopstop.

“When we struck down our foes on the beachand reached the camp,” he continues, “the tents were on fire, ourpeople were dying. Many fought valiantly, but futilely, savinglives as best they could.”

But not my father. All he could do was runwhile Paw was murdered.

“Your father,” Gard says, but I don’t need toknow the rest, not when knowing cuts deeper than a knife.

“Is a coward,” I say. “Despite my mother,it’s in my blood, I know. You want me to leave the Riders,” I say,realizing it at the same time I speak it. My head slumps to mychest.

“Sadie,” Gard says, but I can’t look up, notwhen the only thing I have left is about to be taken away. Allbecause of him.

“Sadie,” he repeats, and I lift my chin withmy hand, force my head to the side. My eyes meet his, which aredark and serious. “You’ll be a Rider for life. Doubt anything, butnot that.”

I’m at a loss, my head spi

“That your father is not a coward, not evenclose to one,” he says, one of his fists tightening. “To hear yousay such a thing angers me deeply.”

His fist scares me, but not enough to stop myrefutation. “You don’t know,” I say. “He left Paw to die. He sentMother to die. You. Don’t. Know.”

He can hit me if he wants, and I’ll take it,and for a moment I think he will, as his knuckles grow white fromthe tension. But then his hand relaxes and he pushes out a deepbreath. “Sadie,” he says. “I was there too. Are you sure youremember? You were very young.”

“Y-Yes,” I say, hating that my voice falters.My mother would never show such weakness.

“What do you remember?” he asks.

I close my eyes, strain against the memoriesthat have been incomplete for so long. Fire. Darkness and shadows.Shouts in the night. White-ski

Where was I?

My head hurts when I squeeze my eyes shut tootight.

“Father and I were inside our tent,” I say,remembering looking out into the night. Paw is standing alone,crying, scared and unsure, gawking at the carnage around him.

“No,” Gard says. “You were inside yourtent. Your father was not.”

In my memory, I look around, searching for myfather’s cowardly expression, his huddled form.

I’m alone.

Where is he?

A log falls in the fire, kicking up sparks,and I flinch, my eyes darting to the flames, which melt into theinferno in my memory.

“Where?” I say.

“Look outside.”

I do, and this time Paw’s not alone. Myfather tries to pick him up but it’s too late, a Soaker is uponhim, brandishing a sword.

“No!” Father screams, grabbing a branch fromthe ground with one arm while using the other to push Paw behindhim.

The Soaker laughs and slashes at my father,cutting the branch in two. My father throws the pieces at him,while yelling for Paw to Run!

The man slashes at Father, but misses. Paw’shalfway to the tent, and for a moment I think he’ll make it, butthen Father’s down, his leg bleeding, his scream not for his pain,but for us, who he’s looking toward even as the Soaker comes atus.

And I can only cry. Because I’m scared. AndI’m weak.

And the man’s sword slashes downward. AtPaw.

He dies, not a foot from me. Not a foot.

And I’m next. The man sneers, and I hate him,and I want to rush from the tent and punch him, kick him, bite him.And I start to, but then Mother’s there, and she cuts the man open,and there’s so much blood, a lot of it Paw’s. I see Gard’s massiveform behind her, watching.

Not my father’s fault.

But why?

Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t my mothertell me? Why did they let me hate him for all these years?

My memory is incomplete.

“What happened before Mother arrived?” I askharshly.

“I wasn’t there,” Gard says.

Ignoring him, I ask, “Why was I in the tentand Paw not?”

“I wasn’t there,” Gard repeats.

“But my father would’ve told you,” I say.

“He refused.”

“But he would’ve told my mother,” I push,“and she would’ve told you.”

“She refused.”

None of it makes any sense. Why such a bigsecret? What could hiding the truth possibly accomplish?

“And what of my mother?” I say, frustratedwith my missing memory despite having been only three yearsold.

“Do you mean the mission to ice country?”Gard asks.

I nod, ru

“Yes,” Gard says.

The anger swarms back through me, washingaway my confusion. The world is right again, my father still toblame.

“Did you know?” I ask, my words burning withaccusation.

“Yes,” he admits.

I’m afraid of myself, that I’ll hit him. Ituck my hands underneath me as a safeguard, take a deep breath.“And you did nothing?”

“No,” he says. “Your father came to me first,told me about his vision before he told even your mother. Begged meto forbid her from riding with the others. Said he’d ride in herstead.”

“But you refused him?” Another accusation,hurled like a stone.

“No.” Again, the answer surprises me. “Iagreed, except for the part about him riding. Neither of them wouldgo.”

I frown. “Then what happened? Why did shego?”

“We couldn’t stop her. She knew the truth andstill she went. She said if we refused her she’d take her own lifeanyway. The threat was real in her voice. Your mother couldbe…stubborn.”

I have to close my eyes to stop my head fromspi

“I think I’ve made a grave mistake,” I say,my voice quivering as much as the dancing flames.

“It’s not your fault,” Gard says. “You didn’tknow and no one told you.”

Which again begs the question: why?

“I have to go,” I say, standing quickly.“Thank you for telling me.”

“You needed to know. Now more than ever.”

Gard saw the anger eating me away and wasworried it would affect my performance as a Rider, is that it? Isthat why he’s telling me? Something tells me there’s more.

I stomp on the blackened blades of grass as Iwalk away, feeling them crumble beneath my trod.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Huck

Heavy. That’s theonly word to describe the feeling inside me. There are so many eyesin my sleep. Mother’s. Webb’s. The bilge rat boy’s. All staring,staring, burning holes of accusation through my skin. “He’s theone!” they say. “He killed us!”

Although the Scurve seems to be under controlagain, Jade won’t talk to me, just clambers up the mast eachmorning, dead set on repairing every last tear in the sails withoutfurther assistance from me. I could go up, work alongside her, butwhy force something that’s not there?

As I eat alone in my cabin in a silencebroken only by the intermittent creaking of the ship, I mull overwhat to do. More pointedly, I consider the information Jade gave mejust before we stopped speaking. Fire country. The bilge rats’home. Taken, abducted, tricked: brought to a place where they’redogs—no, less than dogs: rats—forced to slave away, day in and dayout, obeying orders from men who can barely look at them.

Was she lying, trying to gain my sympathy? Insome ways I hope she was, so my father’s not a monster, so theworld can become right again. But in other ways I’ll be sadder ifshe was lying, because that means I’m nothing to her, just a boy tobe manipulated.