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I shake my head, tossing aside the thoughtsthat don’t matter right now. My father assumes I’m answering hisquestion. He nods. “Good.” Motions to Jade. Continues: “This rat issentenced to eighteen lashes, to be carried out by LieutenantJones. Are there any objections?”
Waves lap against the side of the boat.Big-chins swoop overhead, chased by gulls, chattering to eachother. No one speaks. I am silent.
(Is my silence weakness or intelligence?)
(Is anything I’ve ever done right?)
“Carry on, Lieutenant,” my father says, as ifI’m about to give an order to drop anchor or man the sails or swabthe decks. As if I’m not about to change my relationship with Jadeforever.
I raise the whip above my head.
The nine leather ribbons tickle my back.
I pause, thinking how easy it would be tochuck the cat o’ nine over the railing, into the sea. It would takemy father a while to locate another one. But that would only delaythe inevitable. And he might even take it to mean I won’t doit.
I can’t have that.
I can’t.
I swing my hand forward, not hard—but notsoft either—just enough to bring the whip arcing over my head,dragging the nine endings through the air like bolts of lightning.When my arm reaches the point where it’s parallel with the deck, Isnap my wrist.
Crack!
Jade grunts, but doesn’t cry out. Nine tearssplit the back of her shirt, showing her brown skin beneath. As Iwatch, the brown turns to red.
I did it. I really did it. Can I ever goback? Can things ever go back to how they were?
Then I realize the crowd’s booing, low andmournful, some of them spitting and shouting insults, like“Weakling!” and “Piss-ant!” My father steps forward, flush withanger.
Once more, he hisses in my ear. “If youembarrass me, I’ll kill her anyway. Swing like you mean it or theeighteen won’t count.”
My lips tremble, barely holding back my rage,barely stopping me from spitting in his face.
When he steps back, I focus on a spot aboveJade, where the mast is stained white from the sea spray. It’s thetype of uncleanliness Jade would normally go out of her way toremedy. I stare at that spot like it’s a beautiful sunset, likeit’s Jade’s face in the bird’s nest, alive with near-joy as shetells me about fire country, about her sisters.
I swing, harder this time. Much harder.
CRACK!
The shrill sound echoes in my ears, slicesthrough my skull, threatens to wrench tears from my eyes.
Jade is silent and I’m focused on thewhite-stained wood.
CRACK!
My breath is coming in ragged huffs and I’mon the verge of a breakdown. A low moan rumbles from Jade’s lips,but I pretend she’s someone I don’t know, stricken with theScurve.
CRACK!
Finally, she cries out, and I almost drop thewhip in surprise, because I’m not hitting her, I’m not doing it,I’m just watching the sunset with my mother.
I don’t stop. Can’t stop until it’s done.
CRACK!
She screams. I can’t look down, can’t seewhat I’ve done. It’ll break me as I’m breaking her.
CRACK!
Her cry has become distant, like a dream,fuzzy and fading and not real. The only thing real: Jade’s smile,her eyes, alive alive alive.
CRACK!
I’ve lost count, which I can’t do, because Ihave to know when to stop. I retrace my swings, try to work it out.Seven. I’m sure of it.
Again and again, cracking and snapping, justwhipping a salt-stained mast, almost like I’m practicing for thereal thing. Fifteen times already.
She’s stopped screaming with every blow, herreaction nothing more than a soft whimper now. Does that mean itdoesn’t hurt anymore? Or has she simply screamed her lungs dry?
Three more.
My mind is red and orange and pink and yellowwith a long-ago sunset as I bring the whip down once more. Thistime she shrieks, and I almost do it,
(I almost look down.)
but I remember myself at the last second andkeep my chin tilted back, above the agony and pain and starkreality.
The second to last blow falls, but I don’teven realize my arm is moving, like it’s not mine anymore. Like myfather has taken control, like he always does, forcing me to bendto his will.
She howls and my heart snaps in two.
One left. Can I finish it with a brokenheart?
My eyes finally snap down when I feel himstriding toward me. I want to look to the side, to see what’shappening, to prepare myself for whatever’s coming, but I can’tpull my gaze away from her.
She’s dangling from her wrists, which remaintied tightly to the pole, her wrists red and raw and chafed. Herknees drag on the deck, scraped and bleeding. Her once beautiful,brown skin is slick with a sheet of red, darkened and clotting instripes of torn skin, like a battleground after a war, its trenchesfilled with the blood and bodies of the dead.
I’ll never be able to touch her again.
And then he’s there, my father, muscling meout of the way, ripping the whip from my gnarled grasp, raising itover his head like a scythe—
—bringing it down hard, at least ten timesharder than my own strokes—
—Jade’s final cry, a horrible howl of painand surrender—
—and then my father is raising the whipagain, even though it’s been eighteen blows, and
the crowd’s screaming for more blood, moreblood
and I can’t believe these are my people,
these are who I belong to.
I grab the whip as it dangles behind myfather, just before he snaps it forward for the nineteenth blow.His eyes widen in surprise and he drops it, whirls at me, swings aheavy fist at my face.
I duck, lower my head, barrel into him,pushing him back with all my might, not stopping until he crashesinto the crowd behind him.
We both go down in a tangle.
And though I’m ready to do this, ready tofight him, ready to do whatever it takes to stop him (even killhim?), something changes in the attitude of the crowd. I push to myfeet expecting the stares of hundreds of men and women on me, butthey’re looking away from us, toward land.
Toward land where…
…where in the distance…
…hundreds of black-clad Riders gallop acrossthe plains. There’s no doubt where they’re headed, and no doubt whythey’re here.
The Riders at the front of the column arecarrying the black flags of war, flashing with shards of light fromthe bolts of lightning slashing from the sky above them.
A storm is coming.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Sadie
The heavy cloudcover grows darker as we gallop across the plains, the thunder fromthe horses’ hooves matching the thunder in the sky above.
When the ships appear in the distance myheart skips a beat, but then races onwards, double time, matchingPassion’s speed.
Siena grips me tighter from behind.
Trusting Passion to run us in a straightline, I gaze over the thin stretch of ocean that separates theSoakers from us. Something’s happening. Hundreds of Soakers areassembled on one ship, so tightly packed they almost look likeants, crawling over each other to get into their hole.
The crowded ship looks strange compared tothe others, like something’s missing. Like there’s a huge gap inthe middle of it. Where the other ships have a thick, wooden polein the center, stretching higher than any of the other totems, thisship has nothing, making it appear weaker. It’s not by design—ofthat I’m certain. Something happened to this ship, crippling it. Isthe assembly related to whatever disaster overcame the ship’swind-catcher?
The ants have spotted us. The barks of loudshouts can be heard over the crash of the waves on the sand.Soakers are pointing our way, gesturing wildly.
Someone must give them their orders, becausethe people of the sea begin swarming across thick wooden planks,returning to each and every ship in the fleet. Boats begin droppinginto the water with white, frothy splashes. Men clamber down ropes,swords gleaming from their belts, filling the boats tooverflowing.