Arcove did stagger when he hit the ground, and Coden did kick him in the face hard enough to bloody his nose. But then that enormous mouth opened, Arcove’s white teeth flashed, and the cat was up again. This fight could have only one outcome.
A time came when Coden did not leap away quickly enough. Arcove’s claws caught him under the belly and flipped him. Crimson stains began to soak through his pale fur. A moment later, Coden slipped in his own blood. Arcove’s teeth locked in the elbow of his left foreleg, ripped the tendon, and crippled the leg. Coden fought on. He limped, but he never whimpered.
Charder was close enough now that he could easily have called to Coden. He both wanted and feared that Coden would see him. You are my king. Tell me what to do. Please, please.
My king, but also, my friend, thought Charder. My king, but also…
He remembered the day Coden had been born to one of his brightest councilors. He remembered watching Coden grow up, always a step ahead of the other foals, always with grander ideas. Coden had made friends with telshees and curbs and ely-ary. He’d wanted to explore the island to its heights and depths. He’d wanted to wander the seas and learn the secrets of the humans. He’d wanted… So much more than ruling the ferryshaft.
But I talked him into it, thought Charder, because I thought he could win this war—so young and so full of ideas. And he almost did win. Almost. But instead, the war just broke his heart, and now Arcove is going to break the rest of him.
Charder realized that he must have made a noise, because Halvery turned suddenly and looked directly at him. Charder froze and waited. He felt terror and immense relief. This is the right place for me to die.
But then Halvery turned away and looked back towards the fight. Charder felt as though someone had kicked him in the belly. They’ve got orders not to kill me. Arcove is that certain of my cooperation.
For just a moment, fury overcame Charder’s terror and inertia, and he picked up his pace. He did not, however, walk closer to the crowd of creasia. Instead, he angled along the edge of the cliff, into the long shadow cast by Turis Rock. He could not see as much of the fight from this angle, but he was physically closer to the combatants. He could hear them better, and he had an insane idea of calling to Coden, begging him to run. He might still get away. If he really wanted to. I could help him reach Syriot…save him instead of Lirsy.
The pair was coming closer as, step by step, Arcove pushed Coden up Turis Rock. Charder could hear them panting and their grunts and growls as they struck at each other. Coden’s fur had looked more red than gray last Charder had gotten a good look at it, but he caught only glimpses of their legs now.
There was a pause. Charder was surprised to hear Arcove’s voice, pitched so low that Charder doubted the watching cats could hear. “Coden,” Arcove panted. “I’ll end this cleanly if you’ll stand still a moment. There are those watching who do not wish to see you die in pieces, and this is the only gift I can give.”
“You’d like that,” spat Coden. “My tail to wave under the noses of the other ferryshaft? A trophy for your den?”
“You know that’s not true. It doesn’t have to end this way.”
Charder drew in his breath to shout, but hesitated. Arcove’s words surprised him, but more than that, the timbre of Arcove’s voice had completely changed. Even Coden sounded different—less defiant, more tired and more bitter.
“I will never surrender the ferryshaft,” said Coden. “They will fight again, and they will do it quicker if they do not see me roll over for you.” He was talking so quietly that Charder had to strain to hear. He wished he could see their faces.
“I don’t want this,” said Arcove.
Charder could hear the smile in Coden’s voice when he answered. “Arcove…for just this moment…it’s not about what you want.” Then, to Charder’s horror, Coden turned and jumped. He sailed from the pinnacle of Turis Rock in a smooth arc, still graceful, and then dropped into the coral sea far below.
Charder’s heart dropped with him. He stared at the water, then back up at Turis. Arcove had come to the edge and was looking down. Charder had no idea whether Arcove noticed him in the shadow of the rock on the cliff below. Charder didn’t think so. Arcove was staring down at the white-capped waves and the reflection of the yellow moon farther out to sea. His face had an expression that Charder had not expected and could not interpret. Arcove shut his eyes, and the expression vanished. He seemed to compose himself and then turned back to the waiting creasia. As he descended the pinnacle of rock, Charder heard him say, “The war is over. We have won.”
Something inside Charder broke. He threw back his head and howled his grief and self-reproach to the cold stars. No one came to join him or to stop him. No one paid any attention to him at all.
This is how the creasia remembered the final fight between Coden Ela-ferry and Arcove Ela-creasia. They said that Arcove and Coden were quicker than thought and lighter than shadows, that they circled and struck and ducked and leapt too fast for the eye to follow. They said that Arcove was as black as midnight with a blow like lightning, and that Coden was as gray as the sea and agile as water. They said that their fighting was like a dance of ash and moonbeams. No one who watched the fight ever forgot it, and they told the story to their cubs and grand-cubs. That is how the creasia remembered it.
That is not how Charder remembered the fight. Charder remembered it as the night he watched a hero die…and did nothing.
Chapter 2. Twelve Years Later
So-fet’s mate was not quite dead when she arrived, though the vultures were already picking at his entrails. She laid her head beside him as his eyes glazed.
Voices and faces whirled around her.
“Poor thing—”
“Her first mate—”
“—the last raid of the season—”
“The spring grass is already showing! They hardly ever come so late.”
“—and they only killed three.”
“Poor luck for her…to lose him now, so close to the end of the raiding season.”
“Unlucky.”
“Yes, unlucky.”
“So-fet, come away. There’s a storm blowing in.”
So-fet stood and slipped in her mate’s blood. Something stirred inside her, as though in sympathy with her pain. She vomited and gagged. Blood and water coursed down her thighs.
Her friends sniffed in alarm. “She’s foaling! Get her into a cave!”
They pushed her, nipped at her flanks, and pulled at her shoulders. Somehow they got her up a path into a cave at the foot of the cliffs. Just as the first fury of the storm broke over Lidian, So-fet heaved her firstborn onto the rock floor, his birth-blood mingling with the blood of his dead father. He was tiny, born too soon.
He lay shivering there amid the strobe lightning, and tried to suck milk from a dry udder. His mother did not stop him. She did not seem to see him. In desperation, he licked up the blood in her fur.
Finally, towards morning, So-fet stirred. She looked at her foal and noticed that he was not only tiny, but dark—much darker than the light brown coats of most foals. She looked at the driving rain and at her infant son—forced from her body too early and orphaned in a single stroke—and she named him Storm.
* * * *
Her milk came two days later. Everyone said he would die.
He didn’t, but he was too weak to stand when she nursed him for the first time. The storm had blown itself out by then, and the numbness of So-fet’s grief had passed. She did not think about the sodden, half-eaten body on the edge of the plain. She gave all her thoughts and all her love to the wobbly, undersized foal who had no father.
Half-orphan, full orphan—it was nearly the same thing in the ferryshaft herd. Little Storm would have to fight to survive. He would need to be strong, and, for this, he must have good milk. His mother ate for his sake. She had lost her status as a mated female, but she fought the higher ranking females for the good grass.
Storm di
d not starve, though he did not thrive. By the end of spring, he was still the smallest foal in the herd. When the scarcity of water drove the ferryshaft on their annual migration across the plain to Chelby Lake, he could not keep up with the rest, and So-fet had to spend a night on the plain alone with him.
This frightened her. Sometimes the creasia ranged far afield, and there were other hunters who would scruple even less to take a runty foal and his mother caught away from the herd by night. Dawn, however, found them still alive, huddled together in the dewy grass. By the next evening, they had rejoined the herd near Chelby Lake.
The abundance of the season made life easier for them. The ferryshaft settled into a comfortable routine—feeding on the plain in the morning and drinking by the lake in the evening.
So-fet hoped that Storm would forget that fearful spring. She wanted his first memories to be happy ones. As he grew and became more self-aware, he did seem happy, though his isolation puzzled him. He did not understand why the other foals snickered when he approached, why they melted away when he wandered towards their games.
So-fet pretended not to understand when he questioned her. The reason was simple: he was still too small. Even the females out-measured him. So-fet played with Storm alone, fretting to herself.
During their first summer, most foals joined small social groups. They played, practicing skills they would need in the coming winter. Hierarchies arose first within these groups, often based on the status of parents. A foal with two parents might get help from them finding food during the winter, but a half-orphan without a clique would never see his second spring. Storm met nothing but rejection when attempting to join even orphan cliques. The prominent did not want him because he was insignificant, and the insignificant did not want him because he was not strong.
Yet So-fet remained hopeful. She said little, loved much, and waited.
Chapter 3. The Grass Plains
One day in early fall, Storm was resting beneath a scrub tree, admiring the new colors in the leaves, when he caught sight of an animal on the distant plain. It looked brownish and large, and it was moving in a straight line at a steady pace. He could tell that it was not a ferryshaft, but that was all. Storm was instantly curious. He was about to go ask his mother to identify the new animal, when it vanished.
Storm forgot completely about what the animal had been in his wonder at where it had gone. On an impulse, he got up and started running. The sun was sinking down the western sky by the time Storm reached the spot where he thought he had seen the animal disappear. He snuffled about in the tall grass, but found nothing to explain what he’d seen.
Storm knew he should return to the herd. His mother had forbidden him to wander at night. He turned back towards the lake…and froze. He was alone upon the plain! The entire ferryshaft herd had vanished. In a panic, Storm galloped in the direction of the lake. What if I’m lost? What if I can’t get back by nightfall? What if I am alone on the plain after dark? What if...?
The herd reappeared. Storm stared. Suddenly he understood. The plain isn’t flat. Now he knew how the animal had disappeared. Just a few steps in the right direction could put me out of sight of the herd…of the lake…of another animal. Beaming with his discovery, Storm galloped back to tell his mother.
However, So-fet did not share his enthusiasm. “What were you thinking, Storm? Leaving the herd at dusk?” She snuffled all over him to make sure he wasn’t hurt, then nipped hard at his ear. “Never do that again! Do you understand? Never!”
Storm understood only that he’d made his mother angry and somehow frightened, but he said nothing else until the next day, when he thought to ask about the strange animal.
So-fet stared at him. “You went looking for a strange animal on the plain?”
“Well, not exactly,” began Storm. “It disappeared, and—”
“Storm, you must never go chasing after strange animals again.”
“Why? What are they?”
“I don’t know what you saw,” said So-fet, “but—” Her mouth snapped shut. “Just do as I say, Storm. I love you, and I want you to live a long life.”
Storm snuggled against her, although he was not satisfied. If he’d had anyone else to ask about the animal, he would have asked, but Storm had no one. He spent more time than ever on the plains after his discovery. He found troughs that ran for great distances. They could hide an animal from view. He learned to lie still in a dip amid the tall grass. He learned, in his loneliness, how to spy.
“Storm,” he overheard one female snort. “Raindrop would have been a better name. I’ve seen foals like him come and go.”
“Perhaps,” whispered another, “but not with his color—”
“Oh, the fur, yes. It will probably attract attention from predators, but not before he kills his foolish mother.”
Several listeners gasped.
“So-fet is stubborn. When winter comes, she will try to feed that runt and eventually starve herself. I’ve seen it happen before. One ferryshaft cannot provide for herself and a growing foal in winter.”
“I heard she foaled early when she saw his father dead,” whispered one. “That’s why he’s so small and ugly. She should have named him Vearil—bad luck.”
They kept talking, but Storm stopped listening. He didn’t eavesdrop anymore after that. He didn’t listen to the other ferryshaft much at all.
Chapter 4. Pathar
Near evening of each day, the herd traveled to Chelby Lake to drink. The ferryshaft were in their best spirits, then. They told stories, gossiped, and played. Storm watched the other foals, hoping someone would invite him to join in. One day, he started to practice the game sholo, in which one tried to balance a stick on one’s nose for as long as possible. Normally, other foals tried to distract the player without actually touching him. Storm didn’t have anyone to distract him, so he walked along the muddy bank of the lake, balancing his stick. He hoped the others would see and be impressed, but they ignored him.
A few days later, he slipped while engaged in his solitary pastime, and toppled into the water. It was deeper than he’d expected, and for one panicked moment, he didn’t know which way was up. Then something grasped him by the back of the neck and hauled him to the bank. Storm looked up, dripping and trembling. He saw a male named Pathar—the most ancient ferryshaft in the herd, with fur more white than brown. Storm had often sat where he thought no one noticed him, listening to Pathar’s stories.
“Your instincts are fine, but your stroke is all wrong,” said Pathar. “Keep your head up. Move your legs like you’re walking. Don’t panic. Go on, let’s see you do it.”
“B-but,” Storm stammered, “I—I’ve never—swum—”
“And you never will unless you get back in the water. Go on.”
He did. By the end of the afternoon, he was swimming to Pathar’s satisfaction. That evening, he sat and listened to Pathar talk about edible roots to an attentive group of foals. None of them looked at Storm, but Pathar acknowledged him and even quizzed him afterwards.
Storm had no idea why a prominent elder had taken an interest in him, but he was determined not to lose Pathar’s attention. So-fet seemed just as confused, but pleased. “Be polite to him, Storm. Do everything he says. He can teach you things that I can’t.”
Storm was delighted to have someone else to talk to, even if Pathar did snap at him and occasionally ignored him for days. Storm learned about weather patterns, poisonous plants, and the habits of other animals. He learned about parts of the island he’d never visited—dense forests to the south, cliffs and ocean to the west. Pathar answered all of Storm’s questions until one day when Storm asked about Kuwee Island.
Kuwee was a hump of wooded land in Chelby Lake. Most of the tiny islands scattered near shore had no actual soil, just trees, but Kuwee Island had a narrow beach. What was more, it rose up to a hill that would have given a good view of the lakeshore for quite a distance. The island lay just far enough away to discourage a swim, but cl
ose enough to make a curious foal think about trying. As soon as So-fet heard that Storm had learned to swim, she told him that he must not go near Kuwee. She said it was forbidden, although she did not know why.
Pathar snorted when Storm mentioned the island. “There’s nothing over there,” he said. “Nothing but trees and dirt and a few caves.”
“Then why is it forbidden?” asked Storm. “What is everyone afraid of?”
Pathar hesitated. “They’re afraid of the past.”
The next day, Pathar approached Storm and So-fet shortly after they woke. Storm greeted him happily, but Pathar brushed him aside. “I have come to talk with your mother.” So-fet seemed startled, but she followed Pathar some distance away, where the two spoke in low voices. Storm felt he would die of curiosity before they returned.
“Your mother is willing for you to spend the day with me away from the herd,” Pathar told him. “Come.” Storm followed Pathar, glancing over his shoulder at his mother. She smiled, but he thought she looked unhappy.
“Pathar, where are we going?”
“To Groth.”
“What is Groth?”
Pathar didn’t answer.
Storm felt pleased to be on an adventure, even a mysterious one. Morning sunlight streamed over the plain as the two ferryshaft moved north along the edge of Chelby Wood. The breeze smelled of dew-soaked earth and grass. They saw groups of ferryshaft at first, some still sleeping, but soon they left the herd behind. Twice, they startled deer as large as themselves. They bounded away through the long grasses, putting birds and insects to flight.
The day was clear, and Storm could see far away cross the plain. He even saw the outline of the Red Cliffs off to their left. So-fet had told him that the herd would move there for winter. In the misty distance ahead, a mountain stood up against the sky. Between themselves and the mountain, Storm saw a dark border that might have been woodland.