“If you believe I’m going to leave you alone, you are greatly mistaken,” Merryl says, sidestepping a sconcelighter replacing a spent candle. “Especially with a weapon and in a room with windows.”
“Send for Rook, then,” Khosa says, fingers resting on the heavy latch of the library door, her breath coming quickly. “And hand over that dagger.”
* * *
From a young age Harta would wander, leaving behind Stille for Hyllen, Hyllen for Sawhen, Sawhen for Hygoden. He knew the bend of the shore and the tilt of each rock, and remembered well the roads he walked. Yet he left the roads for paths, abandoned paths for brush, and reached the bases of mountains yet unclimbed to find their summit. He aged on the mountain, and came down to say that he had seen all that could be seen of land, and wished to know what lay beyond the horizon.
Few listened to his words, for the Givens had danced since a faded memory, no wave coming to tumble the flesh from our bones. Stille knew peace; it was no fault of ours that Harta had not found his. Yet he persisted, telling others that to believe we stood on the only habitable land was faulty thought.
Many and more times he came to the king asking for assistance in building a ship. Though he was always heard, the king tired of Harta’s insistence, finally asking, what point would there be in agreeing to such a scheme, when no Stillean would carry the knowledge to build one? Encouraged by what he mistook for interest, Harta produced plans for a rigged ship, with sails that billowed and a mast standing tall, built to carry many.
The king was stricken at the sight, but held his composure long enough to ask how Harta had come upon knowledge of a thing so unheard of in Stille.
Harta admitted to spending many years among the Pietra, speaking with their Lures, who perch atop cliffsides and see far, into the very sun as it sinks. They spoke of things I hesitate to commit to ink, boats seen in silhouette, masses of wood and rope, sail and cloth, floating upon the sea but never coming close because of the fierce Lusca that haunt their waters.
At this the king was outraged. That such blasphemy built upon the words of an enemy should be spoken within the castle walls, to the sovereign’s face, was an unthinkable thing. Harta was exiled, told that his ship looked like nothing more than another sea belly for Stilleans to rot inside of, wooden kin to the sea-spine, a Lusca built by the hands of men.
Many taunted Harta as he left the city to return to his people in Hygoden, where they had fled. Dark mutterings were heard in Stille then. What punishment is it to send away one who wanders? Can words such as these be spoken to the king and left to stand?
The king heard these rumblings, as did his advisors, and it was decided that the best course of action might indeed be to give Harta what he asked. His conviction had not waned with exile, and there were those who shared his spirit, for whom the warm beaches of Stille and waving grains of Hyllen held little interest. Those who hold our land dear took offense, and arguments erupted, leading to more than a few bloodied noses and clashes in the streets of Stille, a city that had known no violence since the wave that tore away the Three Sisters.
And so it was decided that Harta should have what he asked for: permission to cut timber in the Stillean forest, enough to build his monstrous vision. He was sent for, arriving with a handful of people who shared his proclivities, and joined by others within the city who had become incensed by his spirit. They were a mixed lot: Pietra who wished to sail with oars instead of hopelessness; Stilleans who craved adventure; Hyllenians with no interest in shepherding; Feneen, who already knew what it was to be unwanted; and a handful of Indiri, their spots shifting colors with every living thing they put their hands upon.
This last sent even more ripples of unease through Stille, and the king ordered that Harta’s people would have their own outpost, a small gathering of rough homes built quickly and meant to last only the span of the shipbuilding. For the group could not be sheltered within the walls of Stille, with the speckled ones among them. The king sent messengers to report on their progress, anxious for the day when the malcontents would board their ship to sail or sink, taking their heresies with them.
But Harta would not see it hastily done, first building the ship in miniature, learning the ways of rigging and sails, teaching it to all who would crew. Years passed, and the king sent messengers less often as his interest waned. The shipbuilders stayed to themselves, and so went largely unremarked in the city until the day a rigged ship, sails full and flying, came around the cape.
Stilleans did not know if they should run to see the sight or cover their eyes. I for one, stood on the castle walls and watched, seeing the now gray-haired Harta on his ship, the mix of all this island’s peoples with him, the children that had been born to them during the long wait dashing along the deck, wild with excitement.
Harta’s ship passed along the shoreline once, those on board seeing the last of their homeland—the last of any land—and then turned away.
And so left Harta the sailor from Stillean shores, never to return.
CHAPTER 20
Donil
Tides,” I say, one hand going to my dagger as if it could help me somehow.
Khosa rests a hand on my shoulder, and I feel the thrum of the connection between us even through my clothing.
“I did not know how you would receive this,” she says gently. “To hear that you are not the last—”
“But that I am, in truth,” I correct her, an edge in my voice. “They did not return. Indiri rest in the sea, not able to return to earth.”
I have always known the rush of battle, the heat of anger, but for the first time, I understand Dara’s wrath. My blood races at the thought of Indiri feet taken from land, their roots torn from the earth only to rot in the sea. I would find this Harta, tear his thumbs from his hands so he could build nothing, not lead the innocent to be a meal for those that wear scales instead of skin. But Harta is long gone, and my anger can rest nowhere but in my own heart.
“The history says only that they did not return, not that they perished.”
“And which do you find more likely?” I asks. “It was a fool’s errand, put into action by a madman, carried out by those too ignorant to question him.”
“Do you call me ignorant, then?” Khosa takes her hand from me. “For if I had seen the boat, I would have run toward it, swimming with the sea-spines to reach its wooden belly.”
“No,” I concede, handing the loose pages back to her, though I wish to crush them in my hands. “You are far from that, too clever by half. Khosa, these things were hidden for a reason. Would you bring more discord to Stille?”
She carefully puts the pages back into the sheepskin bag at her shoulder. “No, I would not. I would bring them hope, the promise of something other than a battle against the Pietra for what land remains, little and less day by day. It is a fight we cannot win.”
“We can win,” I say stubbornly.
“At what cost?”
“What price lies on this?” I shoot back, rising to my feet. “You read the words, same as I. Discord, malcontents, violence. To tell Stilleans there is something other than this land will rest as well as . . . as bringing Indiri children inside their walls.”
Khosa drops her gaze, but not before I see her burgeoning disappointment. She came to me hoping I would stand with her. Vincent will not be hard to sway, though he has long been taught there is no earth other than what our feet stand upon. I know my friend already doubts the old teachings. A word from his wife could easily send him on a mad quest for that which does not exist. If I lend my support as well, the deed will be considered done. Vincent will have a ship built and ready to take them away—everyone I care for—at the turn of the tide.
“I cannot go upon the sea, Khosa,” I says, head down. “My sister walks this land, though she be far from me. Vincent chose you over her. Should I do the same, leave my blood behind to perish, only to be near a woman I cannot hav
e?”
“Vincent did not choose me over her,” Khosa says. “Stille made the decision for him.”
“And drove her from us all,” I insist. “Shall I widen that distance?”
We sit quietly together, the tide turning four revolutions, regrets and longing hanging heavy in the air.
“I hear,” Khosa finally says. “And I feel your burden, though I cannot share it. For my part, I would go, and though Stilleans may balk at the idea of boarding a ship, they must be given the choice.”
“I know you would go,” I say, the bitterness from my stomach spiking my words with gall. “Perhaps with less thought for me than you put on.”
Khosa’s head snaps up. “That is unfair.”
“Life is unfair!” I growl, my anger sparking hers as she comes to her feet.
“You tell me of unfair?” she seethes. “I am the Given, made to drown, bringer of ill news, unwitting wife, and barren queen. What will the histories say of me, or will all my pages be kept in dark places, when I ask Stille to build ships?”
“To the depths with the histories, and you too if you care more for how you appear in them than you do about the man who stands before you!”
The words are out before I can stop them, the darker part of my nature undoing all my gentleness. I can’t recall them, can’t gather the sounds from the air and shove them back into my throat. It is too late.
Khosa’s eyes flare. “Drown then, shall I? You’d see me dead if not yours? A fine thing to say to a woman, Donil of the Indiri!”
“Khosa, I did not mean—”
But I have no chance to redeem myself. Khosa is wild-eyed with rage. She kicks sand toward me with two savage thrusts and turns her back, skirts flying in the wind and the histories she’d trusted me with beating against her side as she runs back to the castle.
Back to her husband.
* * *
I know better than to find solace in drink, as my sister did the night she nearly led Khosa to her death. Wine tends to deepen whatever emotion we feel in the moment, and I fear the results of wandering any further into self-pity. So I seek comfort elsewhere, though I knows it will only pile trouble on top of misery.
* * *
“I’ve missed this skin,” Daisy says, rubbing a hand across my bare chest.
Though I know her body more thoroughly than any other, she never fails to get a reaction with her touch. The kitchen maid was raised in Hyllen, where women make no apologies for their desires, and Daisy is no exception.
“I’ve missed yours too,” I answer, and it is no lie. The two of us have spent many hours with each other in her small rooms, and I know the spot on her ceiling that I stare at now better than the stars in the sky. “You still drink the nilflower brew, yes?”
She turns into my shoulder, her sigh tickling the sensitive skin of my armpit. “Yes, lover, there will be no Indiri half-breeds. Worry not.”
“I wouldn’t say that I worry—”
“Yes, you do,” she corrects me. “Worry what your sister will say, what the Given will think.”
I turn toward her, catching her tone. “My sister is gone, and the Given married to another.”
“Yet I think your heart travels with both, and it is only your body that I receive in my bed.” Daisy’s smile is a sad one that I’ve not seen from her before. Our time together has always been spent in pleasure and jest, but there is a shadow upon her now.
“I do not think lightly of you,” I say, twisting my fingers in her hair. “But I cannot bond with one who is not of my kind and dilute what little Indiri blood is left.”
“You would for her, I think,” Daisy says, stilling my lips with her fingers when I would deny it. “Hush, Donil. Your body is honest with mine. Keep your words the same.”
I roll to her, covering her mouth with mine, and am quite honest with her, indeed.
CHAPTER 21
Dara
I needed a reminder that the Tangata is feral, and it came this morning.
Kakis has been sleeping with me every night, sharing heat and the soft touch of her fur. I’ve been lulled into this companionship, enjoying the way her ears twitch at my words, the small sounds she makes in her throat in agreement or annoyance. We have developed a language between us, one that has made the journey easier than when I walked alone. But I had forgotten that the soft pads of her feet carry claws, the rough tongue that sneaks meat from my hand is surrounded by teeth long as my fingers.
She has taken down a fadernal, a swift beast on four legs that only my best arrows can find. Yet Kakis raised her head, sniffed once, and broke through the undergrowth. I catch up to her some time later, gloating over prey caught but not yet killed. The fadernal, born only last season, judging by the length of its legs and knobbiness of its knees, is crushed beneath her furry belly, bleating like a goat separated from its mother.
“Kakis,” I reprimand her. “Kill it and be done.”
She glances at me, then pulls tufts of fadernal hair from her claws. Her body undulates as the fadernal tries to crawl from underneath her bulk. It nearly escapes, pulling itself by the front legs and freeing a third, before she casually swipes, claws going deep enough to puncture but not to kill. She pulls it back toward her, powerful jaws on slender throat, but does not crush it.
“Kakis,” I say again. “Enough play.”
I pull my knife and approach, ready to slice the fadernal’s throat if she won’t. But the cat growls the deep warning of one predator to another. This is her kill, and she’ll deliver the finishing blow in her own time.
I know better than to cross a Tangata, whether it shares my fire at night or not. I give her a dark look and my own growl, leaving her to the fadernal, and it to her. There is a clearing nearby where I see a flock of oderbirds watching quietly from the treetops, eyes wide, heavy heads bobbing on stalky necks. They have eyes only for Kakis, and I could pull my bow, take down dinner for this night and the next. But I do not. I have no appetite.
The fadernal has brought out a memory, this one my own. The Tangata have never been loved, and with good reason. In my twelfth year, a clowder took up residence on the road to Stille after discovering that Hyllenian travelers made good meals and were slower prey than their flocks of sheep. The cats developed a taste for our meat, and it being Stille, no one knew how to deal with them.
Gammal had called for Donil and me, though we were only children. Our Indiri memories had given us the skills of our ancestors. Donil could track animals that leave no prints, and I could kill anything with blood that spilled. The king set us upon the clowder, leaving instructions that none should remain. I had no qualms about killing cats, though I knew Donil balked. Yet, if succeeding could win us some respect in Stille, Donil would do it. I knew well that the stares from the nobles and words spoken beneath discreetly cupped hands did not sit well with him.
We left Stille, his heart heavy at the thought of killing so many beasts, mine light at being upon the road, no more walls around us. Even leaving Vincent behind bothered me little, and my heart clenches tight now at the remembrance, Vin standing at the parapets to watch us go, Dissa beside him.
I take a deep breath, willing my chest to unbind, the raging knot there to untangle itself. Both the son and mother are dear to me, now and in my memory, and I cannot look upon their faces without feeling as if a spear has passed through me. An oderbird clucks at me, his clipped beak snapping a question.
“I’ll not die down here, to be your meal,” I say to it, and fling a rock into the trees, scattering the flock. They are not convinced and resume their positions moments later, eyes bright and curious as I relive that moment, Vincent’s disappointment at being left behind clearly visible as we rode away, and Dissa’s worry the most vibrant thing she had inside of her.
The Hylleneans offered us food in plenty, but no beds. We were to deliver them from being meals for cats, but were expe
cted to sleep with their goats. As always, the rejection filled me with rage, while Donil would only shrug and steer me to the barn, one hand on my shoulder to prevent me from drawing my blade and putting an end to their impertinence.
“We’re here to help,” he reminded me as we settled into the hay, where a trio of kids nestled up to Donil instantly.
“I’ll help them,” I said. “Into an early grave.”
“And what good that?” Donil scolded me. “Stille will not love you more for shearing heads from those who shear the sheep.”
“Will they love us ever?” I asked. “We came here with bloody footprints following behind and have never become clean in their eyes. Gammal sends us to clear a Tangata clowder today. We are their tame killers, sent in to do what they cannot. What shall we be put upon next, I wonder? All of Pietra?”
“Perhaps they’ll fashion us fins and ask for the head of a Lusca,” Donil jested. I shiver now at the memory. For all of our knowledge of the past, we could not know that we would be sent for a Lusca, and come home to find the Given sharing a plate with Vincent, our lives altered forever by her arrival.
The next day one of the Hyllenean women had come to us with tears in her eyes and the tale of her young boy, sent out to retrieve a herd three suns before, never returned. We found his small body in the woods, and though he had been missing for some time, the death wound on his throat bled red and his skin still held heat.
There were older wounds on his legs and heels, a long scrape on his arm where he had been dragged. Donil had wrapped the boy in his own cloak, but not before I read the story there.
A story of time passed with cats who would not let him go, yet not kill him either. The tears that had dried on his face had done so not long before, and when we found the clowder, I made many die, allowing none of them to go quickly.