Текст книги "Water & Storm Country"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Chapter Thirty-Two

Sadie

Gard’s asleep when we bring the prisoners, but snaps awake in an instant when we rouse him. In the scant light, the dark parts of his eyes are huge, just thin circles of white surrounding them.

He orders us to take the prisoners to an empty, rarely used tent. The prison tent. During a few of the battles with the Soakers growing up, one or two of the enemy would be captured, rather than killed. According to Mother, it wasn’t our first preference, but it still happened.

We used to hear their cries light up the night as they were tortured for information on the Soakers’ future plans.

We push the prisoners inside the empty tent, their arms tied tightly behind them. We’ve lashed their feet together, too, so they can only take small half-steps. For good measure they’re tethered to each other. If they try to escape they’ll be dead in an instant.

The inside of the tent is bare, save for a thick pole running up the middle, connecting with thinner poles that arc down the sides and provide the enclosure’s structure. The center pole will be the prisoners’ home while in the camp. While another Rider and I hold a sword to each of their throats, two other Riders cinch them to the pole. They’re still tied to each other. They don’t complain, just stare at us. The one calling himself Feve meets my narrow eyes with a glare, while Dazz’s, the pale-skinned one from ice country, eyes are softer, more curious.

Gard storms in, Remy in tow.

Although the war leader’s giant form has to be intimidating to the two foreigners, they don’t show it, just watch him with what appears to be a mix of anger and interest.

I meet Remy’s eyes. Well done, he mouths. I respond with a nod.

While we stand at attention and watch, Gard paces back and forth in front of the prisoners, his boots stomping the dirt floor, his black robe swirling around his feet, making him appear even larger.

The one called Feve—who I can see, in the light of the torches planted inside the tent, has strange dark markings curling from inside his shirt and around his neck—furrows his brows deeper with each of Gard’s stomps. Dazz’s hands are clenched tightly in his lap, his knuckles white and blotched with red. Why have they come? They look poised to fight, but if that were the case, why would they surrender themselves?

Stopping suddenly, Gard says, “You killed two of our guards.” His thick brows are like caterpillars over his eyes, casting them in shadow.

“They tried to kill us first,” Feve says.

“You snuck up on them.”

Dazz shakes his head. “Maybe we should’ve done things somewhat differently, but we approached directly. We never raised our weapons.” Right away, I notice a significant contrast in the way these two speak. Feve’s words are rounder, everything slightly longer. Dazz’s speech is tighter and sharper.

“So you don’t deny it?” Gard says.

“Deny that we defended ourselves?” Feve says, mockery in his tone. “Oh no, we did that all right. Pretty searin’ well, I’d say.” A question pops into my mind: Could one of these men have killed my mother? A slash of anger scathes across my chest.

Echoing my temper, Gard moves forward, surprisingly quick for such a large man, and clamps his meaty fist around Feve’s neck, lifting him from the floor. Because they’re connected, one of Dazz’s arms gets pulled up the pole to follow Feve.

The Marked one’s face turns red as he chokes, but he doesn’t struggle, doesn’t try to stop Gard from killing him.

Ten heartbeats pass. Twenty. Feve’s skin is sky-red.

Thirty heartbeats. Gard throws him to the floor where he grabs at his throat, wheezing, coughing, and finally hocking a clump of spit in the dirt.

Gard waits patiently while he composes himself. “Did you both participate in the killing?” he asks once Feve is sitting up again. Did you kill my mother? I want to ask.

“Just me,” Feve says. “I’m sure Dazz here would’ve, but I was too quick. I killed them both before he could even draw his…fists.”

When Dazz fires a glare in Feve’s direction, Feve smirks, the closest thing I’ve seen to a smile from either of them.

“There is only one punishment for murder in our country,” Gard says. “Death.”

“You kill him and you’ll have to kill me too,” Dazz says, his voice filled with tiny daggers.

Feve’s head turns toward his companion, and I swear I see a look of surprise flash across his face.

“Gladly,” I mutter under my breath, but nobody hears me.

“Now why would you say that?” Gard asks.

“Because he’s my brother.” Feve’s eyes widen and there’s no doubt this time that he’s as shocked as the rest of us. Silence fills the tent, expanding from the prisoners at the center and pushing outward in waves until I swear the tent is bulging with it.

They sure don’t look like brothers, I think. Clearly, Gard is surprised by the statement too, his eyes flicking from Feve to Dazz with narrow eyebrows.

“You don’t look like brothers,” he says.

“Well, we’re just the same.”

“As much as I’d like to kill you both,” Gard says, “our law only requires the death of he who committed the crime. But I’ll gladly let you watch.”

“Now hold on just one minute,” Dazz says, his voice rising. “Your men attacked us. We did nothing wrong.”

“You trespassed on our lands and killed two men. Someone must pay.”

Dazz cringes. Feve says, “What if I were to tell you that we have you surrounded by a hundred men, pointers nocked and ready to fly at the first sign of our lives being in danger?”

I gasp and hold it, picturing men, some brown, some pale, creeping through the forest, weapons in hand. We’ve always feared our enemies on the sea, but what if we should’ve been focused in the other direction?

As the need to breathe again grows stronger, there’s a commotion outside the tent. “Touch me agin and I’ll smack that grin right offa yer face quicker’n you can say prickler casserole!” a high-pitched voice shouts. It’s round and long, similar to Feve’s, but different still, more raw and pronounced.

The tent flap flutters and a brown-skinned face appears, wearing a scowl deeper than a well. A girl’s face.

There’s a guard on either side, forcing her to walk in a straight line as she does everything in her power to wrench away from them, despite how skinny she is. She only stops when she sees our other prisoners. “Uh, oops,” she says.

“What happened?” Dazz says, his mouth hanging open. Next to him, Feve rolls his eyes.

“We kinda sorta mighta got caught,” she says.

Behind her, another brown-skinned girl is pushed inside. She looks older, her jaw hardened, her frame slightly larger, her muscles more defined. Other than that, they could be sisters. “We’re ’ere to rescue the lot of you,” she announces, bashing a shoulder into the guard on her left side, who flinches, pain flashing across his face.

I gawk at the two girls, blinking hard in wonder. Because…they remind me so much of myself, except…brasher, less polished. Tough but a little unpredictable. More mouthy for sure.

But that’s not the end of it. Two more souls stumble inside, flanked by at least five more guards. There’s another guy who must be from ice country, his skin every bit as white as Dazz’s. He’s thicker and shorter than Dazz, but softer, like the difference between an apple and peach, and wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, so out of place for the situation.

The fourth new prisoner is another brown-skinned guy, but with no markings. His demeanor breathes calmness and control, his face unreadable, his steps sure and unforced despite the sword at his back.

Gard has stepped aside to let the new prisoners enter, watching silently and with one eyebrow arched as they’re lashed to the pole. A strange clump of brown and white.

“Welcome to the party,” Dazz says as the other pale-skinned guy is tied next to him.

“Of all the searin’ stupid things…” Feve mutters.

“Like you can talk, o’ wise one,” the skinny girl says, “it was yer idea to get yerself caught in the first place!”

“Shut it! All of you!” Gard snaps. Silence ensues once more, but it’s less absolute, filled with ragged breathing, occasional coughs, and lots of scuffling and scraping as the prisoners try to get comfortable.

Gard steps forward. “And these are the hundred men that had us surrounded?” he says, directing his question to Dazz.

“Uhhh…” Dazz says.

“I see,” Gard says. “Then the one you call Feve must die at dawn.”

Everyone starts yelling at once.

~~~

It takes a whole lot of screaming and the swords of each of the Riders to restore order. I’ve got the tip of my sword up against Dazz’s neck, and Remy’s next to me with his blade pointed at the smiley white-skinned guy. He’s not smiling anymore.

“This is burnin’ crazy!” the muscly girl exclaims when things have quieted down. “You steal our children and then git all hot and bothered when we come askin’ questions? That’s a load of tugblaze if you ask me.”

Things have been so strange and out of control that I’d forgotten what got us here in the first place.

We are only here to understand why you steal our children. Dazz’s words on the edge of camp—the words that stopped me from killing him right then and there.

I stare at him now. “Or don’t you know?” he says. “Is your so-called war leader keeping it from you? He trades the Cure for the Heater children. He tried to buy my sister to marry his son.”

His words bounce off my face, numbing my skin. None of it makes any sense. It’s the Soakers who trade for the children. That’s why my mother rode to ice country, as my father foretold. And what’s all this about Remy marrying this pale guy’s sister?

“Enough!” Gard snaps. “Enough of the lies! They won’t save you now.”

“Wait,” I say, my mind ticking over everything that’s just been said, trying to make sense of it. “We have to understand.”

Gard’s eyes narrow for a second, but then he nods once. Carry on.

“Why do you think we’re stealing the Heater children?” I ask.

“Not stealing—trading. But I guess it’s more or less the same thing. Your”—he waves his arms around the tent at all of us, at the Riders—“warriors attacked my village, burning and frightening the people half to death.”

“We killed the king,” I say, nodding. So far I don’t disagree.

“No,” Dazz says. “I captured the king.”

Gard suddenly strides forward, his expression wide. He grabs Dazz by the top of his shirt, turns his face toward the light. “Wait…I know you.”

Dazz’s eyes flash with recognition. “And I you,” he says. “You’re the one…” He trails off.

“Who saved your ass and left you with the girl,” Gard says. “Your sister.”

“And the king,” Dazz says. My eyes dance back and forth between them, trying to make sense of a story I wasn’t a part of.

“The dead king,” Gard corrects.

Dazz shakes his head. “No, you’re wrong.”

“I know when I’ve killed a man,” Gard says sternly, but there’s no anger in his voice, only certainty.

“Oh, the man was dead,” Dazz agrees. “But he wasn’t the king. He was only a puppet figurehead—the captain of the guard. I injured the real king and saved my sister. The sister who you”—the word shoots from his mouth like a knife—“wanted to force to marry your son, using my life as leverage so she’d obey him.”

“No,” Gard says. “I swear that’s not true.” Not a lie, just not true. There’s been a change in Gard’s tone over the last few minutes. He’s no longer accusing the intruders; rather, trying to get to the truth. “I would never…It’s the Soakers who were taking the children from Goff, trading for them. They must’ve been the ones who wanted your sister.”

“It’s true,” I say. “The Riders only went to your country to stop them. We were against the slave trade from the beginning. All we wanted was to send a message, to kill the king.”

Dazz stares at me, his expression heavy with confusion. He tries to raise a hand to his face, but when he remembers it’s tied behind him, he settles for knocking the back of his head against the pole.

“I knew it,” the guy next to him says. “I knew it when you only burned the empty houses, when you only killed the castle guardsmen.”

“So it’s the searin’ baggard Soakers who took my sister?” the strong girl says on the other side of the pole. Her voice is deep and raspy.

I nod, and then realizing she can’t see me, say, “Yes. I swear it on the souls of my parents and brother, may Mother Earth keep them.”

“And what of the Cure?” Feve says evenly.

“The cure for what?” Remy asks.

For the first time, the unmarked brown-skinned guy speaks. “For the Fire. For the Cold. For the illness that kills our people. Do you have a terrible disease in storm country?”

“The Plague,” I whisper, the word becoming bigger and bigger in my head, pushing on my skull. A headache throbs just above my nose. “My father…”

“The Plague,” Dazz whispers back. “It killed my father too.”

“And my mother,” the skinny girl says softly.

“Who was my mother, too,” the muscly girl says. So they are sisters after all.

“You say you have a cure?” Gard asks.

“Not us,” Dazz says. “Whoever trades it to the Icers for the children. The Soakers, you say?”

“Yes,” Gard says. “But we’ve seen it. It’s nothing more than dried sea plants, plucked from the shores and gathered in bags.”

“You can get it?” Dazz says sharply.

“Yes, but it’s nothing. Just plants.” Gard crouches next to me, as large as a bear. “You mean you think it’s a cure for the Plague?”

“Yes,” Dazz says, nodding vehemently. “Why else would the Heaters and Icers go to so much trouble to trade children for it?”

“Are you sure it works?” I say.

“It must,” Dazz says. “You say you’ve seen it. Surely you’d know if it had healing properties.”

“We don’t consume anything that comes from the sea,” Gard says. “It’s not clean.”

There’s silence for a moment as everyone processes what’s been said so far. Remy breaks the silence with a question directed to Dazz. “You say your sister was to be taken and married to—well, you thought it was me, but it could only be Admiral Jones’ son?”

“You’re his son?” Dazz says, motioning to Gard.

“Yes, but I swear—”

“I know,” Dazz says, forcing a smile. “You’re not the one who was supposed to marry my sister. Otherwise you’d be dead already.” His smile hangs for a moment, but no one returns it. “Who’s this Admiral Jones fellow?”

“The leader of the Soakers,” Gard says. “He commands their entire fleet.”

“I’ll kill those baggard Soakers,” the older sister says. Suddenly I’m starting to like her a lot more.

But then, looking at the pale face of the Icer sitting in front of me, my thoughts turn back to my mother, bloody and dying. “Did you fight the Riders when they came?”

“No,” Dazz says quickly. And then, “Well, yes, but not because we wanted to. The Riders were fighting the castle guards; we were only trying to get to the king, to get to my sister. We only fought those who tried to stop us. There were Riders who mistook us for their enemies.”

Cold fingers run along the back of my neck. He might’ve been the very Icer who killed your mother, the Evil says. Honor her! AVENGE HER!

I once more raise my sword, which had fallen loosely to my side, to his throat. “Did you kill any of them?”

“I—I don’t know,” Dazz says. “Maybe. I can’t be sure. We were protecting ourselves.”

“Sadie,” Gard says. “I was there. It was chaos, Icer guardsmen streaming from every nook and cranny in the castle. It’s very unlikely any of these ones had anything to do with your mother’s death.”

My fingers are sore from their firm grip on my sword. My teeth begin to ache from the grinding. I shake the Evil off my back, drop my sword once more. I know Gard’s right.

“Your mother was a Rider?” the skinny girl says.

“Yes,” I say. “She died from wounds inflicted during the raid on Goff’s castle.”

“I’m…sorry,” she says. “So searin’ sorry.” It’s not an empty apology—there’s real sadness behind it—and I remember her saying how her mother died from the Plague.

“What now?” Feve growls. “Must I die? Because the anticipation is killing me.” His tone doesn’t match his words and I realize he’s being sarcastic. This is not a man who fears death.

“You killed our guards. They had families.” Gard’s words are unforgiving.

“He didn’t want to,” Dazz says. “We just wanted to talk to you.”

“I am not a tyrant,” Gard says. “I know your experiences with tribe leaders have been…severe…but I’m not like them. What would you have me do?”

I’m surprised he’s asking for suggestions from his prisoners. I’m about to object when the unmarked Heater guy says, “A life for a life is the only choice. But not Feve’s life. The lives of the Soakers. They’re the ones who deserve to be punished, who have brought terror and sadness upon all of us. We will stand with you and risk our lives alongside you; we will fight with you.”

My heart races as I watch Gard absorb the offer. What will he do? My father’s prophecies roar through me.

There will be a great battle with the Soakers.

“Thank you for your honesty,” Gard says.

You will fight magnificently, maybe more so than your mother.

“I believe that you’ve been through a lot, that you’ve been harmed by the Soakers as much as we have.”

You will see him, the high-ranking Soaker boy in the blue uniform.

“And you shall fight, for war is upon us.”

You will kill him, the voice says, but this time it’s not the memory of my father’s words. It’s the whispered shadow-voice in my ear. The Evil has spoken.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Huck

I awake to a foot on my chest, pushing the air out of my lungs. I can’t breathe—I can’t.

I gasp, clawing at the foot, feeling only dead air and embarrassment.

No one’s there.

I expel a hot and angry breath, rolling over onto my stomach. I pound the pillow, once, twice, three times.

Darkness pours through the portal window, which makes me sigh with relief. Light means day. Day means punishment.

Can I do it?

Can I really do it?

There will be no blood in the water, for which I am thankful, but there will be blood; reflected in my eyes with each snap of my wrist.

I rise to my feet, ignoring my boots lying on their side on the floor and my uniform hanging neatly on the wall. Tonight I’m ashamed to be Lieutenant Jones, not for my past actions, but for my future ones.

Hastily, I exit and climb the stairs. The ship is asleep, its monstrous belly rising and falling on the Deep Blue’s breaths. Starlight rains down upon me, the beauty of which is only dwarfed by the full moon that hangs big and bright and low in the sky, casting a white pathway across the dark ocean, all the way to the land, which unrolls itself to the edge of the forest.

I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t see her, not when I’ll have to hurt her in just a few hours. But like Soakers to the sea, I’m drawn to her, as if my every step toward her is as vital as breathing, as drinking fresh water, as the very beating of my shadowed heart, which cries bloody tears.

Be strong. Be strong for her.

Chained to one of the lesser, unbroken masts, she watches me descend to the main deck, her eyes as wide and awake as mine. Despite the situation, the memory of the first time I saw her springs to mind—her glare, the anger rising off of her in waves, almost taking physical form. Unwanted laughter bubbles from my throat, defeated only when I clamp my jaw tight, allowing only an animal groan to escape my lips.

The look she gives me now almost seems impossible considering where we’ve come from.

“I was hoping you would come,” she says, sounding much older than she looks.

“How could I not?” I say.

“But I’m—I’m nothing.” Her words are defeatist, but they don’t match the position of her chin, which is held high. She doesn’t mean nothing at all, just nothing to the Soakers. Nothing to my people.

“You’re something to me,” I say, but even that sounds pitifully like nothing. “Not something,” I say, “someone. Someone important. Someone that matters.”

“You risked your life,” she says. It’s not the risk of dying on the storm-angry ocean waters that I think she’s referring to, but my life as a Soaker, as a lieutenant, as a somebody.

“All of that is nothing,” I say. That word again: so absolute, so final. And yet…I mean it with every part of my being.

“You can’t do this—not for me,” she says.

Do what? Then it hits me like a blast of icy ocean water. Why I’m here. Why I awoke and came above. Not to see her. Well, not just to see her. I’m here to run away with her. The realization fills me with more emotions than I can decipher in the moment. There’s exhilaration, a long-held desire for adventure and for change that fills me to joy overflowing. But the fear and the dread are every bit as powerful, grabbing my heart, squeezing it so tightly I begin to worry it might burst, leaving me shaking and useless on the wooden deck.

I drop to a knee, trying to catch my breath.

“I have to,” I say after a few minutes of silence and breathing. “I want to.”

“I won’t ask you to,” she says, lifting a hand toward me, rattling her chain. She won’t ask me to throw my life away. But would I be throwing it away or reclaiming it?

“You don’t have to,” I say, inching toward her. I need to hold her hand, to draw strength from her seemingly endless store.

She reaches for me, and I for her, my fingers buzzing with excitement, a hair’s breadth from hers.

“Son?” my father says.

I jerk back, shuddering, clutching my hand to my gut as if it’s been stung. I turn to face him, expecting the worst.

Instead, he says only, “Walk with me.”

Everything in me wants to deny him, to cast away the lifelong respect and admiration I’ve held for the man who raised me, who taught me, who groomed me to be a leader, but I can’t. His simple request holds power over me, cutting the tethers that link me to Jade. I cast an apologetic glance back at her as I fall into step beside the admiral. Her eyes are flat and noncommittal.

Together, father and son, we climb the steps to the quarterdeck. Silent, we walk to the bow, my father’s fingers grazing the unused wheel as we pass.

He rests his hands on the railing when we reach it, stretching his gaze out over the endless waters. Naturally, I do the same, mimicking his movements, like I’ve always done. When I realize it, I pull my hands away from the wooden barrier, lean a hip into it, cross one leg over the other. Anything to look different than him.

“I never had a chance to tell you that story about your mother,” Father says, raising his chin slightly, the ball in his neck bobbing.

“No,” I say, dragging out the word, wondering whether I still want to hear what he has to say.

“You can’t be with a bilge rat,” he says, changing the subject quickly and drastically.

I snap a look at him, but he doesn’t return it. He knows. Maybe he’s known since Hobbs first accused me, and yet…he hasn’t acted upon it—not yet anyway.

“I’m not who you think I am,” I say.

“You’re EXACTLY who I think you are,” my father says, his tone and demeanor changing as quickly as the topic of conversation. His shoulders are rising and falling with each breath, the hard lines of his face quivering.

I say nothing, my skin cold and numb.

“I could’ve made you kill her, you know,” he says after his breathing returns to normal. His tone is calm again, controlled.

“You couldn’t have made me do it,” I say before I can think better of it. But I’m glad for saying it. The truth seems to scrape the numbness away, spreading warmth through me.

“One way or another, I could end her,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Why didn’t you?” I ask, slicing the night with my words.

“Because I don’t want to lose you,” he says. I stare at him, and even when he finally meets my eyes, I don’t try to hide my surprise. “It’s true,” he continues. “I know I don’t show it often, but I care about you. I want the best for you. And the best is not her.”

His last words should anger me but they don’t, because I’ve never seen this side of him—have never felt this side of him. Is it real?

“Then don’t make me punish her,” I say.

“Her crimes cannot go without repercussions,” he says. “And you must be the one to do it, to send a message to the men, to stamp out the rumors. And then you’ll be moved to another ship, and you’ll never see her again. It’s for the best, Son. You are the future of the Jones’ line of Soaker leadership. It is your duty.”

No!

no!

no.

(no?)

Each time I think the word, more and more doubt creeps into my mind, because my father believes in me now. He trusts me to continue the Soaker tradition, to lead our people someday. How can I deny him that? How can I deny him when I’ve failed him in the worst way possible? And then I remember how our conversation started.

“What did you want to tell me about Mother?” I ask, shaking my head, because just speaking her name causes images to flash in my mind: her panic-stricken face; my father’s hardened, accusing stare; the swarming sharp-tooths.

The images are dispelled only when my father speaks again. “Your mother’s death wasn’t exactly as you remember,” he says.

I close my eyes, try to remember that night. For once, when I actually want to, I can’t. I see only black, spotted with the memory of twinkling stars.

“I saw everything,” my father says, which is what scares me the most. He saw how I failed—he saw my weakness. I almost can’t believe we’re talking about that night after so many yars of pretending it never happened.

“She didn’t fall,” he says, and I realize he’s in as much denial as I am.

“Father,” I say, unsure of what I’ll say next.

But I never find out, because he rushes on. “Your mother arrived early at the rail for a reason that night, Son. And it wasn’t to meet you. At first she thought she wanted to see you, to say her goodbyes, but in the end she didn’t have the courage.”

My eyes flash open, searching for the truth in my father’s eyes. Goodbyes? Courage? It wasn’t to meet you. Then why…?

Something breaks inside me—a barrier or a bone or my very heart. And I remember.

I remember.

(I don’t want to, but I do.)

Mother’s at the railing, not looking out over the water like she normally does, but straight down, into the depths of the Deep Blue. Her whole body seems tired, slumped, like her skin’s hanging limply from her bones. She doesn’t hear me coming. Doesn’t look back at me. There is no wave, no unexpected lurch of the ship.

She swings a leg over the railing, and I know exactly what’s happening. Despite my long-held childish beliefs that everything’s going to be okay, that we’re a happy family, I know deep in the throes of my soul that nothing’s okay. I’ve heard the arguing, the fighting; I’ve seen the bruises and the welts, the days when she can’t show her black-eyed face above deck.

Like in my memory, I run, but not to save my mother from a tragic accident caused by a rogue wave and a random loss of balance…but from herself.

She’s going to kill herself.

No, she does kill herself. And it’s not my fault, not really, but still it is, because I’m too slow—so pathetically slow—that when I reach her she’s already gone, into the salt and the spray and the battling fins.

In my memories, I meet my father’s glare and finally, I know. He’s not angry at me, but at her—at my mother. For what?

“Father, why?” I say, still in the memory, forcing a question at his narrowed eyes and tight lips.

But I’ve spoken it out loud in the present, too, and my father grips my shoulder, chasing away the memory with a squeeze. “She left us,” he says. “She left us both.”

And then I’m crying into his shoulder, crying so hard it burns my eyes and strains at my muscles.

He suffers me for a while, his arm stiff and uncomfortable around me, but finally says, “And that’s why you need to take a wife from ice country.”

I stop crying suddenly, pull away from him. “Mother’s death has nothing to do with who I marry,” I say, wiping at my face with my sleeve.

“Your mother was a hard woman. Disobedient. Like that bilge rat girl of yours. You need someone who will do as they’re told, obey you, support you in all things.”

“Don’t speak ill of my mother, or Jade,” I say, feeling a sudden urge to lash out, to hit him, regardless of the consequences. I hold my hands firmly against my hips, shocked at my own impulses. I’ve never had thoughts like these before. I’m changing…

But why? And do I want to?

I look away from him, wishing he’d disappear.

His hand is on my throat in an instant, squeezing hard enough to make breathing difficult, but not enough to cut it off entirely. “From this point on, you will do as you’re told. Until I die, I’m still the admiral of this fleet and your commander. You will whip that girl, you will leave this ship, and you will take a wife from ice country.”

He throws me to the deck and stomps away, leaving me gasping and clutching at my neck, just as the sky begins to turn pink on the horizon.