Текст книги "Water & Storm Country"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Chapter Thirty-Six

Sadie

The heavy cloud cover grows darker as we gallop across the plains, the thunder from the horses’ hooves matching the thunder in the sky above.

When the ships appear in the distance my heart skips a beat, but then races onwards, double time, matching Passion’s speed.

Siena grips me tighter from behind.

Trusting Passion to run us in a straight line, I gaze over the thin stretch of ocean that separates the Soakers from us. Something’s happening. Hundreds of Soakers are assembled on one ship, so tightly packed they almost look like ants, crawling over each other to get into their hole.

The crowded ship looks strange compared to the others, like something’s missing. Like there’s a huge gap in the middle of it. Where the other ships have a thick, wooden pole in the center, stretching higher than any of the other totems, this ship has nothing, making it appear weaker. It’s not by design—of that I’m certain. Something happened to this ship, crippling it. Is the assembly related to whatever disaster overcame the ship’s wind-catcher?

The ants have spotted us. The barks of loud shouts 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, because the people of the sea begin swarming across thick wooden planks, returning to each and every ship in the fleet. Boats begin dropping into the water with white, frothy splashes. Men clamber down ropes, swords gleaming from their belts, filling the boats to overflowing.

Someone ordered them to go to war. Was it the blue-clad boy I saw atop the hill, the one in my father’s vision? Am I approaching the moment predicted by my father, where destiny will meet vengeance?

Yesss, the Evil whispers in my ear, once more clutching my shoulder. This time, whether real or fantasy, I don’t shake it off.

Huck

My father’s clutching the back of his head, where he must’ve hit it when I tackled him onto the deck, but that doesn’t stop him from shouting orders over the heavy murmurs of the crowd. “To arms! To the boats! To war!”

The men charge back to their ships, grabbing weapons and preparing the boats, while the women scamper below deck seeking shelter.

I’m in an ocean of activity, swarming and cresting and crashing about me, but I can’t take my eyes off of her.

Jade hangs awkwardly from her wrists, swinging slightly in the breeze. With her shirt completely torn away in the back, exposing her ripped and shredded skin, she almost doesn’t look human. Just a piece of meat, drying in the wind.

My heart sits in my throat and I can’t manage to choke down the sob that suddenly convulses in my chest. “Jade,” I whisper. “Oh no, Jade. What have I done?” Other than the slight swinging motion, she’s not moving.

As I take a step forward, the rains begin, swept onto the ships by an offshore wind. I barely feel the cold of the drops, which pelt Jade’s exposed flesh, mingling with the blood, washing it away in streams of red.

Beneath the thin layer of blood, her brown skin is almost indistinguishable as that of a Heater, slashed to ribbons and pocked with bulging welts from those of the leather straps that didn’t manage to break the skin.

“Oh no, Jade,” I say again as I go to her, oblivious to the war cries erupting all around me.

Right now, in this moment, she is the only person on earth.

My fault my fault my fault.

If I hadn’t taught her to repair sails would she have tried to save us in the storm? If I hadn’t taken her to the crow’s nest, would she have climbed up there in fear? If if if if…

…if I hadn’t raised my hand and struck her, would she be broken now?

At least I know the answer to that question is yes. Given the vicious manner in which my father delivered the final blow, it’s clear he would’ve brutally issued the punishment on his own if I had refused.

I reach her, withdraw a knife from my belt, grab her under the arms being careful not to touch the rawness of her wounds, and cut her down. Her body is limp and lifeless as it falls against me, her shredded shirt clinging to her front because of the rain.

Slowly, slowly, I lower myself to the wet deck, letting her lie on top of me, her head resting on my chest. I can’t put my arms around her, because then they’ll touch her back, so they stick out awkwardly at my sides.

Her eyes are closed, but her lips are open, breathing. Exhaustion and shock from the pain have rendered her unconscious. For that I’m thankful.

And now, while the rest of the seamen go to war, I’m content to just hold her until she awakes, drinking in the rainwater streaming down my face, quenching my burning throat.

“Oh, Jade, I’m so sorry,” I say, although I know she can’t hear me and that it’s not enough, that my words are but a drop in the oceans of forgiveness.

I raise my head as heavy footsteps clomp across the deck. My father stands above me, his shadow falling over my face. Water drips from his admiral’s cap, obscuring parts of his face like I’m looking at him through a rain-drizzled glass portal.

“Not as sorry as you’ll be if you don’t board the officer’s landing boat,” he says.

“I’m staying with her,” I say between clenched teeth. The time for listening to my father’s orders is long past. First my mother, and now Jade. Enough.

He has the sword at Jade’s neck before I even see him draw it.

“You’ll fight or she dies.”

Sadie

The first of the boats rides a long wave onto shore, allowing the heavily armed Soakers to leap out without trudging through knee-high water.

Another boat lands. Then another. Soon there are dozens, all in a brown-and-blue-striped line, scattering men with swords and knives like a pinecone scatters seeds.

Gard has halted on the plains, even with where the boats are landing. We stand in a long ribbon of black, both horse and Rider. As one, we melt into the storm, which has raised a light fog, reducing visibility to barely the edge of the ocean. We know the ships are there, bearing more men in more boats, but we can’t see them until they run aground.

“I can start feathering those baggards now,” Siena says from behind me.

At first I don’t know what she means, but then she holds out her bow to the side. Even as she does, Gard shouts, “Archers! To arms!”

Remembering the satchel of arrows hanging around my neck in the front, I unloop it and hand it to my riding companion. “Can’t hardly shoot from up here,” she says, swinging a leg over and dropping to the ground. Her legs tangle and she almost falls, but she manages to catch her balance with the tip of her bow, like a walking stick. She flashes me a smile, says, “I’d be lucky to hit a blind tug in a sandstorm.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that, so I turn my attention back to the beach, where the Soakers are already charging up the slight incline to the plains, swords swinging with their arms.

“Aim!” Gard shouts. At the edge of my vision I see Siena nock an arrow, bringing it up to eye level. Down the line, dozens of archers do the same.

“Fire!” A flock of arrows sings through the storm, illuminated by dual flashes of lightning, joining the drops of moisture that rain upon our enemies. Soakers fall in droves, tumbling to the sand and tripping up those who were lucky enough not to be hit. Every man I can see is wearing brown. Where are the officers?

The Soakers reach the edge of the plains and pick up speed as their feet find greater purchase on the hard-packed grass than they had on the constantly shifting sands. Another round of arrows fly, and this time I watch Siena shoot. Her form is impeccable and her arrow lodges within the upper chest of a particularly angry-looking Soaker. When he drops, there’s no question it was a fatal wound.

“Baggard,” she mutters under her breath as she draws another arrow. “When I’m done with the lot of you, you’ll be pricklier’n Perry.”

Although I don’t know Perry, I’ve got a pretty good idea what she means. Her next arrow is every bit as effective as the first two, bringing down another Soaker.

“Hold your fire!” Gard shouts. “Riders!” My ears perk up. The Soakers are much closer now, perhaps only a hundred strides away.

I grip Passion’s mane. “You are mine and I am yours,” I whisper in her ear. She bucks, rising onto her hind legs, kicking her front hooves in front of her, anticipating the command.

She starts forward a split second before Gard yells, “Chaaaarrrggge!”

Huck

“I hate you,” I say, but I obey him, easing myself out from under Jade, resting her gently on the deck. Head pounding, I realize I’ll kill him if I have the chance. I want to kill him.

The admiral doesn’t move, keeps the tip of his sword at her neck.

“I love her,” I say, shocked at my own boldness. The time for caution and subservience is long past. “If you kill her, I’ll kill you.”

“I don’t doubt it,” my father says. “Get in the boat.”

It’s only then that I notice groups of bilge rats—both girls and boys—milling about near the edge of the ship. Every few seconds, another one leaps over the side. When they’ve all disappeared below, large rafts float into view, pushed forward by dozens of oars.

“What are they…” I say, but I don’t need to finish the question to know the answer. Anger rises so fast and hot that it feels as if I’ve swallowed the burning end of a lit torch.

“Today, even the filthiest of rats must fight,” my father says. Then, motioning to Jade’s sleeping form, he adds, “If she could stand, she’d fight too.”

My anger fades in an instant. My mind buzzes with a strange and unexpected excitement. Although everything I’ve done, every choice I’ve made to this point has led to Jade being bloody and broken, it also might’ve saved her life. She doesn’t have to fight, and when this is all over, I will go to her, I will mend her wounds, and I will take her away from this awful place. I will. I will find a way.

Casting a final glance at her, I stride across the deck to where the other officers are boarding a sleek, polished-wood sea-craft. Hobbs is already sitting near the front, along with a dozen other blue-clad lieutenants and captains. Even Montgomery is there, although he looks like he might be sick, his face greener than the churning ocean around him.

Cain waits for me. “Stay alive for her,” he says, low enough that only I can hear him. “The time for mutiny isn’t far away.”

I lick my lips. Although he’s helped me keep my secret from my father, I never expected him to go so far as to openly rebel against his leadership. “Thank you,” I say, clasping his shoulders. “Fight alongside me.”

He nods and slides down the rope. I follow shortly after him. Last to board is my father. I make a point of inspecting his sword, which is perfectly shined silver, not a speck of blood on it. Unless he wiped it clean afterwards, he’s spared Jade for now.

We push off from the ship and pull toward shore, which is nearly invisible in the growing fog.

Sadie

Wind whips around me and rain spatters my face, but Mother Earth isn’t trying to stop me—more like egging me on, telling me that she sees what I’m doing and she approves. When lightning flashes, it flashes for me.

We’re halfway to the charging Soakers and closing fast. I spot Remy, who looks dark and dangerous and ready, and a sudden and surprising lump gels in my throat. This could be the last time I see him. Then I notice Skye behind him, hanging on with one hand, holding her sword in the other. She sees me and smiles, a devilish, slightly maniacal, and remarkably calming smile that refocuses me.

There is only one thing I should be thinking about: killing our enemies.

Revenge! the Evil screams.

The Soakers are so close I can see the drops of rain—or is it sweat?—on their faces, see the anger and determination and fear in their eyes.

Twenty steps—I raise my sword…

Ten—I hold my breath…

We crash into the line of Soakers like a wave crashing on shore, Passion’s weight and strength battering through them like a falling tree on a flower patch. Swords poke and prod at me, but I deflect them away, hacking and hacking and stabbing and cutting. A Soaker falls when I slash him across the throat, a line of blood showing just before his skin gapes open.

A shudder runs through my body, filled with disgust and shame and excitement.

I’ve killed my first Soaker. For Mother, for Father, for Paw.

For me.

All those thoughts run through my head in an instant, but I have no time to ponder them, because another Soaker is upon me, his sword slicing through the air.

Clang!

I block it with the edge of my own blade, and shove him back. His body is swept away as a horse bashes into him, not stopping until the Soaker’s been trampled and bruised under its trod. I know that horse. With Gard atop him, a massive and awe-inspiring warrior, Thunder rears up on his hind legs and kicks another of the enemy in the head, sending him sprawling.

While I watch, captivated by the force of nature that is Gard and Thunder, Passion turns sharply, reminding me that we’re in a battle. Two Soakers approach from the side, as if trying to surround us. Passion kicks at one and he grunts, stumbling back. A ziiipping sound creases the air as an arrow lodges in his chest. He falls, spitting blood.

The other Soaker stops his attack and looks around in confusion just before an arrow catches him in the gut. I spur Passion forward, adding my sword near where the arrow entered, finishing him off.

We wheel around and I see Siena, bow strung with another arrow, having already moved on from helping me. A Soaker attacks her, but ends up on the ground with an arrow through his throat.

All of a sudden, the area around me is relatively clear, the battle having spilled further down the shore, as if carried on the wind, which has shifted, sending the rain swirling in circles around us.

Without command from me, Passion runs back toward the fray. I watch in horror as one Rider, then another, are struck down by Soakers in quick succession. The men of the sea don’t spare their horses, stabbing them through their bellies.

In fact, without looking very hard, I can pick out twenty or thirty Rider bodies sprawled along the plains, mounds of black and red. Littered amongst them are the dead bodies of brown-clad Soakers, at least double the number of our dead. But are we winning? To my left, more boats are landing on the shore, carrying reinforcements.

The first familiar face I see is Remy’s, but he’s no longer on his horse. For some reason he has dismounted and is sword-fighting a Soaker. He blocks a strike and then kicks his opponent back, where he stumbles over a dead horse carcass. The animal looks familiar and I realize it’s Bolt, Remy’s horse, killed in battle.

Everything about Remy, from his body language to the torn expression on his face, cries rage. With two quick steps he’s on the Soaker, stabbing him once, twice, and then more times than is necessary to kill him. Again and again and again, desecrating his body.

Finally he stops and looks up, tears in his eyes. He sees me and his expression changes sharply. Is it…concern?

Even as he raises his finger to point behind me, I’m turning, trying to raise my sword, trying to be faster than I know I’m capable of.

The Soaker sword cuts into my hip, all the way to the bone, sending ripping, roaring shockwaves through my body. “Arrrrrrrr!” I scream, frantically slashing out with my blade, slicing the chest of the enemy who snuck up on me. The man falls, his sword coated with blood—my blood.

Passion, as if sensing my pain, nays loudly, a cry of angst. “I’m okay, girl,” I say, cringing as another bolt of agony shoots from my hips to my toes. I stuff a hand in my mouth, bite down hard, trying to distract myself from what I know is a serious wound. “Go, Passion, go!” I scream through my fingers.

For the first time since I met her, Passion seems unsure of herself, moving forward first at a walk, one hesitant step after another. When I manage to kick her gently in the ribs with the foot on my uninjured side, however, she breaks into a run.

On the beach, a large raft washes up. Then another.

I forget the pain of my injury when I see who’s on the rafts.

The Heater slaves have arrived.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Huck

I refuse to meet my father’s eyes as we cut through the rough waters, just behind the rafts.

They’re all going to die, every last one of them. Stolen from their homes, brought upon ships where they’re treated like animals—no, less than animals—and now forced to fight a war that has nothing to do with them.

Hatred burns for the one who raised me. What will I do with it?

The rafts land before our boat, and the children of fire country spill onto the shore. Beyond them, the battle rages. Men scream with anger and pain. Swords ring out. Bodies fall.

“Attack or I’ll kill you myself!” my father screams at the Heaters. They look back, unsure and unarmed, but then run toward the plains, toward sure death.

What kind of monster…? The worst kind—the very worst kind.

But then I see something strange, something that temporarily snaps me out of my anger. A girl, sword held high, silver and red and streaked with lightning flashes, slashing at a seaman, killing him. Her skin’s as brown as Jade’s, as brown as the Heater children who are, even now, headed her way.

She sees them and her body seems to go stiff, like all the grace and ability I just saw her use to fight the Soaker has been sucked out of her.

Then she starts to run toward the children, shouting something back over her shoulder.

Thud!

Our boat crashes onto shore, but I can’t take my eyes off of what I’m seeing, because there’s more. Another brown-skinned girl emerges from the battle, carrying a bow, running like bloody hell, following the other. Then there’s a third, but this one’s a guy, muscular and fast, but again, his skin is at least three shades too light to be a Stormer. There’s something deadly and animal-like about the fourth brown-skinned warrior that emerges, his arms dark and painted.

The other officers are spilling out, already moving up the sand, shouting orders at the bilge and the men already, although no one’s listening because they’re too busy fighting. My father pulls at my elbow. “Remember—you fight or she dies,” he says.

I grit my teeth and climb out.

Drawing my sword, I run after him, toward the fight, which has spilled onto the sand, right into the middle of the children, who have huddled together, surrounded by death.

The four brown-skinned warriors—who I only now realize are Heaters, like the children—surround the cluster of bilge, facing outward, as if daring anyone to harm them.

A few Stormer riders eye them, but, surprisingly, turn away and continue to fight only the Soakers.

The other officers have reached the edge of the battle and seem uncertain of what to do about the cluster of now-protected bilge. “Kill them!” my father shouts, and I’m not sure whether he means the bilge, or the four Heater warriors protecting them.

A few of the officers leap into action, Hobbs included, attacking the two Heater girls. The girl with the bow unleashes two arrows in short succession, cutting down two officers as if they’re no more than common foot soldiers. Their soaked-through blue uniforms won’t protect them now.

Another officer drops when the sword-carrying Heater girl stabs him through the midsection.

Hobbs slashes at her, but she blocks his attack, quickly countering with a flurry of strikes of her own. He jumps back into a group of other officers who are sticking close together, doing battle with a few dark Riders who have broken through.

Riders fall. Officers fall. The world spins around me, like we’re inside a barrel, rolling down a hill.

With the greater numbers, the officers eventually get past the four Heater warriors, who are barely able to protect themselves against the onslaught. The children break from their cluster, running from their own masters, running for their lives. A few of the older ones usher the younger ones ahead, hanging back, grabbing at the fallen and bloody swords and knives that litter the sand around them.

Hobbs leads the charge, urging the officers toward them, stalking them like prey. Why would they kill the very children who maintain the ships, the very slaves bought by my father? Because he ordered them to. Because they blindly follow his every command.

I have to do something.

I spring into action, running toward the brown children and the blue officers, watching in horror as Hobbs raises his blade over one of the kids. Without hesitation, he stabs the boy, pushing him to the sand at the same time that he extracts his sword.

“No!” one of the Heater warriors screams, the girl with the sword. Her blade is moving impossibly fast, cutting and slashing and leaving officers dead in her wake as she fights through them. The other three redouble their efforts to get back in front of the children.

But I’m closer—and no one is trying to stop me—so I reach them first, just as one of the other officers slaughters another child.

I act on a choice I only now realize I made a long time ago. I stab him in the back.

He cries out and falls, drawing every other officer’s attention, Hobbs included.

“You!” he roars. “Kill him!”

Three officers spring forward, and it’s all I can do to deflect their heavy blows. Tripping, I fall back—

And it’s over, surely it’s over—

And I won’t see Jade, not ever again—

And then one of the officers falls, an arrow through his ear, which is spouting blood.

A second one dies next to him, pierced by the Heater girl’s sword. She made it through. She saved me.

The third officer turns to run, but is cut off by the shadowy Heater. His two curved daggers make short work of him.

I struggle to my feet, holding my sword at the ready, expecting them to kill me next. Save me and then kill me.

A scream tears through the rain.

We all turn to see Hobbs standing over a Heater boy, who’s fallen to the sand, surrounded by the dead bodies of the brave children who fought with him.

Hobbs killed them. He killed them all. And he’s about to kill this boy too.

This boy who is…

My eyes widen when his face comes into view: skinny and scared and then screaming and angry; he’s the boy I fought on the day I became a man, in a time that now feels so long ago. The boy who beat me, who shamed me.

The boy whose life I must save now.

Hobbs raises his sword and there’s no time, although the two Heater girls are already running toward him, one with a sword and one with a bow and an empty satchel.

I pull a knife from my belt, trying to remember everything Cain taught me about knife-throwing—eyes on your target, shoulder and elbow and wrist in line, throw hard but not too hard—and heave it past the running Heaters, toward Hobbs.

The moment the knife leaves my hand, everything seems to speed up. Hobbs’ sword falls so fast, so deadly, but it’s not in his hand when it does. It’s gravity, only gravity, and the earth’s pull takes him, too, a moment later, my knife embedded in the back of his skull.

The Heater girls pull the boy out from under Hobbs, one of them clutching him as tightly as if he’s her son, while the other—the bigger, stronger one—stands over them, daring anyone else to attack.

She nods at me. I nod back.

The boy just stares, his face soaked with tears.

I turn away and almost run right into the two Heater men, whose weapons are raised.

This might be suicide, might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, but I drop my own sword in the sand, broad side down.

“I’m not your enemy,” I say.

“We know,” the taller, unmarked one says, his words round and long.

The one with the dark markings speaks, his voice coming out warmer and clearer than I expected. “We’re looking for a Heater girl. Thirteen years old. She’d resemble those two.” He motions to the two that are protecting the bilge rat boy.

For the first time, my eyes really take them in, every detail, every feature. The curve of their noses. The shape of their brown eyes. The texture of their hair. They appear more like sisters than tribemates. And Jade would look right at home next to them.

I gasp, nodding. “I know her,” I say. “She’s back on the ship.”

“Let’s go,” the shadow-eyed one says.

With a ragged shout and clangor, a group of Soakers pour down the beach toward us. At their head is my father.

Sadie

When Skye and Siena and Feve and Circ rush down the beach, I want to go with them, to help save their kinsfolk, but I can’t, because at the same moment I see Remy and Buff and Dazz, fighting in a circle, surrounded by at least ten Soakers.

I urge Passion in their direction, watching as Dazz clubs one enemy in the skull, knocking him out. But another Soaker manages to slip through and stab him in the shoulder. His grip relaxes and his club falls away. “Ahhh!” Buff yells, coming to his friend’s rescue, slashing with his short-knife. He discards one opponent, but is then knocked back into Remy, who’s facing the other way, facing an onslaught of enemy strikes.

Passion slams into the back of two of the Soakers, their bones audibly cracking as they fall beneath us. Two others fall by my sword. With Passion and I added to the mix, and with the element of surprise on our side, we gain the upper hand, cutting each and every one of them down.

On the ground, Dazz groans, alive but in significant pain. “Where’s Skye?” he asks when I look down at him.

“On the beach,” I say.

“Help her,” he pleads.

“Are you—”

“I’m fine. Just go.”

I hesitate, but then Remy says, “We’ll protect him.”

I nod and turn Passion toward where I last saw the Heaters.

The four of them are in a line, directly in the path of a group of running Soakers, a blue-clad officer at their front. Even as I gallop toward them, Gard and Thunder come in from the side, leading a group of at least a dozen Riders who have managed, like me, to remain atop their steeds.

They collide with the Soakers, bodies and swords flying everywhere.

The Soaker officer, a big man with a long sword, steps away from the pack of bodies. His hat is different than the other officers, longer and arched at the top. I know who he is: the admiral. Admiral Jones, the leader of the Soakers. He gestures at Gard, who stabs a Soaker and then dismounts, patting Thunder on the rear. Obediently, Thunder runs up the beach, toward and then past me, making for the safety of the plains.

Another Soaker officer attacks Gard, but he tosses him aside like a child and steps forward, sword in hand.

That’s when I see him slinking away from the crowd.

A boy.

A boy wearing a blue officer’s uniform.

The Evil hisses in my ear.

Huck

Lightning crashes, splitting the sky in half. Thunder booms, crashing through my ears. Men die, as insignificant as fleas compared to the power of the storm.

My father’s forgotten about me in the midst of the battle, and now he faces off against the war leader of the Stormers. I’ve only ever seen him from far away, from safe on the ships. He’s so much bigger this close. They call him Gard. Fighting him is what my father has always wanted. It’s also my chance.

Slightly back from the fray, I feel numb. None of this matters to me—not when she could be dying in the rain. Dying by my very hand. Not when a reunion with her sisters is possible.

I turn and run back for the boats, grab the side and push as hard as I can.

I’m going back to her.

“Stop right there,” a voice says from behind.

Sadie

He doesn’t turn right away, so I say it again. “Stop.” My voice is calm, when in my head I hear only killkillkillkill.

This time he turns, white-faced and rain-slick. He raises his empty hands.

I raise my sword.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Lieutenant Jones,” he says.

Jones! It can’t be. This boy can’t be the admiral’s son, can he? But even as I raise my sword I know that he is.

killkillkillkill

“Please,” he says. “My father’s a bad man.”

“Yes,” I say. “You all are.”

Passion takes two steps forward; I’m close enough to slash him.

Yesss, ssslasssh him, the Evil says.

“No…no,” he says, but there’s not much strength in his voice. Only…sadness. For what? For who? “I didn’t want any of this to happen. I never knew…”

There’s a roar behind us and I glance back. Gard’s unleashing a barrage of heavy blows on the admiral, forcing him back. Soon, Gard will finish him. So if I finish off Lieutenant Jones, the Soakers—or what’s left of them—will be leaderless.

I turn back to the boy, who hasn’t moved. “You’re saying you’ve done nothing wrong?” I ask, angling my sword beneath his chin.

No more quessstionsss!

Am I controlling the Evil, or is it controlling me? I still can’t figure it out. I grip the sword tighter and fight off the urge to shove it through the boy’s neck.

“I—I…” He can’t get the words out. I expected him to flat out lie, but instead he seems to be taking the question rather seriously. Swords ring out. Men grunt and groan and yell. “I hurt her. The Heater girl, Jade. I hurt her because he said he would kill her if I didn’t. And I killed a man for her. And I saved that Heater boy from Hobbs. I killed him too. I had to. And I—”

“Stop,” I say, cutting him off. I have no idea what he’s rambling on about, but it sounds honest, like he’s ashamed of some things and proud of others, but all in all it doesn’t sound too good. Killing people, hurting people, saving people. A lot of stuff about Heaters. “Do you deserve to die?” Why am I asking him? Why am I delaying what I know I have to do?

The boy stares at me with huge eyes. “I—I…” The stutter is back. Him thinking, taking the question seriously. “I…maybe. I don’t know. Maybe.”

His answer surprises me. He sssaysss kill him, ssso kill him. Do it. Do it. DO IT!

I see Paw’s face, so innocent, so much potential. He beckons to me to save him. But the admiral’s son would’ve been only a small child, or maybe not even born, when Paw was killed.

And Mother. It was the Icer guards that killed her, although she never would’ve ridden to ice country if not for the sins of the Soakers. But was this boy really involved in all that? Doubtful. Is he really the one to blame? The one to kill to bring me peace?

Yesss.

“You can kill me,” the Soaker boy says, surprising me once more. “But please, let me see her one more time, let me touch her, let me tell her how sorry I am. For everything.” Suddenly, as young as Lieutenant Jones looks, he’s no longer a scared boy to me, but a man, his words filled with fire and truth. And goodness. I don’t want them to be—want to hate every last thing about him, but I can’t.