The Bone Shard Daughter

Chapter 6. Sand Maila Isle, at the edge of the Empire

The bark of the mango tree was rough beneath Sand’s fingers as she climbed. She’d harvested nearly a full bag, but she needed just two more mangoes to bring back to the village. So she climbed. Higher and higher, her breath ragged in her throat, her arms and legs aching. She never returned without a full bag. None of them did. If you did not return with a full bag, you did not return at all. She’d seen one of them before – Waves was his name – sweeping his net in the water for fish, over and over until the tide rose and he fell from his perch into the sea. He was gone. Dashed upon the reefs surrounding Maila. It happened sometimes. Someday, it would likely happen to her. The thought gave her no feeling at all; her heart was as gray and cold as a foggy morning.

But today she saw the blush of two mangoes among the branches above, peeking from beneath the leaves like shy courtesans. Sand searched for footholds and tested them, making sure she wouldn’t slip. The branch bent a little beneath her weight as she pushed herself further up, but it held. The first mango was above and behind her a little. She had to twist and reach out for it with her smaller hand, the one missing two fingers. Her fingers brushed the smooth outside of the fruit; she walked her fingertips across its surface, trying to pull it closer. Her other arm strained, her palm growing sweaty.

The others had likely all returned from their daily tasks. She stopped to breathe and scanned the rest of the tree for easier targets. None. She was Sand and she always returned with a full bag. So she tightened her grip on the branch and reached again for the mango. This time, she got a grip around the bottom, and she pulled, trying to break it free, the mango slipped from her grasp and she slipped into a memory.

It wasn’t the mango she was touching. It was a curtain of rough linen. She drew it back – and her hand had all her fingers. A sliver of sunlight fell across her face, warming her cheek. When she blinked past the golden hue of the rising sun, she could see the green-tiled rooftops of a palace, shrouded in mist, the jagged mountains beyond cradling the buildings as though offering up a precious jewel. A rush of feelings swirled in her breast. Awe, anxiety, dismay. She let the curtain fall, unable to reconcile them, retreating into the dark, closed space of the palanquin.

No. She was Sand. She was Sand collecting mangoes. That place in her memories wasn’t one she’d ever seen. But she could still smell sandalwood and the damp morning mists. Her arms ached.

And then her hand slipped from the branch.

The world slowed as her arms windmilled. Her hand struck the trunk behind her, but she couldn’t find anything to grab, and then her foot flung free of its spot between two branches. She was falling. Branches whipped at her, her vision a blur as her head flew back and then ricocheted forward. Each of her injuries registered only as things that might hurt later – building up one on another. The ground. The ground would hurt.

It gave beneath her only a little. The air whooshed out of her lungs and she opened her mouth to suck in more. But the air she breathed made her feel sick. Sand coughed and then retched to the side, her head spinning. She lay there, just gasping for breath.

Her arms were bleeding. The numbness where the branches had struck her gave way to a sharp, stinging pain. Sand rolled onto her side and then pushed herself up slowly, discovering fresh aches with each movement. She was still alive, though the thought didn’t comfort her. There was a deep gash on her left forearm. She probed at it, hissing in pain, examining the way it slashed through skin and fat and into the muscle beneath – the layers of her laid bare. That would need stitches.

That thought… wasn’t hers either.

The world still rocked around her, moving as she moved her eyes. Nothing for it. She had to get up, get back to the village. Thatch could sew up her arm. Her tunic had ripped on the way down. She helped it along, tearing off a strip to wrap the wound with. When she finally got to her feet, the earth didn’t feel solid; it was as if she were on a boat, like the one that had brought her here. The one that had brought them all here.

No. She hadn’t been on a boat, had she? She wasn’t sure what she was thinking, who she was.

The bag of mangoes lay near the tree, half upended. Several mangoes had rolled out, and she collected them, slinging the bag over her shoulder once more and wincing. It felt like a blacksmith had taken up residence behind her eyes, using her skull as an anvil. With every beat of her heart, an answering throb started in her head.

Her bag was still not full.

Sand eyed the tree and then went straight back to the base of it to climb once more. But something stopped her just as she reached for the first branch.

Why did she need to return with her bag full? What sort of nonsense was that? Her cold, gray heart flushed with color. She could just… go back to the village. There were plenty of mangoes for them all, and the others were cultivating or harvesting food as well.

Something had changed between the memory and the fall, and she wasn’t sure what. It was as though she’d pulled back the curtain and was finally seeing the palace. The world was not just inside the palanquin.

Halfway back to the village, on the turn in the path that jutted over the ocean, Sand stopped. The spray from the sea kissed her face as she looked out over the horizon. The jagged edges of the reef surrounding Maila broke the water in places, like the ridged backs of some strange animal. Beyond the reef, the Endless Sea waited. A thought struck her, and it knocked out her breath as surely as the fall had.

Why was she on Maila at all? Why didn’t any of them leave?