Chapter 8 #2
I swayed in the tide’s current, waiting for the next wave, content that my friend’s face would be the last one I saw—and as I sensed the growing swell, my red ball popped into being.
In this new, serene acceptance of my end, the ball was smaller, wavering. Pinkish, like a sunset. Curious, I prodded at it. Shrunk it to an acorn. Then I cracked my eyes and lips open and said, “Please.”
The wave looming above me paused, teetering right on the edge of breaking.
With my panic now tempered, the tide seemed to be listening, though I got the sense this was a begrudging reprieve.
It shrunk a little, then shattered, shoving me back toward the cliff.
I still impacted hard against the wall behind me, my clothes snagging, my bare limbs bruising, but I was able to cling onto an outcrop of rock.
I tried to dampen any jubilation—joy, relief: they were still emotions, they could still hamper my plea, turn the tide back against me—but the sea’s rage ramped up again almost immediately, the next building wave looking to be the biggest yet.
Hastily, I concentrated on climbing. One hand, one foot, one haul at a time.
A wave smashed into the rock face, barely missing me, its spray stinging my grazed knees and calves. Turning, I risked a glance out at the cove. The water was furious, its waves head-high and merciless, climbing the cliff face almost as fast as I was. I forced myself upward, my muscles on fire.
It took what seemed an inexorably long time, but I finally neared the lip of the steep wall.
I was well above the tide now—it had risen to its peak—but the pain from the scrapes on my hands and feet, the burning in my arms, tipped beyond unbearable, and I slipped, my body swinging out over the drop.
A brisk gust of wind, strong as a hand on my back, blasted into me, nudging me back against the wall. A fortuitous sea breeze, I guessed as I clung there. More powerful up here, without the shelter of the cove.
Finally, arduously, I flung a hand up over the cliff. An arm appeared, enrobed in velvet, and heaved me upward, seeing me safely over the edge.
I crawled forward on my hands and knees, hair sodden and nightshift dripping, and peered up to see Emment Shearwater above me. He looked like he might expel the contents of his stomach, but whether that was down to the events just passed or his activities last night, I had no idea.
“A somewhat fraught pass,” came Rexim’s voice, “but a pass nonetheless, I suppose. I congratulate you.”
Pass. He couldn’t know that I’d utterly failed. That the only reason I’d survived was because I’d…given up.
I sat back on my haunches. A croak escaped my lips: “You’re twisted.”
I instantly regretted it, but Rexim only chuckled. “As I said previously, I had to be sure.”
Eager to gather up some shreds of my dignity, I forced myself to stand and hugged myself, shivering. Water pooled beneath my shift’s hem.
Llir was standing some distance away, staring. Vercha seemed delighted by the whole sadistic display: Her gloved hands were clasped as though she’d been applauding, and her expression was disconcertingly proud. Catua, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen—she must have left, perhaps in protest.
“See? What did I tell you?” Vercha said, stepping forward. “I knew she’d get there eventually.” She tipped her head. “Come now, don’t let hard feelings fester. There was no way to test you without its being a surprise. And you passed, didn’t you? No need to dwell on what might have happened…”
“You’d have let me die,” I whispered, trembling. “All of you.”
Emment had moved a few feet away, his hands on his thighs, his face oddly grayish. He swallowed, and Llir put a hand on his shoulder, but his brother shrugged him off. He avoided all our eyes.
“We’d have pulled you out before it came to that,” Vercha said.
She gestured to three hulking figures nearby. I’d overlooked them, perhaps mistaking them for rocks. But they were my kidnappers, I was certain of it: a woman and two men. Beside them rested a comfortable-looking litter.
“We don’t expect you to walk back, of course.”
I moved a few steps away. “I’m not getting in that.”
Rexim’s dark eyebrows dipped in displeasure. I’d somehow gotten away with my first outburst, but now he looked irritated, dangerously impatient. The rational part of me berated myself.
When Zennia told me her stories back at Arbenhaw, I admittedly wondered if those early memories might have blurred together with the wild imaginings of a young child. I wondered if the Hundred really considered us that lowly. Now it didn’t seem far-fetched at all.
But I knew that if I made an enemy of the Brigant, I’d be straight back to Arbenhaw today—or worse. I’d never know what awaited me at the meeting in Port Rhorstin, never know what had happened to Zennia in the bay.
“I meant to say,” I tried again mildly, “that I’d prefer to walk. Thank you.”
“As you like,” Rexim replied after a pause, and snapped his fingers at the waiting guards. They jerked to attention and lifted the litter, bearing it up the stone-strewn path. “Today,” he added, “your real work begins. I expect you to report to Miss Haney without delay.”
Though my body pulsed with pain, and Rexim must have known it, I forced myself to stand straight-backed as the family moved away, trailing after the soldiers. Rexim and Vercha walked together, speaking quietly. Emment looked relieved to be heading back to his bed.
Llir left last, troubled gaze out on the ocean. I glared at his back. This had all been his fault. If he hadn’t mentioned the causeway last night, Rexim might never have gotten this idea into his head.
I waited until they were far enough ahead of me, then took a deep breath and limped back toward the tower.
But it wasn’t until I was halfway there, and heard the waves battering the cliffs behind me, that I realized I had forgotten to thank the Waking Tide.