Of Sea and Stone (Secrets of Itlantis) (3 page)

I had no ornaments to wear, not even a shabby shell necklace.

I went through the kitchen again, grabbing a stray bit of bread from the storage ledge and swallowing it fast. I could hear voices coming from the other room. The Old One, his voice raspy as he murmured something. Tagatha, snapping at him.

“I’m tired of listening to your delusions,” she shouted.

I didn’t want to hear her berate him. I wanted to close my ears to it, but I could not.

Tagatha left, and as I ducked out through the back exit and into the damp evening air, I passed the Old One and saw the tears in his eyes.

Something hot and fierce burned within me.

The wind caught my hair and threw it into my face as I crossed the ledge beside the sea, heading for the village proper. I could smell salt and fire, and the distant sound of music echoed across the water. The sea lapped lazily at the lip of rock I stood on, hissing and cooing its familiar, soothing song.

I paused only a moment to gaze at the string of boats again before making my way across the carved path that curved up around the outside of the rock, leading to the center of the village where the people would be gathering. The wind blew so strong that my eyes watered, but it made me feel alive and, for once, happy. I moved quicker as the music grew louder, and laughter echoed against the rock walls ahead.

I reached the top of the path and ducked into the hollowed common place on the inside of the rock, a porous serious of openings that led to both various dwelling places and public buildings, as well as provided a view of the shallow waters between the rocks. I peered at the crowd below. Many people carried lanterns or candles, and lamps of oil burned at regular intervals. Everything glowed.

The horizon shimmered like the air above a fire, and against it, the colored sails of the merchants’ boats looked like birds on the water. On the Training Rock at the west side of the village, overlooking a restless green sea, a line of boys and almost-men had formed. They carried spears, all of them, and wore the traditional masks of contestants in the competition. They stood straight in the dying sunlight, faces turned resolutely at the target propped at one end of the rock. Beside the target, a fluttering piece of painted cloth hanging from a wooden frame, stood a thick-muscled man, the spear master, with a list of names. He shouted them out one at a time.

I looked for Kit’s shirt and hood, distinctive because they’d come from a trader from the White Cliffs and bore stripes of purple dye. After a moment’s searching, I spotted him, sans mask, standing at the edge of the crowd. He had not yet joined the line of young men, although he carried a mask and spear. He broke into a smile that leaked relief at the sight of me, and I couldn’t help but return it as I descended the winding steps and entered the throng of people, darting around elbows and past knees until I was beside him. When Kit smiled, even the sun had to smile back at him.

At the moment, though, his smile was strained.

“Haven’t they called your name yet?” I asked.

Kit shook his head. The rest of the village lined the edge of the Training Rock, watching. The winner of the spear-throwing competition would light the fire at the Lighting, and the crowd was breathless with anticipation.

Sweat beaded Kit’s forehead, and his curly black hair stuck to his neck.

“I’m going to lose,” he said, swiveling his head to look from me to the target set at the opposite end of the rock. “You know what happens to the one who finishes last.”

I did know. While the winner had the honor of lighting the pyre, the loser was punished with six lashes across his back and no food from the feast. It was a cruel tradition, started by the spear master and meant to motivate the boys.

I looked at my best friend with a sinking feeling. I’d seen him throw.

My stomach tightened into a knot, and my delight for the coming festivities bled away, replaced by dread, and anger at the stupid rule. Why did those in power always use their strength and abilities to hurt the lesser, weaker, slower, and unlucky? Rage smoldered in me, threatening to ignite.

“You throw better than any of them,” Kit said. “You would win if you were allowed to compete.”

“Remind me why women can’t enter this competition?” I muttered.

“It’s tradition. Anyway, thralls can’t compete either, male or female.” He looked apologetic, as though the rule was his fault.

“She couldn’t win even if skinny girl thralls were allowed to compete,” a voice said behind us, the tone mocking.

I turned my head and saw Tagatha leaning against the stone arch that led to the Village of the Rocks deep within the tunneled caves of the island.

“Why not?” Kit asked, although I grabbed his arm to silence him. “She’s a good thrower. Even you have to admit that, Tagatha.”

“Nol will win,” she said with a haughty smile. “He’s the best with a spear.”

Nol
. I bit back words. My fingers curled into fists. In my mind’s eye I saw him taking my fish creature, and smirking at me, and Tagatha slapping me for spilling juice on his precious chest.

I said nothing. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t get me in more trouble.

Tagatha sauntered past us to join the rest of the crowd, her sea green tunic fluttering in the wind and her anklets of sea shells jingling, and I choked on the injustice of it all. My head ached; my hands were hot. I heard her yelling at the Old One in my head. In my mind I saw her and Nol, both laughing at me.

The spear master called Kit’s name. My friend froze and looked at me in a panic.

“My father,” he whispered. “He’s going to be furious. I should have practiced more. I should have tried harder. I should have—”

“Stop,” I said. “Give me your shirt and mask.”

Kit stared at me. “What?”

“Kitran, son of Karth,” the spear master bellowed again.

“Your shirt and mask,” I repeated, and he pulled his shirt off and thrust both it and the mask at me. Kit always did whatever I said without question, a strange dynamic for a wealthy boy to have with a thrall, but it was the way things were between us.

I yanked the fabric over my head and pulled up the hood of the tunic so it covered my eyes, then settled the mask over my face. I could walk like Kit. I’d done it a thousand times when we were children playing at mimicry. He had a distinctive way of dragging one foot every few steps.

After grabbing the spear from Kit’s hand, I started toward the line of boys.

“Aemi,” Kit whispered after me, his tone frantic, but I ignored him. I gripped the shaft of his spear in my sweating palm as I stepped from the shadows of the rocks.

THE OCEAN WAVES crashed and hissed as they rushed into the shallows beneath the carved houses of the village. The broad stone ground of the Training Rock was warm and smooth beneath my bare feet. A salt-scented wind teased the tendrils of hair escaping from beneath my hood. I straightened my spine and lifted my chin as if I belonged as I approached the group of boys and young men, who stood in a haphazard line before the target of wood.

I took my place at the end of the line.

The smell of salt filled the air. Gulls screamed overhead as the first boy drew back his arm and threw his spear. It glanced off the target and clattered on the rock. His face creased with disgust, and he turned away. The second boy threw, and the tip of his spear embedded itself in the corner of the target.

I was better at throwing than any of these boys. I’d always been good at it, better than anyone else my age when I was small enough to swim in the shallows with the free children and sleep in my mother’s arms at night. My mother had beamed with pride to see me throw, and so I continued to hone my skill even after she was gone. Sometimes I went out to the edge of the rocks that formed a ring around the sea like a circle of stone arms, and I caught fish to put on the fire so Nealla and I could eat more than the meager food we were provided for our meals. I was better than all of them, but being a girl banned me from participating in the competition.

At the front of the line stood Nol, the oldest in the competition and the favorite of the crowd. He cast a glance my way, but didn’t look long. I exhaled as he turned his head away.

One by one, the boys threw their spears. They were still learning, and few were good yet. The aim of a fisherman was impeccable, once he’d mastered the art, but these were just boys.

I swallowed as the boy beside me took his turn, and then it was mine. I stepped forward and hefted my spear. The weight was familiar in my hand. I inhaled, squinted at the target, and threw.

The spear buried itself at the edge of the middle circle. A few of the boys cried out in appreciation. Sweat broke out across my back.

I hadn’t meant to throw quite so well.

Nol turned his head again to look at me. He wasn’t stupid, even if he was infuriating. He’d seen Kit throw before.

I held my breath, and he looked away.

Those who had struck the target gathered their spears and tried again. There were only a few of us, and the number rapidly dwindled. I threw poorly, but my spear seemed to swerve to meet the target against my will, and the rest of the boys threw with the skill of drunken monkeys. Finally, only Nol and I were left.

My heart drummed in my chest. I didn’t dare look at Nol or the crowd.

“You’ve improved, Kit,” Nol said as he passed me to retrieve his spear.

It was clear by the way he strode toward the target that he thought victory was assured for him. He barely spared me a glance as he drew back his arm to throw.

The crowd waited, breathless.

Nol threw first. His spear struck the inner circle of the target, and he straightened, pleased. I could tell by his posture that he thought he’d won. The necklace of shell he always wore tinkled faintly as he turned to me. He yanked off his mask, and his expression was triumphant.

“Your turn.”

I drew my arm back and took aim. I heard the rush of the sea behind me, the cry of gulls above me, and the hiss of my breath over my teeth as I threw. Sea and gulls and breath combined to make music. I shut my eyes and threw.

My spear hit the mark and quivered.

It had struck closer to the center.

The boys roared in approval and swarmed around me. Nol’s jaw tightened, and he shot a glance toward the crowd. I saw his father, the mayor, frowning.

I stepped forward to receive my prize. As I passed Nol, suspicion crossed his face. He snatched off my mask, dislodging my hood in the process.

My long hair tumbled down around my shoulders. Wind fanned my face.

I was exposed.

The crowd gasped. Nol let go of me as if he’d been burned.

“It’s Tagatha’s thrall!” someone shouted.

“You deceptive little brat,” the spear master snarled. “Where’s Kitran?”

I ran.

The spear master grabbed for me. His fingers slipped through my hair, giving one painful tug, then the strands ripped from my scalp and I ran faster. I reached the edge of the cliff, dropped Kit’s spear, and jumped.

The rock was hard beneath my feet as I leaped, and then salty air rushed around me, the gulls’ screams filled my ears, and I was falling, falling, falling through air and wind and sunlight. I brought my arms forward right before I entered the water in a perfect dive.

Bubbles exploded across my vision as I hit the water. Blue closed around me, cold and shocking, shutting out the shouts above. My chest skimmed the sandy bottom of the lagoon. Fish shot away, and seaweed snagged my ankles. The rocks of the bay were dark against the orange light of the dying sun.

I swam a ways from the cliff, holding my breath, kicking my legs to propel myself forward.

When my head broke the surface, I heard the spear master shouting after me. I swam away, my arms making sure, even strokes as his threats echoed across the water after me. I had no fear that he would jump in after me. I was one of the strongest swimmers in the village. He couldn’t catch me, and he wouldn’t try.

But I couldn’t swim forever.

FINALLY, I DREW myself onto shore and flopped onto the rocks in a little hollow below the cliffs, a place where the waves had carved out a bowl-shaped indention that closed around me like two cupped hands. My mind spun. They would be angry, of course, but perhaps I could talk them into leniency. It was the beginning of a week of feasting. If I approached them after the start of the Lighting, once they’d had a few helpings of food and cups of wine, perhaps they would grant me something less than the lash.

The unfortunate part of living in this small village was that I had few places to hide.

Something slipped from the gathering shadows, and I stepped back into the water, but I relaxed when I saw it was Kit.

“How’d you know I would be here?”

He laughed. “You’re as predictable as the tide, Aemi. You always come to this place when you’re sad.”

I shrugged, displeased that I was so easily known but pleased to be known all the same. We sank down onto the rocks together as the sound of music and laughter floated over the cliff on the wind.

“You’re missing the celebration.”

“So are you,” he said.

I snorted. “I’m hiding until I can figure out how to plead my case with the elders, or until the Sea People take me.”

“Hungry?” He pointed toward the cliffs, where tables were set up and laden with food.

“I could eat for a week straight, I think.” I was exhausted from my swim and my stomach clenched with hunger.

“Wait here.” Kit vanished into the darkness among the rocks, heading for the village.

He returned with a shell piled high with pastries and delights—baked fish, flaky to the touch, breaded shrimp, dried oranges, and fresh berries. Tonight was the one night that everyone, even thralls, could partake in a true feast for kings. Although the offerings were a bit meager this year due to the food shortage, everything still looked delicious, and I certainly wouldn’t notice any decrease in finery.

I selected a piece of smoked fish. The savory flavor filled my mouth as the meat practically melted on my tongue. “You haven’t gotten into any trouble over the contest, have you?” I asked around the mouthful.