There’s hurt in her eyes, but I know it’s notregret at having slapped me, because I can still see the anger inher pursed lips. Anger at me. For not thinking very much of myfather, the so-called Man of Wisdom.

I pretend like I don’t see the hurt orthe anger. “What sort of battle?” I ask grudgingly.

My father’s eyes flash open and he smilesthinly.

“One where…” He pauses, as if searching forthe words. There’s blood, and lots of people die, and the worldas we know it is destroyed, I think, regurgitating my father’susual predictions. “…you will have a choice to make,” hefinishes.

My eyes narrow. “Me?” I say. “I’ll be stuckhere with you.” I don’t mean for it to sound so angry, but I guesslately that’s what I am.

Father nods, but doesn’t elaborate, whichmeans that’s all he wants to tell me. Is it a trick? A way for himto convince me to stay in the tent the next time there’s abattle?

“Tell her the rest,” Mother urges.

Father looks down, clasps his hands in hislap, runs his thumb over his forefinger. Sighs. Slumps hisshoulders. Why does he look so…is it sadness? Exhaustion? No, it’snot one or the other—it’s both. He looks defeated.

“Father?” I say, allowing a hint ofcompassion to creep into my voice. Just a hint.

He lifts his head but his eyes are closed andhe doesn’t stop at eye-level. His chin keeps tilting until he’sfacing the tent roof, and only then does he open his eyes. Almostas if he can’t look at me when he says whatever it is my motherwants him to say. And in his eyes…

There’s defeat.

And I realize he’s not looking at the tentroof. No, he’s looking well beyond it, seeing something that wecan’t—the moon or the stars or the black-cloud-riddled sky.Something beyond.

“It’s time to ride against the Icers,” hesays to the heavens, and for a moment I don’t comprehend any of hiswords, because how can I? They’re so unexpected and make so littlesense that I have to close one eye to even get my brain headed inthe right direction.

“This must not make much sense to you,” mymother says. It doesn’t take a Man of Wisdom to read my face. Ishake my head. “Reason it out,” she says, like she has so manytimes before.

I used to get so excited when my mother wouldsay those words—that she had so much confidence that I could puzzlethrough a problem and figure it out on my own. But now herchallenge just frustrates me, because I want to know right now. Whythe Riders would go to the Icers; why my mother seems more intensethan she normally does, so focused on my father’s vision that she’dslap me; why my father refuses to lower his gaze from the stars,invisible behind the cloth of our tent.

From experience, however, I know: she won’ttell me the answer.

So I think about everything I know about theIcers. They live in ice country, obviously. It’s really cold there,colder than when it’s been raining in storm country for two monthsstraight, the wind lashing the rainwater to our clothes, to ourskin, chilling us to the bone. From what I’ve been told, the Icersare a private people, preferring the solitude of their strongholdsin the mountains. They’ve never tried to trade with us.

And they have a secret.

Only we know about it, because our scoutswitnessed something they weren’t supposed to. A band of men,pale-white skinned and heavily armored, carrying razor-sharp axesand long-hilted swords, driving a group of brown-skinned childrento the sea. They were met by a landing party from the jewel of theSoakers’ fleet, The Merman’s Daughter. The children, who we assumewere Heaters from fire country, were forced onto a boat and sent tothe ships. We can only assume they’re being used as slaves.

In exchange, the Soakers gave the Icers largesacks that looked heavy, but which could be easily lifted andcarried by the ice country soldiers. When our scouts examined thearea where the trade had taken place, they found prints of heavyboots and small bare feet. The prints were littered with fragmentsof dried plants, the kind that sometimes wash up on our shores,green at first, but turning brown over time. Weeds of the sea.

Why would the Icers trade children for driedplants that are as readily attainable as blades of grass or leaveson trees? And how did the Icers get the Heater children in thefirst place? Did the Heaters sell their own offspring to the IcerKing, the man they call Goff, or did the Icers steal them away?

Not even my father knows the answers to thesequestions, but ever since the scouts learned of the childslave-trade, the tension between us and the Soakers has escalated.Although some say the Soakers’ trade with other countries is notour concern, the majority would have us put an end to it. Mymother’s voice has been one of the strongest in this regard.

“We cannot sit on our hands while greatinjustice is carried out on the borders of storm country,” Imurmur, remembering my mother’s words from a speech she made to thecamp a day after the scouts returned with their account of theSoakers’ treachery.

“Yes,” my mother says.

“It is time?” I say.

“It is,” Mother says. And suddenly I know whymy mother is so serious and my father so sad:

The Riders are going to war with theIcers.

And it’s my father who’s sending them.

~~~

I rise early because I can’t sleep. Myfather’s still in bed, snoring, as I dress in my training gear:dark pants, my thin, light boots, and a light black shirt that willallow my skin to breathe if I sweat. Training almost always meanssweat, especially when my mother’s involved.

We didn’t schedule training for today, butgiven the fact that my mother’s not in the tent, an impromptu earlymorning session is a good bet.

I step out into a dark, brooding morning,intent on finding her.

Fog rises from the ground in cloud-likewaves, as if the rain from yesterday is returning to its skymasters high above the earth. There’s a chill in the air, and for amoment I stop and consider dressing in something warmer. I shake myhead to myself. Regardless of the temperature or what I’m wearing,at the end of a training session with my mother I’m always hot andwishing I was wearing less.

This early, the camp is quiet. There’sactivity, yes—a few cook fires glow warmly, shining off black potshovering over them, emitting the mouthwatering smell of cookedconey; a black-robed rider strides across the camp on his way tothe stables; one of the fire-tenders carries a bundle of wood tothe Big Fire, which has dwindled to a few crackling flames—but it’squiet activity. If anyone speaks, it’s in dull murmurs or lowwhispers. Until sunup, we respect those sleeping.

My mother will likely be one of three places:the stables; beyond the northern edge of the camp, doing her owntraining while she waits for me to join her; or on the seaside,waiting for the sun to rise. She says the sunrise is Mother Earth’smost beautiful gift to us.

But today it’s too foggy for a good sunrise.That leaves the stables or training grounds. I head for thestables, where I can at least see Shadow, even if Mother’s alreadypassed through.

I move across the dark camp, careful not tostep on anything that could turn my ankle, a rock or a stick or aswathe of uneven ground. Every step must be perfect. The feetare the key to a fight. Two of my mother’s favorite sayings,hammered into my skull so that even a normal walk across camp turnsinto training. When I realize, I groan inwardly and try torelax.

As I walk toward the Big Fire—which isgrowing already as the fire-tender adds sticks of wood one at atime, positioning each one carefully, delicately, like theplacement is a matter of life or death—I admire the symmetry of thecamp. Everything is ordered, even, mirror images of each other.From the fire, the tents radiate outward in concentric circles,each successive ring growing larger and containing more tents. Thetents of the Riders and the Men of Wisdom, of whom my father ishead, make up the innermost circle, while the circle furthest fromthe fire is for the camp watchmen, those with keen eyes and stouthearts. There are ten rings in all, over two thousand Stormers.