I creep past my father, and he’s behind meand my hand’s on the flap, and I’m about to open it, and then—

—his hand flashes out and grabs my ankle, hisgrip much—much—firmer than I expected, holding me in place,hurting me a little.

“Nice try,” he says, and I almost smile.

When I start to backtrack he releases me.Dramatically, I throw myself to the ground and curl up on ablanket, sighing heavily.

“There’s nothing to watch anyway,” he says inThe Voice. Not his normal, everyday speaking voice, but the onethat sounds deeper and more solid, like it comes from a place lowwithin his gut, almost like it’s spoken by someone else who livesinside of him. A man greater than himself, full of power,barrel-chested and well-muscled—like Gard, a warrior.

The Voice.

When people hear The Voice, they listen.

Even I do. Well, usually. Because The Voiceis never wrong.

I set my elbow on the ground and prop my headon the heel of my hand. “Why not?” I ask, suddenly interested ineverything my father has to say—because he’s not my fatheranymore. He’s the Man of Wisdom.

Maybe the meditation wasn’t him doing nothingafter all.

His cheeks bulge, as if the words are rightthere, trying to force their way out. But when he blows out, it’sjust air, nothing more. Then he says, “Listen.”

I cock my head, train my ear in the air, hearonly the silence of a camp in hiding.

Silence.

Silence.

And then—

—the chatter of horses’ hooves across theplains, getting louder, approaching a rumble, then becoming thedistant growl of thunder.

“Now you can go,” Father says in his normalvoice, but I’m already on my feet, bursting from the tent opening,running for the edge of the camp while other Stormers are emergingfrom hiding.

I charge out of the camp and onto the plains,my footsteps drowned out by the grumble of the horses gallopingtoward me. Gard’s in the front, leading, and he flies past me likeI’m not even there. Another few Riders pass in similar fashionbefore I see her.

My mother, astride Shadow, her skin and robeso dark she almost looks like she’s a part of her horse, a strangehuman-animal creature, fast and dangerous and ready.

She stops in front of me, perfectly balanced,her sword in her left hand.

“What happened?” I say.

She motions with her sword behind her, where,with the sun shimmering across the water, the white ships aresailing off into the distance, barely visible now.

“They’re gone,” I murmur.

Chapter Three

Huck

Still screaming hishead off, the bilge rat’s sword flies past my head, whistling in myear as I duck out of the way.

A cheer rises up from the heavy crowd, whosuddenly feel like they’re closing in, surrounding us, preventingany chance of escape. I blink hard twice, trying to get the sweatout of my eyes and the noise out of my head. My stomach clencheswhen I see my father watching quietly as the brown boy stumbles,regains his footing, and then turns to face me again.

I don’t know this boy—

Don’t want to fight this boy—

But I can’t let my father down again.

I squeeze my stomach muscles tight, bite awaymy fears, and attack, swinging my real sword the way I alwayspracticed with my wooden one. The boy’s eyes go wide and he shrinksback, narrowly deflecting the first of my blows with his bluntblade.

Using this sword is nothing like a woodenone. It’s weighted differently and feels unbalanced in my hand,each slash becoming more awkward than the last. The bilge seems torealize it and easily dodges my next attack, kicking me in thestomach with a dirty bare foot.

I feel the wind go out of my lungs and Igasp, clutching at my gut. Like before, the boy’s face goes fromfear to anger in an instant, and he kicks me again, this time inthe rear and I go flying, crashing into an empty barrel andsprawling headlong on the deck.

My face is burning, so hot—red and burning.Not from exertion or anger—humiliation. I’ve literally just had mybackside kicked by a bilge rat, a scrawny one no less.

But I’m not done yet.

Because my father is watching.

And there’s blood in the water—my mother’sblood. Teeth snapping. I can’t fail him.

Not again.

I push to my feet, only to sense a brown formcharging from the side, slashing with his sword. I’m ready thistime.

I duck, pushing my fist hard into hisstomach. He doubles over and I knee him in the chin, launching himback, his sword flipping end over end as it leaves his hand.Leaping forward, I try to stomp on him, but he rolls away, grabbinghis sword. He stands to face me again.

I mutter a curse.

We dance in a circle, staring at each other.There’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there when he was firstpushed into me. Anger? Violence? No and no, I realize. Desperation.He’s fighting for his life, and I’m fighting for what? Pride? Mymanhood? My father? Even I don’t know anymore, only that Imust continue on, finish what I started.

I slash and he blocks and I slash again,narrowly missing and trimming a shred of cloth from his alreadytattered sleeve.

My head spins and suddenly there’s a rush ofair all around me and I feel my blood pumping and my heart poundingand sweat pouring out of me like rain, and I could’ve killedhim—that last swing could’ve killed him and I didn’t even takeanything off of it and if it had connected he’d be dead right nowand I’d have done it.

I’d have killed him.

I don’t even know this boy and he hasn’t doneanything to me except fight for his life and I almost killedhim.

I realize I’m breathing heavy and on theverge of tears and my sword is lowered and the bilge rat’s staringat me, probably wondering whether I’ve caught the Scurve becauseI’m sweating, sweating so damn much that it’s pouring off my browand into my eyes, blurring my vision.

I stare back at him through sweat—or are theytears?—and strands of dirty-blond hair that have come loose from myponytail, wondering whether we can just shake hands so he can goback to his scrubbing and I can go back to becoming a man.

Sensing my weakness, he attacks with a fury.It’s all I can do to raise my sword to block his attack, the metalon metal contact ringing out, rising above the cheers of the menaround me, who have come to life again. He pushes me back and Istumble. When he pushes again, I’m off balance and my legs gettangled up and I trip, dropping my sword as I try to break my fallwith my hands, skidding backwards on my rear, coming to a stop.

I look up, panting.

My father stands over me, his lips a thinline beneath his beard.

But all I can see is the motion of his head.Shaking, shaking, back and forth, wishing I wasn’t his son and thatI hadn’t failed him yet again.

And then the tip of the bilge rat’s rusty oldsword is at my throat and I can’t breathe and I’m looking up at himand I’m scared of him doing it, but I’m even more scared that hewon’t and I’ll have to face my father’s head-shaking anddisappointment.

The boy’s face is hard, and for a moment Ithink he’ll do it, that he’ll kill me, but then he sighs and throwsdown his sword, letting it clatter to the deck with a dull clang.He stalks off and I close my eyes.

There are murmurs from the crowd, whisperedwords I can’t hear, and plenty of words that I wish I couldn’thear.

“The admiral’s son…bah!”

“Beaten by a bilge rat, what anembarrassment!”

“He’d be better off swimming with thesharp-tooths if you ask me.”

Each comment is like a slash to the heart,cutting off another piece of me, ripping me open. Hot tears well upbeneath my eyelids, but I won’t open them, not for anyone oranything. Won’t let the tears out where he can see them.