I shrink back when he points the tip of theblade at me, but I have nowhere to go, my back pressed against therailing.

I can feel the sharp-tooths swarming below,hungry for the blood of another Jones. My mother wasn’t enough tosatisfy their insatiable hunger.

Red flashes across my vision, and it’s notthe clear crimson sky overhead. Blood in the water. So muchblood.

“Admiral,” he corrects, but I can’t see himthrough the red. “Your assignment is in, Lieutenant. You’ll boardthe Sailors’ Mayhem shortly, just after we make landfall.”

The ship rolls on a particularly high, widewave and I feel whatever I’ve got left coming back up, and it’s toolate to turn, and I know I’m about to

(throw up in front of my father.)

but I can’t stop it now, and so then Ido.

I throw up all over my father’s polishedblack boots.

I don’t feel any better though, because mymother’s blood is still in the water and I’m still leavingeverything I’ve ever known to work on the Mayhem.

Chapter Six

Sadie

Drenched and coldand shaking in the stables, I feel much better.

I hold my knees to my sopping chest, my wetand stringy hair falling around me like a black veil.

The unceasing drumroll of the rain on theroof drowns out my thoughts.

Something about being near the horses calmsme. The light stamp of their feet showing their agitation at thestorm raging around them; their smell, musty and leathery andalive; their soft whinnies and snorts: all of it centers me,steadies me, like how driving a stake deep into the ground anchorsa tent.

I remember Paw. No, not reallyremember him. More like the idea of him. The feeling of him.Even after all these years. Even after all that’s happened.Although in my memory his face is blurry now, as if smudged withdirt, my heart leaps when I think about how I looked up to him, howwe ran around waving swords and practicing to be Riders even beforewe started our formal training. Paw never had the chance to train,but I know—I know—he would have been amazing.

Abruptly the chatter of the rain and thesmell of the horses aren’t enough to soothe my rising temper. Islam my fist into the dirt, which is fast becoming sludge as ariver of rainwater finds its way inside.

My father, a Man of Wisdom, ha! He wasn’twise enough to know to save his own son from death. But even in myanger, I know in that burning place in my chest it had nothing todo with wisdom—it had everything to do with fear. Fear of theSoakers and their swords, fear of dying, fear of not fulfillingsome strange and mystical destiny that Father believes is his.

“Mother Earth, please bring him back,” Ipray, blinking back the tears. It’s a fool’s prayer, and yet I feelbetter for having whispered it in the dark.

Shadow stamps and I stand up, lift a hand tohis nose, let him nuzzle against my palm. When I rub him betweenhis ears, he lowers his head so I can easily reach him. “Shadow,” Imurmur, and he responds to his name with a slight jerk and asnort.

I’ve known Shadow forever. He was only threewhen I was born, so we’ve grown up together. Although I shouldn’tbe allowed to play with him because he’s a Rider’s horse, Motheralways made exceptions for me. We used to run, run, run through thelong grass, stopping only so I could make myself a soft bed, and soShadow could eat it out from under me. Mother lets me ride himsometimes, too, but only when she’s around. “Shadow may lookfriendly,” she always says, “but he’s still a Rider’s horse, andhe’s seen great and terrible things.”

Although I don’t think Shadow would ever doanything to hurt me, I won’t betray my mother’s trust by riding heron my own, although Mother Earth knows I’ve been tempted before.I’m tempted now, but instead I just keep rubbing him, counting downthe days until I’ll have a horse of my own. A Rider’s horse, one ofthe Escariot.

I hear a noise that doesn’t sound like ahorse. A scuffle and a splash, like someone’s stumbled and steppedin a puddle. Probably Father coming to make peace, as he does.“Hello?” I say.

Silence for a moment, and then, “Who’sthere?” A man’s voice, only without the gruffness.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I say toShadow, who seems content as long as I keep rubbing him.

“Remy,” the man-not-a-man’s voice says.

My heart stutters, because I know exactly whohe is. Son of Gard, the leader of the Riders. Not six months aftermy father laid his hands on my head and declared me a Rider, he didthe same for Remy. Until we were twelve, we attended the same firespeeches, sitting around a campfire with all the other childrenwhile my father taught us the ways of the Stormers, of the Soakers,our history. Why we fight and why we kill.

For most of my childhood, Remy tormented me.Up until we parted ways for our individual training, he’d pull myhair, try to trip me, whisper gross messages in my ear. Back then Ididn’t have the strength I do now. I tried to ignore him andeventually he gave up.

“Sadie,” I say firmly.

“I know you,” he says, his voice closernow.

“Good for you,” I say.

“Where are you?” he asks.

I say nothing.

“What are you doing out here in the rain?” heasks.

“I’m not in the rain,” I say, “and again, Icould ask you the same thing.” My tongue feels sharp and I’m glad.My hand stops moving on Shadow’s side as I listen for hisresponse.

“True and true,” he says. “My father asked meto check on Thunder.”

Of course. What else would he be doingout here? Hiding from his parents like me? Not likely. Not whenyou’re the war leader’s son.

“The horses are fine,” I say. They alwaysare, even in the worst storms. They’re used to the thunder andlightning by now. Even the young ones do okay, so long as theirmothers are nearby.

“I know,” Remy says. “But you know Riders andtheir horses.” He says it in such a way that makes me laugh, but Icut it off right away. I shouldn’t be out here. I shouldn’t belaughing with him. Already I feel unsteady on my feet, unfocused,not something I can afford when I’m so close to…

“Won’t you be a Rider soon?” Remy asks.

Is Remy also training to become a mindreader? “I’m already a Rider,” I correct. The moment a Man ofWisdom says we’re Riders, we’re Riders, even when we’re just littlebabies who don’t know a horse from a mossy stump.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean it likethat.” His voice is much closer now, and I realize it’s coming fromthe stall next to Shadow’s, through a gap in the wood.

I peer through and see him watering Thunder,holding a tin bucket up so the horse can slurp it up withoutbending over. His other hand’s on Thunder’s nose, stroking it muchthe same way I rubbed Shadow’s.

Lightning flashes and for a moment his faceis fully illuminated, sending crackles of warmth through me, as ifI’ve been struck by the storm.

He’s pleasing to look at. That’s all I’msaying.

Warm, brown eyes, close-cropped dark hairover a well-shaped head, lips that are quick to smile, which he’sdoing now, something I remember about him from my father’s firespeeches. But that’s all I’m saying, for real this time.

I pull away, embarrassed with myself forstaring for so long.

“You still there?” he asks, and I take a fewdeep swallows of air, trying to catch my breath.

“Still here,” I say, managing to keep myvoice steady in the way my mother taught me to command thehorses.

“So you’ll be having your Riderceremony soon?” he says, correcting his question fromearlier.

I nod absently, then realize he can’t see me,not unless he’s…

Two big, brown eyes stare through the crackin the wall separating Thunder’s and Shadow’s stalls.

I flinch and half-jump behind Shadow, whogives me a strange look and snorts as if to say, Some Rider youare.