“What do you think you’re doing?” Ispout.

The white teeth and curved lips of his smileflash through the crack. “The same thing you were doing a minuteago: looking.”

~~~

I leave after that. I don’t know what kind ofgame Remy’s playing, but I’m not in the mood to play it. Nor is nowa good time in my life to be playing games of any sort.

I stride back across the deserted camp,ignoring the muddy puddles as I tromp right through them, dirtyingmy black pants. The rain is still coming down in sheets, but thelightning is streaking far away now, the thunder distant and nomore than a grumble. The storm is passing.

Gritting my teeth, I shove my head into ourtent, seeing my father’s head snap up from the piece of bark, whichhe’s once again poring over. Mother is sleeping, which is herfavorite activity during storms. “I’m going for a run,” I say, andI hear my father start to protest, but I’m already gone, leavingthe flap swinging in my wake.

Today I head south, opposite from where I ranyesterday, when I first spotted the Soaker ship. The storm hasmoved north, as they usually do, and although the clouds remaindark and gray, they’re slightly less dark and gray to the south,and down the coastline they almost look yellow, like the clouds outto sea.

I hear a shout from behind, and I know it’smy father, but I don’t look back, just start running, letting theslowing rainfall wash over my head, my face, my arms, every part ofme, cleaning away my father’s choices and Remy’s smile—like thestorm is a part of me, and me a part of it. My blood startsflowing, my heart pumping, and I feel warmth blossom through me,chasing away the chill I felt earlier in the stables.

For this is my time. Mine alone.

The camp fades away behind me as I gallopacross the plains to the ocean. Just before the grass gives way tosand, I shuck off my black boots, discarding them haphazardly in amuddy pile until I return. Overhead, the gulls are back, playingand chattering, riding the back edge of the storm, which continuesto blow the hair around my face. The ocean is restless, churningwhitecaps in a seemingly random sequence of waves and swirls.

I run right for it, relishing the coolness ofthe thick wet sand on my feet. When I reach the point where thewaves lap onto the shore, I cut hard south, loving the way my heeldigs into the sand, changing my direction as quickly as a birdlowers a wing to change its flight path. The tide rushes around myfeet and I splash through it gleefully, almost childishly.

My time.

I run and run, picking up speed when I know Iwon’t be coming back anytime soon, not for hours at least. No needto conserve my energy. Wherever I’m going, I’ll be stopping thereto rest before I return. My parents will be worried—no, myfather will be worried—but I won’t be punished. I’m a Rider,which gives me a certain level of independence that other childrenonly dream of.

When a burst of sun shatters through thecloud cover, I realize I’ve left the storm well behind me. Althoughthe wind has lessened, my clothes are nearly dry, save for thebottoms of my pants. The sun crawls up my dark skin, drying thebeads of sweat already there and drawing more drops out from thelittle holes in my skin.

A huge bird swoops overhead, a fish in itsmouth, dozens of white gulls around it, hoping for scraps. Abig-chin.

I laugh and keep running, never tiring,feeling only strength in my taut muscles. “If you want to be aRider, you have to be as strong as your horse,” my mother taught mewhen I was eleven. It was my first day of Rider training, startingearlier than the required age of twelve. “But don’t I ride thehorse?” I asked. She laughed and said, “Yes, but your horse will bestronger knowing that you’re strong.” At the time I didn’t get it,but I do now. If a Rider is truly to be one with her horse, sheneeds to be every bit as strong, so they can each rely on eachother, trust each other, protect each other. Die for each other, ifnecessary.

I veer out of the ocean water, still on thehard-packed sand, but not where the waves can reach. Although thelast thing I want to do is stop—can I keep running forever?—I knowI have to stop at some point, or I won’t be able to make it backbefore nightfall. And the ocean is calling to me in the way that itdoes, with whispers and swallows, in and out, in and out, almostmesmerizing.

So I pull up, breathing heavy but not out ofbreath, heart pounding but not wildly, body tired but notexhausted. As I start to pull off my shirt, I can already feel theocean washing the sweat and anger off my skin, but then I stop,belly exposed.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, I lower my shirt, myeyes widening and my breath hitching.

Because further—much further—down the beach Ican see it. A series of shadows, rising and falling with theocean’s breathing, just off the shore.

Ships.

Chapter Seven

Huck

“You can’t do this!”I say, speaking to my father louder than I ever have before.

He gives me a look and I shut up, sink downon my bed, wondering if he’ll hit me. He doesn’t, although I cansee the tension in his arms, in his hands. In his face. “Are you achild or a man?” he asks, surprising me. Not a rebuke or a command,a question.

A trick?

Am I a man?

If drinking grog and singing men’s songsmakes you a man, then maybe I am. If having a pounding head and thebitter taste of bile in the back of your throat is the key tomanhood, then I’ll wear my lieutenant’s uniform with dignity.

“Aye,” I say, reverting back to my typicalmethod of dealing with my father: telling him what he wants tohear.

“Then quit acting like a child,” he growls.Then, turning, he says, “Come to my chambers when you’re ready.” Heslams the cabin door behind him.

It’s only then that I realize the boat ismoving differently than it has for the last few weeks. Back andforth, back and forth, but different. Still rolling, but calmer,slower and shorter.

The anchors are down.

~~~

My father’s chambers are lit by a dozen roundportals, the sun streaming through each one with a yellowish-whiteglow. His bed sits in the center of the large cabin, which is tentimes the size of mine. And mine’s three times the size of anyoneelse’s.

He’s not on the bed. I glance to the right tofind him sitting in a large, finely carved chair with lion’s pawsetched at the base of its legs. His arms are sitting calmly on therests. His face is relaxed. His eyes are closed.

As I approach, he says, “Speak,” and Iflinch, thankful his eyes are closed so he doesn’t see.

“Yes, Admiral,” I say, rememberingmyself.

“What have you learned from me?” he says.

My heart twitters because I didn’t expect thequestion. Blank. That’s the only word to describe my mind. It’slike everything’s gone white and then black, first like one of thepale-white sun portals that are surrounding me, and then like adark chasm in the ocean, sucking all life and ships and men intoits endless void. He’s taught me so much

(Hasn’t he?)

but I can’t seem to remember any of it, noram I able to speak anyway.

His eyes flash open. “Bilge rat got yourtongue?” he asks harshly, flicking his tongue out like a snake.

“Uh.”

“You haven’t learned to be a coward from me,I hope.” His eyes lock on mine and then dance away, settling on apainting mounted on the wall.

A woman, pushing her blond hair away from herface, holding a child in her other arm.

“Father, I’m sorry—”

“Admiral!” he explodes suddenly, rising tohis feet. His face is a web of veins, popping and red and violent.He raises a hand and I close my eyes, tense for the blow. If thisis the only way I can prove my manhood, I will. I won’t run, Iwon’t cry out, I’ll take every last bit of punishment he has togive me for my weakness two yars ago.