Water & Storm Country Read Online Free Page B

own, spin to get in close to her, but she pushes me away with a
strong hand. Although my legs are tiring, I feel reinvigorated when
I suck in a deep breath of the cool, salty air.
    Mother dances to the side, onto the hard
sand, her feet lithe and graceful like an animal’s. “I don’t know,”
she says. “They don’t always fight. Sometimes they move past us,
searching for a safe place to land, to refill their freshwater
supply.”
    I shove the tip of my sword in the sand and
release it, letting it spring back and forth in the wind. Put my
hands on my hips. “But why do they get to choose when we fight. Why
can’t we attack them for a change?”
    She looks at me with an amused expression,
her black ponytail dangling in front, over her shoulder. Her dark
brown skin almost seems light brown against the darkening sky,
which is one single mass of black clouds with no beginning and no
end. Down the shoreline, lightning flashes in the distance. The
wind picks up, tossing my untied hair around my face as easily as
it picks up a fallen feather from one of the dozens of gulls that
swirl overhead, cawing and crying. The waves are dark blue and
churning, crashing on the sand with the strength and power of ten
horses. The Deep Blue is restless.
    As usual, a storm is coming, and a fierce one
at that.
    “Patience,” my mother says, and then leaps
forward, the half-smile gone, her face hard with concentration. Her
blade cuts toward me.
    Clang!
    I whip my own sword from the sand and
narrowly manage to deflect hers away. Not that she would’ve hit me.
But she would’ve pressed the point tight against my skin and
lectured me on always being prepared, never letting my guard down,
or any number of her favorite “Rider Lessons.”
    For a while we forget about the Soaker ships,
forget about the cheers erupting from them as they passed, forget
about everything but our own bodies, moving, slashing, blocking,
fighting, preparing for… for what?
    Finally, my mother puts down her blade.
    “A storm is coming,” she says, but I don’t
think she means rain and lightning and thunder.
    Though we both know we should run for
shelter, for the camp, we sit on the sand for a while, just
watching the gulls play on the gusting wind. Seems the storm isn’t
close enough to scare them yet, and the birds are usually
right.
    “I hate them,” I say to the ocean.
    “Who? The birds?” my mother says, and I can
feel her smile on my face. She can be intense during training, but
when she’s just my mother again she’s different.
    “The Soakers,” I say, looking at her quickly,
matching her brown stare.
    She knows why, so she doesn’t ask, doesn’t
say anything, just throws an arm around me and pulls me into her
chest. Her heart beats firmly against my face.
    “Don’t be so quick to grow up,” she finally
says.
    I pull away, embarrassed that I gave myself
the comfort of my mother’s tenderness. I’m not a child anymore.
“I’ll be a Rider soon,” I say, frowning. “Is Father trying to delay
it?”
    “Your father loves you,” she says, “it would
do you well to remember that.”
    “Father’s a coward,” I say before I can stop
myself. But why should I stop myself? The words are on my tongue
most of the time, why shouldn’t I speak them? They’re the truth,
after all.
    “Your father’s a hero,” Mother says.
    Something red and hot and sizzling with
energy tears through me, like lightning striking a lonely tree. I
shudder, breathing heavy, trying to control my anger like Mother
has taught me. I want to swallow the words in my mouth, if only
because I love my father, despite his weaknesses, despite all his
wise words and no action, despite the coward that he is. But I
can’t, because of Sorrow. Because of Sadness. Because of Loss.
    Because of Paw. My brother. My lost
brother.
    “He let him die,” I say through tight
lips.
    “He tried to save him,” Mother says.
    “He was too weak.” My jaw aches from grinding
my teeth.
    “No,