Sigquaya

  I thought about that for a long moment. I wasn’t sure I understood, so I asked, “So we change our names so we can forget our past?”

  She chuckled softly. “No. Some of us will never forget, though some of us have chosen to, because of the painful memories involved. I have never heard you talk like that, like your memories are hurtful to you; your memories may well be cherished, and that is truly a blessing.”

  I remember her taking my hand, trying to reassure me. It helped.

  “Of course,” she went on, “you may continue here as Tristan. You can choose to remember as much of your past as you would like. No one will think differently. We all have our paths, and you have yours.”

  “No,” I finally said, though my voice was barely a whisper. “You’re right. Tristan Denaeus is dead. He should stay there. In Brynslæd.”

  She smiled at me again, and I brightened a little. “Okay then.” She nodded.

  “So, what should my name be?” I asked. “My Cierran name?”

  She smiled as she gave me a thoughtful look. “I was thinking . . . Caden.”

  “Caden,” I repeated.

  She nodded. “It means ‘friend’ or ‘brother,’ which is who you are to me and Rahn.”

  I smiled at that. It seemed right.

  “Caden,” I said again.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Friend. Brother.” I looked at her and grinned. “Yes,” I said. “I like it. Very much so.”

  Just then, Marshaan knocked on the door and joined us. Daina gestured to me with a flourish of both hands. “Marshaan, I would like you to meet Caden.”

  Marshaan smirked and nodded. “It’s nice to meet you, Caden.” He looked at Daina. “‘Brother,’ hmm?”

  “And ‘friend.’” She nodded.

  “Hmm.” He raised his brow. Then, he looked at me. “Do you know, to some it also means ‘spirit of battle’?”

  I turned to Daina, and she nodded.

  He smiled, shaking his head. “I remember when you were first pulled from the Waters,” he said. “You were a fighter, and you have that spirit within you, to fight to survive, to fight for what is right.”

  I didn’t remember feeling like much of a fighter back then. More of a giver-upper. But, I guess he thought more of me than I did of myself at that time. Or even now.

  He nodded, looking back to Daina. “That’s a good name.”

  “I like it,” I repeated.

  “I’m glad,” the two adults said as one, then laughed at their synchronicity.

  “Will Rahn like it?” I asked.

  “Rahn and I came up with it together, actually,” Daina confessed. “He already does.”

  That made me think, so I asked, “What does his name mean? Rahn?”

  “It means ‘contemplative.’”

  “Con-conta—”

  “Contemplative,” she repeated. “He’s a thinker, a decision-maker. Always has been.”

  “That he is,” I said. “How about you? What does ‘Daina’ mean? How did you come up with it?”

  Daina paused as her eyes clouded. Marshaan answered quietly, “It means ‘just’ or ‘judge.’”

  Even then, I knew I’d ventured into sensitive ground with Daina. Whether it was in her name or how she’d come about it, I wasn’t sure. But, seeing her reaction, I stopped asking questions.

  Marshaan noticed the change as well. “C’mon, Caden,” he prompted, ushering me toward the door. “Let’s find Rahn. We’re due in the gardens.”

  Daina waved us goodbye, bravely, wordlessly. But even as I closed the door behind me, I could see tears forming in her eyes.

  Some of us will never forget, though some of us have chosen to, because of the painful memories involved.

  Is that what it was? Had she actually been talking about herself?

  “What did I do, Marshaan?” I asked when we were well away from Daina’s door.

  “You did nothing, boy.”

  “Then why was she—”

  Marshaan stopped me by my shoulder and turned, kneeling in front of me, grasping both of my arms firmly but with a deep compassion in his eyes. “It is a story I will tell you, Caden, in time, and with Daina’s permission. Until then, know this: It is nothing to do with you or what you did just now, or ever. She loves you very much. Okay?”

  I nodded.

  “There are certain things, on certain days, that trigger certain people in certain ways. Understand?”

  Not really. Even so, if nothing else, what he said rhymed, so I nodded like I did. Marshaan was an excellent teacher and mentor, but tenderness and compassion had never really been his forte.

  “Okay.” Marshaan stood, patted me on the back, and urged me on. “Now, to the gardens!”

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  Rahn and I reached the top of the ridge and sat on two smooth, flat rocks, breathing heavily and sweating, but happy for the time to ourselves.

  “So,” Rahn began, getting right to the point, “are you still thinking of going?”

  “Of course I am.” It was something only Rahn knew about, this desire to return to Bryneslæd that had never gone away in all the years I’d been here. I was Caden in Cierra, but in my heart, I was still Tristan Denaeus. I would probably always be.

  Rahn argued, as he always did. “But you could risk being a Watcher at all.”

  “I know.”

  “And what’s the point? Honestly?”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “Humor me.”

  “I’m not trying to risk Marshaan’s judgment of me as a Watcher. I’m actually trying to make us—to make them—more effective.”

  “Hog's dung.”

  “It’s true.”

  “You want to go home.”

  “No, I don’t. I want to save more lives, if that’s possible.”

  “By reaching the Hæðn?”

  “No. Well, yes. Maybe. I don’t know!”

  Rahn always argued. I always grew exasperated. But, after a minute I calmed down as I always did, and Rahn waited me out as he always did, so I continued. “I remember a waterfall. That’s all. That’s what it felt like, anyway. It was dark. That’s what it sounded like. I just think if I could reach that, or maybe even before that, we might stand a better chance of saving some of those Hæðn children.”

  That was what we called them, the people and their ceremonies: Hæðn. It was about the worst insult you could hurl at someone. It meant barbaric. Murderous. Or worse. It was a word used for no other purpose. I knew that I was speaking of people I’d once known, but still, the label seemed to fit. After all, they’d tried to kill me.

  “And you know that means getting back into the Waters,” Rahn said. “Moving against them, against the current. By choice.”

  I shuddered. “Yes.”

  Everyone in Cierra had an aversion to the Waters, some to all water. It was the memory, conscious and subconscious, of having been a sacrifice for the Hæðn. It was the feeling of submersion, of the water against your skin, especially if it was moving. It was one of the first things we had to overcome to begin our training as Watchers. We never really got over it, but a few of us could get past it. At least for a while. I was lucky enough to be one of those few, as was Rahn.

  He looked at me for a long moment, holding my gaze until I looked away.

  “You want to go back,” he said again, and again it was more statement than question.

  I set my jaw and blew out a long breath. When it came right down to it, why lie? Who was I really trying to convince, anyway?

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Why?”

  I breathed. In and out. In and out. Settling my nerves. These were things the two of us hadn’t yet discussed, but likely needed to. I wanted to hear the sound of my true intentions out loud, just to see if I was actually crazy for thinking them.

  “I want to see what’s become of my family.”

  “To see if they still miss you.” Again, a statement.

  “No!”


  Damn, was that true?

  “And what if they do?” Rahn pressed. “What will you do? What can you do?”

  “Something just feels . . . off. Like something is wrong there, in Brynslæd.”

  “But we’ve all felt that. We’ve all gone through that. Through this, exactly what you’re feeling now.”

  He was right. I knew it. And I hated it.

  “And you’re the expert,” I spat. I knew it was harsh, but I couldn’t help myself. “What do you know? You’re the same age as me.”

  Rahn let it slide, saying instead, “But I came through the Waters years before you. Much younger. And Daina and Marshaan, years before that.”

  He waited until I looked him in the eye to continue. “No, I’m not the expert,” he said. “But the community, as a whole, is.”

  “But,” I pleaded, “I need to know.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m going with you.”

  What??

  That wasn’t part of the plan. That had never been a part of the plan.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “What, you’re going alone?”

  “I’d planned to, yes.”

  “And what were you going to tell Daina?”

  “I wasn’t,” I said. Then I quietly added, “I was thinking you would do that.”

  Rahn snorted. “Oh, thank you for that,” he answered, sarcastically. “And, no. I like my life. She would kill me. Then follow you and kill you, too!”

  I had to laugh at that. “No she wouldn’t.”

  Rahn began to laugh too. “No, you’re right, she wouldn’t. She hates the Waters more than any of us. All of us combined, I think.”

  Then we looked at each other and, in unison, said, “She’d have Marshaan do it!”

  We doubled over in laughter. It really wasn’t that funny, but the tension had been broken, and we were happy to move on and talk about anything else.

  “Have me do what?” a gruff voice said from beside us.

  Oh, sh—!

  We instantly sobered up and turned, seeing both Marshaan and Telluras approaching from the cliff’s edge. They must have gotten tired of waiting and climbed up after us.

  “Umm, that, uh,” I said, stumbling. I had nothing.

  Thankfully Rahn was a quick thinker. “That Daina would tell you to have our heads if we didn’t come back down right away.”

  “Uh-huh.” Marshaan nodded, not buying it for a minute. “What were you two on about up here?”

  “Nothing,” we said together. Admittedly, it was said with a little too much innocence. And too squeaky.

  “Just, umm,” I tried to add.

  “Just avoiding the rest of your training for the day?” Telluras suggested.

  “No,” I answered.

  “Yes,” Rahn answered.

  We looked at each other and switched answers.

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  It was like a bad scene from some tragic comedy.

  “Stop!” Marshaan bellowed, holding up a hand. “Just . . . stop. And get your butts back down the mountain.”

  We were happy to—thankful, actually—and we started for the cliff’s edge.

  “Not that way,” Marshaan growled. He pointed toward a path that led around the mountainside.

  “The blackberry path? But that’ll take hours!” Rahn whined.

  “Yup.”

  “And it’ll be dark,” I added.

  “Yup.”

  We looked at each other then back to Marshaan.

  “Th-then, umm,” I mumbled, my cheeks reddening, “we better get, umm, started.”

  “Yup.”

  11

  From the Mihtcarr to the Gildrom

  She had been here only once before.

  Rhiana was thirteen at the time. It had only been the previous harvest that her family celebrated her name being officially removed from the registry. And then, the very next season, Skye’s name was called—her sister. Not even three years of age, she was small and delicate, barely speaking and running, and barely doing the things that other parents took for granted by that age.

  Rumors swirled around her: Was she premature, or was she illegitimate? As such, her mother rarely took her out in public. Rhiana could remember even then, as the Elder held Skye, her small body was swaddled in her favorite blanket and her face was veiled at Amelia’s insistence. The Empire’s rumor mill regarding her sister would die with Skye’s sacrifice. And it would die unsatisfied.

  As a member of the Empire’s Council, Lord Grayson, her father, was obligated to attend all Temple ceremonies, including those of the Gildrom. Her mother, never having been overly religious, and rumored to be Ma’wan, saw the Gildrom ceremonies as the barbaric atrocities they were, and Rhiana had always seemed to find something to help her mother with. In the end, her father would smile knowingly, kiss his wife goodbye, whisper a few words to her, and then be off to the Gildrom alone.

  Then came Skye’s calling. The family was required—then and there—to be in attendance. All of them. The Elder was firm in his insistence, “for the good of Council and community.” Brynewielm would have been offended and the planting season in jeopardy.

  And so Rhiana was there, with her stepfather on one side and her mother, holding her hand, on the other. Her mother’s palm felt cool and moist. Rhiana remembered looking to Amelia and seeing her mother’s jaw clenched so tightly yet trembling, her eyes fixed dead ahead, unmoving and unblinking. Dead, as it would turn out, was the right word—she had truly never been herself since.

  Lord Grayson’s eyes were fixed too, looking directly at the Elder, his lips pursed and yet silently moving, as if he were saying something to the Rector but something only Grayson himself would ever know.

  Rhiana shivered as she recalled the water of the Gildrom moving in a lazy circle, around and around, almost hypnotizing in its slow, unending swirl. She remembered the golden sparkles of pyrite reflecting the torch fire. She remembered it all, and she never wanted to live through it ever again.

  And then Tristan’s name was called.

  Her heart dropped the moment she heard. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. She certainly couldn’t go through that infernal ritual once again. Not with her own son.

  She couldn’t.

  She wouldn’t.

  Religion be damned. Honor and sacrifice be damned. The gods be damned. They had taken enough from her already. Too much. And so she stayed home.

  And she’d paid a price.

  Remè had gone. Alone. And he too had paid a price.

  His health continued to deteriorate. His mental faculties continued to lose tether. He was growing paranoid that the Temple was coming for him, that they would sacrifice him. They had already cost him his firstborn son, his judgeship, and now his sanity. Why should they spare him his life? Or so he’d convinced himself.

  Rhiana had given him over to his delusions. She could no longer help him, even if she wanted to. The healing of Sigquaya only went so far. Her mother may have been able to do more at one time, but why would Rhiana bother her now?

  Remè no longer seemed a threat to her or her children. But then again, dry tinder was no threat until lit by a wayward spark. Then the whole house—the whole community—was in danger. He'd taken to surrounding his desk with burlap and woolen sheets, walling himself off from the rest of the house as if somehow he knew he was that dried pile of tinder, and the rest of the world was engulfed in embers.

  She stood at the Gildrom cave’s entrance, running her palm gently over the stone face, willing her feet to move, to walk down the passage toward the cavern, to place her hands in the slowly swirling waters of the Gildrom.

  She had to know.

  There was life in the Mihtcarr’s pool—more than she had ever felt from water before, even among the stench and aura of death surrounding the place. How much more might there be here? At the source of all that death?

  Despite ever
y fiber of her being screaming for her to turn and walk away, she entered the passage. Immediately the air grew damp and cool. Her hand was still touching the stone of the walls, feeling the cold indifference of the rock as she stepped, slowly and carefully, barely placing one foot in front of the other. Her heart was racing, and her breath came in short, ragged bursts. She rounded a slight bend and, as the light dimmed, she pulled a small torch from her waistcoat and lit it with a few flicks of a flint.

  Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  Rhiana screamed and turned, frantically slashing the torch back and forth in front of her like a weapon.

  “Gods, it’s me, Mother!” Arteura jumped back and held up her hands. Her shadow whipped behind her, and her face was eerily lit by the waving torch inches from her nose.

  Rhiana tried to speak but couldn’t catch her breath. She folded over, dropping the torch and putting her hands on her knees, simply trying to breathe. “Wha-what are y-you doing here?”

  Arteura looked at her oddly, balling her fists at her sides. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why aren’t you in school?”

  “Why aren’t you in the fields?”

  “Arteura!” Rhiana growled, her eyes narrowing as she was finally able to stand and face her daughter.

  Arteura picked up the torch and handed it back. “I followed you. I saw you headed off to the fields on my way to school, but then you turned away from the front gates, back through the city,and headed”—she looked around throwing her arms wide—“here instead.” Her brow furrowed as she shook her head. “Why?”

  Rhiana looked at her for a few long seconds, then reached up with her free hand and caressed her cheek. Now was as good a time as any. They were as alone as they were going to be, and Rhiana might be able to use her daughter’s help.

  “I need to tell you something,” she said.

  “Umm.” Arteura’s brow knitted. “Okay.”

  “I know, Arteura,” she said.

  Arteura shrunk back, scrunching her face even tighter, puzzled. “Huh?”

  “About you,” she went on, “and Marcus. The Mihtcarr. The training . . .”