Zennia.MyZennia.
At last, I managed to find my voice, but it came out as a whisper: “I won’t, Instructor.”
Silence descended, heavy and grave, and after a few seconds, Rhama added, “I’m sorry.”
His words only deepened the chill in my core. It was what people said after someone had died.
“Shearwater wants our very best,” Caerig said curtly. “He’d prefer a more experienced Floodmouth, but with the nature of the placement system…well, all our past graduates are already employed. And time is of the essence.” She looked at Rhama.
“They have an island,” he said. “Nearly nine miles off the coast. Accessible via causeway when the tides are right.”
I glanced at the map, dazed, and saw it there: a little coat of arms nestled in the half-moon of the bay. A clever defense from hostile Houses, but no doubt a hindrance without a competent Floodmouth. I’d heard that the shape of the coast out there meant the tides moved faster than a person could run.
As though from far off, I heard Rhama say, “You’ll want to go and get some rest. We’re organizing an escort to the island for you, but everything should be arranged by dawn. Leave a pile of the belongings you wish to take with you in your room. I’ll ensure they’re loaded onto the coach at sunrise.”
Sunrise.
I couldn’t believe it had come about this suddenly—this stark setting-out of the rest of my life. And it seemed like a particularly cruel twist of fate that I was heading to the same place my friend had disappeared to, only for her not to be there when I arrived.
I thought of Zennia, of the last time I’d seen her—the glint in her eyes, that meaningful look, her words:“You have to know, you’re like a sister to me”—but I only felt numb, like the truth of it hadn’t hit me, like my grief was waiting in the wings for later.
And there was something else, too. A niggle of doubt.“Her ineptitude.”That just didn’t sound like Zennia.
With a dark, weighty dread, I rose to my feet, the prospect of tomorrow hanging over me like a death sentence. Caerig flashed me a tight, pursed-lipped smile. She held out her hand. “Your permission slip, please. And you’ll understand if we post a guard outside your room. Now that we’ve told Brigant Shearwater to expect you, we wouldn’t want anything to befall his new Floodmouth.”
I stared at her. Running off would be virtually impossible, but clearly Caerig was taking no chances. Eventually, my shoulders dropped, and I handed over the crumpled permission slip. “Yes, Instructor.”
“Good. I’ll see you back to your quarters.”
I threw one last, wretched glance at Rhama: a final plea for some sort of reprieve. But he avoided my eyes, leaning back in his chair, his gaze still on the parchment in front of him.
With Caerig as my shadow, I shuffled from the suite.
3
Thecoach waiting at the gate at dawn had clearly seen better days: Its paintwork was scuffed, its wheels were well-worn, and its body was speckled with the dry mud of countless travels. It had perhaps been robust and elegant once, but looking at it now, I had little hope of a comfortable journey.
It was the first day of Tima, the Turning to Autumn, and the air was crisp this early in the morning. I had donned the black uniform all trainees had to wear on the rare occasions we left the Institution—but black also seemed an appropriate choice after what I’d learned in Caerig’s office.
I blinked. My eyes were swollen from crying, and unused to the brightness: There were few windows in Arbenhaw. The complex rose up like a mountain behind me—its walls the smooth black of nabyrium, a tough stone impervious to damage by Orha—while ahead, beyond the deep ditches and watchtowers, the tops of the larches shivered in the breeze.
Rooks and jackdaws eyed me beadily from the ramparts. Theirpresence was an uneasy reminder of the Hundred, for all the Houses were named after birds: They claimed they were descended from the leaders of ancient clans who’d taken birds as emblems and inked them on their banners. There seemed no escape from reminders of House Shearwater, of Zennia, of the island that was to be my new home.
When I finally saw Caerig and Rhama walking toward me, a heavy sense of foreboding settled in my chest.
A pair of armed guards strode along behind them. One was pale, squat, and heavyset, with grayish hair pulled back into a greasy ponytail and a face that bore an uncanny likeness to a toad’s. Judging by the squint-eyed look he gave me, he, like most people, harbored a deep distrust of Orha.
The second guard was taller, gangly, and sharp-eyed, with a matchlock gun strapped to his belt. Unlike his companion, he barely spared me a passing glance.
“Corith,” said Caerig as they came to the gate. “These fine gentlemen will be keeping you company on the journey.”
Keeping me from running off, more like.
Rhama stepped forward. Something glinted in his hands. As he lifted it toward me, guided its cord over my head, the telltale hum of laconite filled the air. Dark, blood-red, with pale, threadlike veins, the pendant nestled against my chest, and I felt its faint vibration through my clothes. Should I attempt to speak to any water, my pleas would go unheeded, my gift thoroughly deadened.
I wasn’t used to it; we rarely set foot outside these gates. All Orha had to wear laconite when travelling, but we couldn’t exactly don it when we were training or working. I wouldn’t be permitted to remove the pendant until I reached Bower Island—and my service placement.
Caerig spoke: “I hope you realize how fortunate you are, Corith.Your classmates would give anything to be posted with such a family.” Perhaps she’d noticed the grim downturn of my mouth.
