Obsidian and Stars (Ivory and Bone #2)(23)

Lees and I don’t speak again until we’ve been paddling so long I begin to fear we will never see a landmark. Then my fear only worsens when we finally do. It stands out from far away—a point crowned by two peaks that stretch into the sky. By this time the sun has sunk so low the sea has turned the color of flint. No light penetrates the gray sheen—the rays are too shallow. Instead they collect like puddles of violet and red, floating on the surface until an oar scatters them on the waves.

Just south of the double peak I spot another of Roon’s landmarks—the rocky shore is split in two by a wide river with high banks. On the north bank of the river, not far upstream from the place where it empties into the sea, I notice a camp. Smoke rises from fires, twisting skyward in the slanting rays of evening sun.

I call over my shoulder to Lees, alerting her to the clan. Roon made no mention of them, so I assume they haven’t been camped here for long. Though I have no reason to believe they’re not friendly, I have no reason to believe they are, so I direct Lees to paddle farther out from the land. Paddling toward the setting sun, my eyes tire and confuse. I think I see a shadow on the horizon, and I turn to check if the shore is still within view.

When I turn, I see something I hadn’t expected. A man in a kayak is following us out, paddling hard. His arms beat the waves with determination and speed.

He is not following—he is chasing.

Lees notices him, and when she turns back to me, fear replaces the exhaustion in her eyes. “Who is that?”

“I don’t know,” I call. Panic and fatigue snarl my thoughts. He must be from the clan on the river. Is he trying to drive us away? Or to stop us from paddling too far out? “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. We have to stay ahead of him.”

Even after being at sea since midday, fear motivates us. Once we agree to outrun the stranger, our combined efforts are too much for him. He drops back. I see him raise his paddle and lay it across the deck of his boat. He’s given up.

When I see him turn back toward shore, I let myself slow. I glance at Lees, but she is no longer looking back at me. She is staring straight ahead.

I look past her shoulder—to gaze once again into the immense and limitless sea—and I see what has caught Lees’s attention. Not far away the shore of a rocky island looms up and out of the dark water. Another rises right behind it, and behind that one, another.

We have reached the string of islands and they are just as Roon described—like beads strung on a cord, pointing us out to sea. Lees and I slow and then wordlessly steer the kayak beyond one island, and then the next, fighting against all instinct, pushing farther out to sea as the night comes down.

The sky is impossibly pale, as if covered by a coating of snow. It’s so pale—so washed in the long summer twilight—the starlight can’t break through. If only I could see the stars—the campfires of those who inhabit the Land Above the Sky—I could follow their pathways and stay on a westward course.

I wish I had a truly black sky—an obsidian sky—so I could clearly see the trails of light. I think of Kol and the burial ceremony for his father that took place today. Somewhere in tonight’s sky a new star will shine, when Kol’s father builds his first campfire among the dead.

Lees and I turn and look over our shoulders more and more frequently the farther west we move. Our eyes squint into the distance as we both watch the edge of the last island disappear.

“We should be there soon!” Lees calls, her voice fired with anticipation. This is her way—to make the best of the worst. To choose excitement when she could choose dread.

I’m so glad she’s here to balance out the darker voice in my head.

We paddle hard, watching the horizon, my eyes sweeping south to account for the northward drift of the waves, until at last I glimpse a shadow on the water.

The eastern edge of an island.

I flick a look at Lees. A fire lights in each of her eyes as a smile as warm as a roaring hearth breaks across her face.

Our oars stab the water in unison, turning the kayak slightly south, as the shadow on the water grows bigger and darker. The silhouette takes shape—trees and ledges and outcroppings of rock gain clarity as we pull closer.

We have lost almost all light, but all my fear is gone.

By the time we pull the kayak onto the beach, the sun will finally disappear for its brief rest, and the stars will shine at last. I’ll be able to lie on my back on the beach and look up and see their light, like a sign from the Divine. I’m so full of hope for this, I almost don’t notice the change in the sea.

At first, I think it’s only me—that my exhausted arms are not responding to me as I think they should. I stroke the water on the left side of the kayak, but the kayak still veers left. I push harder, dig faster, and I see that Lees does, too. But still the kayak pushes south.

Until all at once a wave picks us up and turns us, dropping us so hard, water splashes across my face. This boat suddenly feels much smaller than it did a few moments ago.

Like this—fighting against a suddenly stormy sea—a stormy sea despite a clear, windless night—we fight our way to shore.

At last, with legs wobbling like stalks of kelp, Lees and I tumble out of the kayak into the shallow water and haul it up onto shore. The grade is steep, and we just manage to get it out of the sea and up onto solid ground, when the ground goes out from under us.