The Deepest Blue(10)
The dragon, struggling against itself now, spun in the air. And as the other spirits tried to attack the cave, her dragon fought them.
Sinewy, it slid through the rain-choked air, and it snatched the flying eel-like spirits midflight and flung them back over the cliff. It smashed its tail into a humanlike air spirit who was running across the plaza, teeth bared and claws extended.
Above you! Mayara called to it, and she showed it in her mind what she saw: a trio of spirits shaped like massive white birds, with blood spattered on their white feathers, diving at the dragon from above.
The dragon twisted in the air as if it were swimming in water, knocking into them, and bit the neck of the first one, shaking it like a dog shakes its prey, then tossing it aside.
Soon the rain began to slacken. She felt the wind lessen.
Her dragon continued to defend the cave, and Mayara kept her focus on it, but now she could see across half the plaza, where several bodies lay. She forced herself not to look. Keeping her eyes on the dragon spirit, she guided it as it fought its brethren.
She felt the spirits begin to recede, some moving across the island and others returning to the sea, until at last it was only her and the dragon.
The rain faded to a drizzle. The wind fell until it was no more than a breeze. Mayara began to shiver, hard, her dress soaked and heavy, her hair wet and sticking to her skin.
Pivoting in the air, the dragon fixed its fire-red eyes on her.
She felt as if she’d dived too far beneath the water. Black dots danced in her vision. But she held on. And as if she had been given a second breath, she was able to push back.
Go! she ordered. Return to the sea!
It screamed once more, both out loud and in her head, and Mayara fell to her knees, hard on the stone, and clapped her hands over her ears. But the cry went on and on, receding only as the dragon flew away over the waves.
She looked up and saw the clouds had dissipated, and that during the storm, the sun had finished setting. Stars began to appear overhead, and the moon glowed, heavy and full, through the remaining black wisps of the unnatural typhoon.
Mayara got to her feet, her knees aching. Her mind felt dull and empty. She silently counted the dead: nine, twelve, fifteen. She knew them all. Loved them all. Slowly, she turned to face the cave.
Kelo limped out, supported by Papa. They crossed to her, and Kelo fell into her arms. She held him, and then sank down onto the ground.
“They’ll know what you did,” Kelo said, his voice a broken whisper.
She knew who he meant: the Silent Ones, the ones who had come for Elorna, the ones who’d taken her beloved sister’s future, her hopes, and all her dreams when she revealed her power.
Whenever a woman proved to possess an affinity for spirits, the queen sent the Silent Ones to retrieve her and offer her a choice of two futures: Become a Silent One, one of the queen’s enforcers, forsaking your family, your identity, and your voice, and swearing obedience to the queen. Or submit to the Island of Testing, Akena, in hopes of becoming an heir. Only a rare few survived that test, joining the queen’s other heirs. Most who tried, like Elorna, died there and were never seen again.
It was a terrible choice.
It was no choice at all.
“They’ll come for you,” Kelo said, anguish in his voice. “They’ll take you.”
She couldn’t think of what to say. Looking up, she saw her parents were crying, their arms around each other. Others had formed a semicircle, all of them staring at Mayara and Kelo.
There were no words for anyone to say.
She’d saved them. But in doing so, she’d doomed herself.
Chapter Four
Mayara wrapped her arm around her mother’s shoulders. Her father sat on her opposite side, cradling his wife’s hands in his. But Mayara didn’t think Mother even knew they were there. Mumbling softly, she rocked back and forth.
Beyond them, the sea was dark but quiet. The waves slapped the shore far below with an even regularity that was almost soothing. The only other sounds were the soft whisper of voices as families consoled one another and the weeping of those who still had the strength to cry.
“She’s cold,” Papa said. “Mayara—” He cut himself off, as if suddenly realizing there were many things he wanted to say to his daughter beyond the fact that they were drenched.
If he says anything, I’ll cry. Again. She jumped up. “I’ll get her a blanket.”
A few of the unhurt villagers were hauling the storm trunks out to the plaza—every family kept a trunk sealed against storms secure in the caves that riddled the islands. She hurried to the nearest trunk and dug through it for the thickest blanket she could find. Musty and old, the blankets stank like cabbage soup, but they were dry. She pulled one out.
A hand clamped onto her wrist. She blinked, realizing that she’d been so focused on her prize that she hadn’t noticed Grandmama was sitting cocooned in blankets beside the trunk. Normally, Grandmama was an impossible-to-miss force.
“I’m sorry,” Mayara said, not even knowing what she was apologizing for—ignoring her or using her power. Or not using it soon enough.
Nearby, the clamdiggers were wrapping the dead in torn sails and then binding them in netting, as was tradition. At dawn, the bodies would be taken to the “death boats,” sea-worthy canoes carved with prayers for the dead, and then rowed out to sea.
If I’d acted faster . . .