From here, she couldn’t see the way their stick-thin legs practically danced over the sand, or the way their pointed snouts would swing left and right in an endless search for bugs, or how they’d slide into the water, legs wide—but she didn’t need to. She could imagine.
“Apparently morning is the time to go digger-watching.” Cilla beamed.
“You knew I liked them,” Amara said. They stood turned toward the beach; as long as she kept her movements minimal, no one on the ship would see her sign. “The servant before—before—told me diggers weigh less than you’d think. That’s why their legs are so thin. Their bodies are round, but only because they contain a sack of air that helps them float in the water.”
“I’d forgotten that!”
“They breathe in extra before they go into the water and store the air on their backs. If you puncture the skin there, they’ll drown.”
“That’s … really sad.” Cilla frowned.
Amara fell silent. Her eyes followed the shapes skittering across the beach.
“Just because it’s sad doesn’t mean you should stop talking.” Cilla bumped her shoulder into Amara’s.
“I’m sorry,” Amara said automatically. “I don’t know much else about diggers.”
“No, I mean …”
Amara knew what she meant.
“Did you only run because I said I wanted you to?” Cilla asked.
Amara didn’t know either answer: the real one or the one Cilla wanted. She tried to keep her thoughts on the beach, but the diggers had lost their appeal. She couldn’t see them anymore, anyway. The ship moved too fast.
“I meant … I thought running was best for you. You can answer me honestly. Except if I have to tell you that, it rather defeats the point, and—” Cilla threw up her hands and laughed feebly.
“Told you it’s not that simple,” Amara said. Maybe nothing was simple. The world had come close to simple before, doing whatever Cilla and Jorn asked. Now, Amara second-guessed every thought; Cilla probably second-guessed every word. Every formerly innocuous question turned into something more.
Good, Amara thought. Cilla should know that her words meant something.
“You can joke about it?” Cilla said.
“It wasn’t a very good joke.”
A smile played at Cilla’s lips. She looked at the beach, even with the diggers too far to be recognizable. Her hands wrapped around the railing. They looked soft next to the polished wood. “Amara, I know we’re not friends, but you’re all I have. Jorn is … It’s complicated.”
“Jorn’s always protected you.” Amara’s signs had a hard edge to them. They came choppier, like Nolan’s. She wiggled her toes just to make sure she still could. “It’s OK to care for him.”
It wasn’t, but Amara still understood.
“I don’t know if I do. I don’t want to.” The wind took Cilla’s hair, playing with it, and Amara’s first instinct was to smooth it down as she’d done with her own. Cilla had no need to hide her neck, though. “Sometimes he was kind. Sometimes he wasn’t. But I wasn’t allowed to be alone, and with him, I didn’t have to be so careful. Maar—he hated me.”
No point in denying that.
“I know you hate me, too.” Cilla turned briskly. One hand stayed on the railing. The wind brushed her hair into her face in a way that was wild and beautiful and did nothing to hide the uncertainty in her eyes. “I understand. I wanted you to know that: I understand, and I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed behind.”
“If you weren’t with me, you’d die. I don’t want you to.”
“I’m still sorry.”
“I know.” Before she could change her mind, Amara said, “I just don’t know if it changes anything.”
Cilla’s shoulders squared, as if she was bolstering herself. “I deserve that.”
Amara raised her hands to speak, then stilled. She’d never thought about these things. There was no point. But she didn’t only think about them now, she said them straight to the princess’s face, and she wasn’t even scared anymore.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t comfortable. But it was safe. The thought took her breath away.
“Maybe I was wrong before,” she signed. “I don’t think I hate you. I hate what you are; I hate what I am, too. We can’t change either of those.”
“I can. When I’m in power, you’ll get everything you want. I’ll remove your tattoo. You’ll live where you want to. You’ll get however much silver you need.”
Amara laughed. “I’d want books. I want to read books.”
“There’s a library in the Bedam palace. You could take every last book in there.”
“I’d want to live on the beach. I’d see diggers every morning.”
“Yours.”
“I’d want to see Eligon.”
“I’d arrange it.”
It’d be that easy for her, wouldn’t it?
Behind them, Captain Olym called orders. The crew adjusted the sails. “I thought you wanted us to be equals,” Amara said. She’d depended on Jorn for food, shelter, safety. Being dependent on Cilla, instead—that wasn’t freedom.
“But I owe you.” Cilla thought. “All right. Tell me what you do need.”
Why was Amara laughing again? None of this was funny, but she couldn’t help it. The world sank under her feet, and Cilla promised her silver and books and diggers, and she turned them all down. She was turning into Maart. He’d say these same things—or maybe he wouldn’t. He might take all that Cilla offered and say he deserved it. He’d be right, too.
“I need …” The wind tangled Amara’s hair, and the sea stretched out endlessly before her. “I don’t know,” she said, almost dreamily.
“You’re not making this easy.” Cilla’s laugh was a nervous one.
“I didn’t realize a lot of the things you’ve told me,” Amara said. “Like that you had no choice but to spend time with Jorn. Like that we played games together because you weren’t allowed to play with anyone else. I grew up thinking I wasn’t allowed to play with anyone else.” She hesitated. “Like that I’m all you have.”
“Of course you’re all I have.” Cilla’s hand touched Amara’s, sending a jolt through her.
She’d wanted to say something else but was no longer sure what.
Noon had come and gone, and it had taken the sun with it, turning the sky bland and the sea dark, then dangerous. The ship was supposed to arrive in Bedam that afternoon. Instead, it moored at Roerte, a southern mainland town, with Captain Olym repeating apologies a dozen times over. “I can’t risk this weather,” she told her passengers, standing by the plank that led to the mainland. She was shaking in her drenched shirt but refused to get out of the rain until everyone left the ship. “The Gray Sea is too erratic. Listen: I know Roerte well. I can tell you how to travel to Bedam by land, or I can arrange a stay at an inn. We’ll head out tomorrow morning if the weather’s improved by then.”
A thunderclap punctuated her words.
She didn’t say the next part, but Amara saw it written on her face: Damn the ministers to every last spirit-abandoned corner of this planet. Storms never came on this suddenly by themselves.
Amara and Cilla made up the rear of the group, not wanting to risk the crush of people. They’d gone by another two islands before mooring here and had picked up at least twenty more passengers. “You two, please come with me,” Captain Olym said when they stepped onto the plank. “I won’t have you staying at an inn, Princess. I have a farm inland. You’ll be my guests.”
Within the hour Amara and Cilla were drying off by the crackle of a fireplace. In the dining room, Captain Olym and her father, who managed the farm in her absence, conversed in singsong Alinean.