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Chapter 8
Then
There was no body to bury.
Among the jagged edges of wood and debris, what remained of my sister was unrecognizable. Unsalvageable. Taken by the tide.
Selina and Kolvar organized a small vigil on the front steps of our home. I don’t think my mother would have been able to walk further than the front door. She wailed and howled to the sky as an Inkwell priest said a prayer to the Benevolent Saints that Larka be welcomed by all five of them, kept safe from the six Blood Saints until she could be reunited with her family one day.
A cigar. A cigar had set the Eddenian ship ablaze when it had been knocked from the hands of a sailor by his drunken crewmate. They had been in a friendly race with another ship and gained too much speed for the harbor.
I sat in the grass on the edge of the water, staring at the scorched mortar and blackened grass and gravel. The only reminder that it had happened. The only reminder that the nightmare I was having was not a nightmare at all, but real life.
That Larka was dead.
It had been two weeks. Two weeks since the explosion. Two weeks since the harbor was stained red with the lifeblood of my sister. Two weeks since Cindregala took only a brief pause and continued on with music and dancing and exotic food and wine once the bulk of the disaster was cleared.
I heard the explosion over and over again in my mind, watching as chunks of wood and metal flew through the air like sea birds, swooping down only to crash in the dirt and the water. I could smell the burning ship, taste the blood in my mouth. Feel the paralysis that had struck my legs as I watched everything unfold.
I could have saved her. If I had just pushed a little harder, thought a little quicker, I could have run to her. I could have pushed her out of the way. I could have been the one to sprint into the danger, fearless and without a second thought. I could have been the one who died. Ishouldhave been the one who died.
And with every explosion that sounded in my mind, so came Ingra’s words.
Three days after Larka died, I stumbled from Inkwell to Bellenau Square, eyes swollen, clothes dirty. I had to find Ingra, demand answers, ask her why the hell she didn’t warn us, how the hell she knew what was going to happen. People cleared out of my way as I wandered through the streets to the town square, not giving much thought to what was presumably anotherdrunk.
But when I turned the corner to the row where the soothsayer told us of our fates, her tent was gone.
I walked up and down the rows of tents and booths to make sure I hadn’t been mistaken, hadn’t confused one row for another, but she was nowhere to be found. I stood in front of the empty spot, the faint smell of incense lingering in the air like a taunt. I sank to the ground, gripping my knees to my chin, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. Fuck the passersby. Fuck their whispers. Fuck this.
I leaned forward, falling to my knees, and sobbed.
