Tide | Tide Book One (Free Sample)

Five

The dawn was too pale. I had watched countless sunrises over our village, and each one had been vibrant: rich oranges and pinks and blues streaking across the sky to chase away the night. Hopeful.

This morning there was no richness to it, as if the sky was grieving. The sun crept slowly, tiredly, into view. The clouds crawled out of sight but left behind no summer blue sky, only a shade that reflected the numbness in every inch of my body.

I couldn't move. Every muscle felt too heavy. I sat on the step in front of the Catessars' bakery. I didn't care that the mud at the edges of the street seeped through my dress. I didn't care that the breeze, as calm as it was now, bit into my skin. I didn't care that I was shaking head to toe.

The dead had been taken away, the injured tended to. Edrick had steered one of the doctors to my shoulder and had refused to let me be until she'd popped it into place, leaving it tender but usable. Then she'd moved on; there were people worse off. I didn't know how many had been killed. I heard whispers of counts in the dozens. Buildings had been ripped apart by the storm, others turned over by the tidespeople, who'd taken jewels and coin and anything else they wanted. The village was littered with shattered wood and glass, ripped fabric, the trampled and ruined remains of the festival's feast and decorations. I could smell the ash of the bonfire in the air around the clean, salty scent of the water.

Nobody spoke to me. Nobody looked at me. It was as if I was invisible. I was alright with that. I couldn't start on my way home, not yet, but I couldn't help with the cleanup, either. I was too tired. Too broken.

"Where is he?" Papa demanded from somewhere among the milling crowd passing in and out of view. "What happened?"

Tears pricked at my eyes yet again, and I blinked them away. I hadn't cried yet. I didn't want to. Crying made it real. But I looked in the direction of his voice, searching for his familiar face. It took a moment for our gazes to meet, his eyes soft with concern. "Hania?"

"Papa." My voice came out a hoarse croak, strangled by unshed tears. He crouched before me, eyes sweeping over me in search of injuries.

"Your arm." He lifted my injured arm and I winced, but the pain was dull compared to what was ripping through my chest.

"I'm alright. But Tobin, he—he—" My voice left, and I ground the heels of my hands into my eyes, begging the tears to stay put. They didn't. Behind my closed lids was the woman, the terrible woman who was like a storm herself, the triumphant gleam in her eyes as she stepped up to Tobin. The wicked curve of her smile.

"I'm sorry," somebody else said to us. I didn't bother to look up to see who. "He's gone." The two words pulled a sob from me.

Papa's voice was strained. "Where's his body been taken?"

There was a moment of silence. I searched for a way to correct him, but I had none. I didn't understand it myself. The other man replied, "There... is no body. He isn't...He wasn't killed here." The rest of the sentence was unspoken but hung in the air: he'd no doubt been killed somewhere else.

"I don't understand," Papa said.

I raised my head, wiping my tears away. "They took him, Papa. They...they left and they took him. He isn't here."

"They took him?"

"There was a woman with them. She called him Lenairen. And then...and then they were gone, and so was Tobin, and we searched but..." I couldn't get the rest out.

The other man finished, casting me a brief, sympathetic look. "We checked every body, we searched the village...he isn't here."

Papa leapt to his feet, turning on him. "Where have they taken him?"