Chapter Thirty-Nine
Mom told me a story once about a boy who, for fear of God’s wrath, threw himself into the sea and got swallowed up by a giant fish. Then three days later, God showed mercy, and the boy was puked onto the shore. I imagine he felt like I do now. Relief. Fear. Gasping for oxygen while reaching out for the very hand of God.
Finally. He reveals himself. And when I feel strong hands gripping my shoulders, I welcome them. They’re here to take me home, to the eternal paradise Mom always talked about.
But then the voice speaks, and it’s oddly familiar. Too painfully, wonderfully familiar to be God.
“Lark!”
The urgent voice draws me farther out from the unknown, and I cough harder and suck in more oxygen.
“Lark?”
I roll onto my side, my body racking with more coughs as my lungs dispel the remaining water and drag in more air almost at the same time. When the convulsing finally stops, I lay back and look up at the sky, realizing for the first time that I’m still alive.
Why am I still alive?
“What in Harthu’s name were you thinking?” Kalen says. He’s staring down at me with wide eyes like he’s worried or something. What’s he even doing here? I let out a breath, suck in another, even out my heartbeat. The memory of Kalen’s conversation with his brother collides back into my mind, and the grief reemerges.
“Zimri’s…going to kill them,” I croak.
His brows knit together, and he sits back.
“Lark, you could have died just now.” His voice is raw and desperate. “Don’t you know the sea is most dangerous when both moons are full?”
Why would my one meaningless life matter when hundreds of others are going to be exterminated? When I finally regain energy, I push myself to a sitting position and wrap my hands around my freezing arms. The sun has set and a chill settles over me.
“You’re shivering.” He picks his cloak off the ground and holds it out to me. “Put this on before you get sick.”
Sick. Like the unfortunate victims at the Port. I look at the expensive material of Kalen’s cloak but don’t dare put it on, because it’s a sign of his wealth, of his status in life, his Tavdorian blood and everything that I’m not.
“That’s your nobility cloak. You wouldn’t want a dirty, infected Human touching it, now would you?”
Hurt fills his eyes. “Put it on, please.”
The look on his face tugs at my heart, so I hesitantly accept the cloak and wrap it around my shoulders. The material is thin but still thick enough to block out the night chill. I stare at the sea.
Numb.
“Is he going to go through with it?”
Kalen stares at me a long moment, then looks out toward the shoreline. “He’s going to think about it for another day.”
“Do you think you can sway him?”
He heaves out a sigh. “You saw me try to fight them. I’ve got nothing, Lark.” The words are spoken in a husky whisper. The torment behind his eyes makes my rage evaporate into the empathy that always overrules everything, and I forget my own pain. I reach out. I caress his face. I try to comfort this son of a slave trader.
He closes his eyes, covers my hand with his own. My heart fractures, and I find myself kneeling beside him. “Something has to be done,” I whisper. “These things your family is doing—they’re not only affecting aliens. They’re affecting you.”
“What do you suggest, Lark? What would you do? Where would you take forty-seven diseased slaves?”
I blink and look away, thinking.
“See?” he says gently. “I might be free, but I’m as powerless as you.”
“No.” I release a small laugh of relief as a solution comes to me. “You have more. If you can spare just a little bit of money, I know where we could possibly find a cure.” He studies me, torn, his violet eyes like raging seas and high water and a new passion unfolding like a hurricane. “Even if these are the only forty-seven lives you save,” I say, “you’ll have done more than most.”
“Where do we go?” he whispers.
I can’t believe my ears.
“Where can we find a cure?” he asks again. “Take me. If you know someone, take me to them now.”