Seamark, page 4
Brevaer cocked his head. “All right, but why?”
Because then you’ll have someone to focus on other than me. “Oh, you know, I need someone who will run with me instead of darting ahead,” he joked.
Brevaer frowned. “I can pace you, Morgan.”
“Yes, but you won’t want to.”
“I …” Morgan was startled to see his brother at a loss for words. “I’m not doing this because I want to see you fail at something,” Brevaer said after a moment. He looked uncomfortable—which made sense, given how desperately his older brother usually tried to avoid talking about his feelings. Or to Morgan in general if he wasn’t shouting orders at him. “I’m proud of the effort you’ve been putting in. I know that fighting doesn’t come as … as naturally to you as it does to some others. I want to acknowledge that, and, well … spend some time with you, I suppose.”
“You do?” Morgan was dumbfounded. He couldn’t remember the last time Brevaer had spent time with him like that outside of sharing a meal.
“Yes.” Brevaer shook his head. “I know I’ve been a poor brother to you in many ways. I ask a great deal of you, and it’s hard for me to see sometimes that you’re trying when you don’t … do things as quickly as I expect.”
Because you expect me to be as perfect as you are, Morgan thought bitterly. Brevaer seemed to catch on.
“And that’s wrong of me,” he continued. “Before humans drove us from our island and we had to come here, someone like you—Morgan, you would have been celebrated by our people. By our parents.”
Morgan felt tears well up in his eyes. “Really?” he asked—squeaked, more like, his voice suspiciously tight.
“Even I can tell that you’re a gifted artist.” He gestured to the walls of their home, which were covered in charcoal drawings and wood carvings. “I know you don’t remember it, but our island was a place of incredible beauty.” Brevaer’s eyes went distant, focusing on something only he could see. “Every home was a work of art, and our public places were tended to by our gardeners and artisans to create the most magnificent blends of nature and necessity. Walls made from living trees, benches shaped from rock or coral, everything so bright and green and colorful … it was like living in a dream.”
Morgan had never heard his brother wax poetic like this about the past before. He tended to focus on the terrible things that had happened, which were, admittedly, very terrible. It was important to remember those things, but Morgan also couldn’t help but wonder at the fond expression on Brevaer’s face as he remembered the good things as well. What sort of man would you be if the world hadn’t hurt you so much?
“Artisans were valued there. I always knew I would be a warrior, like our parents, but our mother’s sister … she was a great sculptor.”
“What was her name?” Morgan asked, rapt with this new information.
Brevaer smiled. “She was called Morgana.”
Morgana. He was named for her, named for an aunt he couldn’t remember meeting but with whom he shared so much.
Brevaer chucked the bottom of his chin. “Better close that before you catch flies.”
“Brev!” Morgan swatted his hand away. “Can you, um, can you tell me more about her?”
“I don’t remember much,” he admitted. “I was too busy playing with other children and practicing my forms to sit still and watch her work, but I remember that when we were born, she carved portraits of us in the bark of the family tree outside our home. As the tree grew, so would our portraits, supposedly mirroring us into adulthood.”
“Wow.” Morgan was terribly impressed. “Did it actually work?”
“Well, I don’t know who did our mother’s portrait, but I personally thought it looked nothing like her,” Brevaer said with a shrug. “But mine was looking very like me by the time I was twelve. And yours … you were just a little child then, but it might have grown to look very like you as well.” Some of the light went out of his eyes. “We’ll never know, of course. The humans burned the tree at the same time they burned our home. Hundreds of years, dozens of faces from our family’s past—gone.”
This time, Morgan wasn’t able to fight back the tears. “I wish I could remember it,” he said, clenching his hands uselessly in his lap. “I wish I could remember any of it. All I get are visions of fire and darkness. I can’t even remember our parents’ faces.” He pounded a fist against the floor, hating the helplessness that swamped him.
“Hey, no.” Brevaer knelt down in front of him and took his hand, cradling it between his two much larger ones. For a moment, Morgan felt like a kid again, safe in the presence of someone who he knew would take care of him. “It’s not your fault that you can’t remember. Everything that happened was so difficult, and you were so young … I would be more surprised if you could remember anything of our parents, especially since I never talked to you about them. I just couldn’t when you were young.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry for that.”
“It’s not your fault either,” Morgan said. “You had to be responsible for a child ten years younger than you when you were still a child yourself.”
“And I did my best,” Brevaer agreed. “But I’ve always known my best was never enough for you.” He sighed. “I was so relieved at first when you and Garen became close friends because I thought it meant Rozyne would step in and be a parent to you as well. I could see so clearly that you needed more, but … she wasn’t the one to give it to you.”
“No,” Morgan agreed. “I think Garen has had a harder time of things than I have, and he’s technically still got both of his parents. They’re just …”
“Not ideal,” Brevaer said diplomatically.
Morgan snorted. “If you call a mother who never stops criticizing him and a father who never looks at him ‘not ideal,’ then sure.”
“But he has you. You’re worth more than you think, Morgan, trust me.”
Morgan wasn’t entirely sure he could believe his brother’s words. Brevaer almost never looked back, but this wasn’t the first time he’d apologized to Morgan for being a less-than-ideal guardian to him. His remorse didn’t seem to last long—probably next week, he’d be looking down on Morgan’s paintings again or mocking him for losing his grip on his staff. But for now … for now, it was nice to have his brother really feel like a brother instead of someone who was just here to judge him.
“You can pace me,” he said at last, “but we should still invite Garen along, I think.”
“Give him some space from his parents, huh?”
“Yes.” Also, give him a chance to impress you one-on-one instead of admiring you from afar. Morgan might not get why his best friend had fallen for his brother, but he wanted to help Garen along as much as he could, and honestly, being adored by someone he wasn’t related to could only help Brevaer’s mood.
“All right. I’ll go get him.” Brevaer got back on his feet and headed out the door of their hut. Morgan watched him go with a pang, a little sad their conversation had come to an end. It had been … quite nice, actually. Nicer than he could remember his brother being for a long time now.
And maybe things would stay nice for a while, as long as Morgan kept him from going down to the rocky beach and finding Auban.
That wouldn’t be nice at all.
Chapter eight
Fear, fatigue … these things were all in the mind, right? That was what Brevaer said, at least, when he was whapping students around the legs and shoulders with the knob end of a piece of seaweed, chiding them to do better. If it was all in the mind, then Morgan just had to make sure his mind didn’t pay attention to those things. Then he’d be able to do this run just fine … right? And not huff and puff and wheeze and grind to a halt in less than a mile, which was how it had gone last time, thereby not letting on to his brother that he was a liar who hadn’t been training nearly as much as he said and was, in fact, secretly visiting an injured human on the pebble beach. No, that would be bad.
So he wouldn’t do it, because otherwise Auban might get caught, and Morgan definitely didn’t want that. So he was going to be fine!
That was an easier thing to tell himself than it was to act upon, it turned out.
First was the fact that Brevaer, for all his talk about pacing Morgan, seemed to think that “pace” meant “pick up the pace” because after just a minute they were going at a speed that Morgan would have called a sprint any other day.
Second, Garen was absolutely no help, because it was clear from the second they asked him to join them that he thought Morgan was doing this as a favor to him, so that he could get some personal time with Brevaer. That meant that instead of playing to Morgan’s preferences and slowing things down, he stretched his stride to keep up with Brevaer. Which, rude, what kind of friend abandoned you for a chance at romance? A poor one, that’s what.
Third, as desperately as Morgan didn’t want anyone to find Auban, he was getting perilously close to his limit by the time they ran past the pebble beach. His lungs burned, he had a stitch in his side that made him want to vomit, and his feet felt like they were about to fall off. He wasn’t going to be able to make it. He wasn’t going to—
Be able to keep his balance! Morgan’s lead foot hit an unfamiliar rock—unfamiliar because he never ran this far, damn it—and sent him sprawling onto the ground. He swore as he hit knee, then hip, then shoulder, pain on top of pain. At least he managed to avoid smacking his head, he thought as he tried not to gag for air.
“Morgan!” That was Garen, running back toward him. Brev was hot on his heels. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, rolling over onto his back and sitting up. “I’m fine, I just fell and …” And actually, this could work out okay for him. “And my hip really hurts,” he groaned, rubbing it theatrically. Not too theatrically—he didn’t want Brev to think he’d broken it or something. The fact that both his knees were bleeding, and his shins were coming up in blue and purple, lent some valuable believability to his story, though.
“Darn it, I can’t believe I tripped like that.” Morgan sighed. “That hasn’t happened on a run before. Ow, my whole side hurts.”
“Let me check it,” Brev said. Morgan sat there and endured the indignity of having his brother squish him like a piece of fried yam, making sure none of his bones were broken. Finally, Brev pulled back.
“It’s not serious.”
“Well, it feels bad enough,” Morgan pouted. He saw his brother’s lips go terse and knew he was skirting the line of his tolerance, so he continued, “I think a little time just sitting here would be good. If you two want to keep running, maybe down to the point and back, I can rejoin you then. That way the run won’t be for nothing.”
“Running is never for nothing,” Brev said about the most nothing thing to do in existence. “But …” He glanced at Garen. “If you’re up for it …”
“I am!” Garen said quickly. Morgan stifled a smile. Could his best friend be any more obvious? How had Brevaer possibly not figured it out yet? “That sounds good to me. It won’t take us long.”
“Not at your pace, it won’t.”
Was that a jab at him? Morgan was sure that was a jab at him. He wanted to tell his brother that he had noticed that, but his good sense overrode his internal outrage. “I’ll be waiting,” he said. “Go on, shoo.”
Brev rolled his eyes but turned and ran off. Garen paused long enough to mouth, “Thank you,” at Morgan before hurrying to catch up. Morgan sat where he was, like a pathetic little thing, until they were out of sight. Then he leapt to his feet, winced because his knees really did hurt, ow, then limped over to the beach. Once he got close to the overhang, he called out, “Auban?”
Nothing.
“Auban?” Morgan tried more loudly. There was still no reply. Oh, no … had something happened to him? Morgan crawled over the rocks in a flurry, forgetting his pain, until he finally got within sight of the ledge, and—
Oh, he was asleep.
“Thank the gods,” Morgan breathed. “I was afraid you were gone.”
He’d tried to be quiet when he said it, but Auban blinked his eyes and slowly lifted his head from the pillow of seaweed it was resting on. “Morgan?” he croaked.
“It’s me,” Morgan said, rushing the rest of the way over. He grabbed the little clay pot, heavily chipped along one side, that he’d brought to keep water in and handed it to Auban. “Drink,” he said worriedly as he stared at the other man. Did his wounds look redder today? Was he dealing with an infection? How would his human body react to an Agnarra cure? “Are you all right? Do you feel unwell?”
“Mmm.” Auban tolerated Morgan pressing a hand to the unburned part of his forehead. “I’m all right, just tired. I was awake for a lot of the night.”
“What? Why? Are you not comfortable enough?” As soon as he said it, Morgan realized how silly that sounded. How could the man be comfortable enough with nothing but seaweed to cushion him and keep him warm? “I’m so sorry, I should bring you more—here, take my kilt, it will keep you warm at night.” He tried to unwind the dark-green cloth, but Auban stayed his hand.
“I’m fine, really. I’m not uncomfortable,” he assured Morgan. “I’m actually doing much better than I thought I would be. Watch.” He braced his arms on the ground, then ever so slowly, pushed himself up into a sitting position. Morgan was both amazed and worried to see it. Would his scabs crack and break? Would he start bleeding all over again? But no, his skin remained supple, and his arms, though skinny from lack of use, were strong enough for this much, at least.
“It’s a good start, isn’t it?” Auban asked, his bright eyes shining with pleasure.
“Such a good start,” Morgan breathed. Auban looked positively beautiful when he was happy with himself.
“It made me think that … we ought to begin making plans to get me off your island.”
Morgan frowned. “Why?”
Auban smiled gently. “Morgan, what would your people do if they found me?”
“Oh.” Right.
“I’ll probably need a boat to get out of here,” Auban continued, totally blind to the chaos that was ensuing in the center of Morgan’s chest. “Unfortunately, if I once knew how to make one, I don’t anymore.”
“I don’t know how to make one either,” Morgan said numbly. “We’ve never needed boats.” But how had they gotten all their things here from their last island, then? “There might be something else I can find plans for, though. Not a boat like the one you came on, but something that would keep you out of the water, at least.”
“Anything you can do would be a great help to me.” Auban braced himself on one hand and held the other out to Morgan. “You’re already a great help to me, far better than I deserve.”
“That’s not true.” Morgan knew it in his heart. Auban was good, he was good through and through. “Oh!” He reached into his shirt and pulled out a very worse-for-wear yam patty. “Here.” He put the patty into Auban’s outstretched hand. “I’m sorry it’s not more; I promise I’ll bring something better tomorrow, but I’ve got to get back to the trail before my brother suspects something, and …”
“It’s all right.” Auban took the food and set it aside. His cheeks were getting rather pink.
“Are you sure you’re not running a fever?”
“Very sure.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Morgan said. His hand tingled with the realization that he’d just lost the chance to touch Auban. Stupid, stupid … “I promise.”
“Thank you.”
“Of course.” He retreated before he made an even bigger fool of himself, crawling out from beneath the overhang, up onto the bigger rocks above it, then— “Ah!” Garen was right there, with a look of mingled concern and suspicion on his face.
“What are you doing all the way over here?” he asked.
“I was, um, washing myself off a bit.” Luckily his legs were indeed wet after kneeling down.
“Why not use the lower part of the beach? It’s way easier to reach.”
“I … wanted a place to sit and let my legs dangle,” Morgan said. “It felt easier on my hip.”
“Ah.” The suspicion was still there. “Were you speaking to someone?”
Morgan scoffed, louder than he should have. “Who else would come all the way out here? I was admonishing myself, that’s all.” He looked at the ground, in part to disguise his anxiousness. “My first chance in forever to impress my brother, and I had to go and ruin it. Thank the gods you came along, or he would have been so mad at me for wasting his time.”
Garen grinned. “I’m glad you invited me. He’s … Brevaer is really great, actually.”
“I’m glad one of us thinks so.”
“Morgan! Garen!” Brev called out from the path, his hands cupped around his big, loud mouth. “Stop talking and start moving!”
“Ugh,” Morgan groaned.
“Can you run?” Garen asked.
“I’ll try.”
Anything to get us out of here faster.
Chapter nine
Things settled back to normal quickly after that, which was to say that Brevaer found new things to pick at, and Morgan found new ways to disappoint him. Slowly but surely, week by week, the village was losing the edge of fear that had gripped it since the distant ship exploded. Weapons practice was shortened by an hour in the mornings, and more villagers were going back out to fish and work the seaweed farms.
Brevaer didn’t like it, and neither did Garen’s mother, Rozyne, for that matter, but there was little they could do in the face of the growing apathy. People needed to be fed, fields needed to be tended, and Sariel came down with something that necessitated Rozyne tending to him constantly, to keep his fever under control.
