The few times he got away from her, he ran out of the hut with wild eyes, his skin flushed and sweaty, swinging a pole around in an effort to destroy the “fucking humans” who were attacking in his mind. Rozyne never shouted at him, though; she never cried or wished he would just disappear, at least not in Garen’s hearing. She just did her best to bring Sariel back inside before too many people saw his madness.

  Theirs was a love that Morgan didn’t really understand. They were very famously mates, not just married but so close that they were able to feel each other’s thoughts and emotions. At least, Garen said, they’d had that connection before Sariel lost his mind. What had Rozyne done at that point? Shut that part of her mind and heart off so that she could keep her own sanity and care for her son? What did anyone do when they had to survive losing their mate? It was one of those questions that Morgan would love to ask but that nobody wanted to talk about.

  Naturally, those who were inclined to be shit stirrers were having a great time. “You give up your efforts for our safety so quickly!” Dinigan, Rozyne’s brother, said imperiously to Brevaer with the village council in hearing distance after the close of the morning session. Morgan had been dragged along to it and had found it as dull as ever. “I’m surprised you such lack conviction.”

  “You just spoke against my measures to the council,” Brevaer pointed out with gritted teeth.

  “Well, but I’m not a famed warrior like you, now, am I? Of course, it’s a waste of my time to train like that, but you …” Dinigan smiled his oily, insincere smile. “Why, you’re all muscle! Training to fight should take all of your time.”

  Morgan, rarely moved to stand up for his brother, had to speak then. “I guarantee that my brother can make even a person like you into a better fighter,” he said. “When he sets his mind to something, he succeeds. Always.”

  “Oh?” Dinigan smirked. “And yet he hasn’t managed this transformation with his own brother. It doesn’t speak well of his abilities.”

  “Morgan is better at fighting than you or your son,” Brevaer put in, and darn it, Morgan wished he hadn’t spoken up. Nobody got people’s backs up like Brev. He was just … naturally abrasive. Only Garen didn’t seem to get the message.

  “Ha!” Drenikel, Dinigan’s son, laughed from where he was sitting, toying with the end of one of the tassels that edged his tunic. He was the gaudiest dresser in the whole village. “Morgan can’t go two paces without tripping over the end of his own spear!”

  “You can’t even hold your spear upright for more than a minute,” Garen said, and wonderful, now he was getting involved. “So shut up about what other people can do, Dren.”

  “You shut up.”

  “Make me,” Garen taunted, and now his cousin was standing and backing away with a petulant expression on his face. Everyone knew that Garen was the best of their generation at fighting, and Dren wasn’t stupid enough to pick a fight with him when he didn’t have any of his cronies around.

  “You need to get your brother to mind his mouth,” Dinigan snapped at Brevaer.

  “You need to get your son to mind his.”

  “All of you need to shut the hell up!” Rozyne’s shrill voice was like a blast of water in the face as she charged out of her hut. Even the remaining members of the council packed up and moved on a second later. The fierce woman stalked into the open, fixing her gimlet eye on her brother. “You’re the eldest here. What are you doing, wasting time fighting with children?”

  “I—sister, I—”

  “My husband is sleeping. My husband, your chief, is finally sleeping after hours of wakefulness, and I will be damned if one of you bastards is the person who—”

  There was a moan from inside the hut, then a scream. It didn’t sound like a scream that could come from an Agnarra—it was guttural and desperate, like a whale caught in shallows might make. Rozyne paled and ran back inside, and the rest of them made themselves scarce, Morgan grabbing Garen by the arm and pulling him away before his sense of responsibility drove him to try and help his mother, who wouldn’t appreciate it.

  They made it through an extra-long training session, courtesy of a very annoyed Brevaer, before finally being released. Garen kept casting glances toward the center of the village, like he expected his mother to call for him any second, and Morgan decided his best friend needed him more than Auban did right now. He would visit his dear—his other friend later.

  “Come on.” Morgan took Garen’s hand. “Let’s go to the beach.”

  They went to the close beach, where more of their people were calmly hauling in long lines of seaweed. Children learned sea marks in the sand—the signs for calm, for danger, for welcome, for illness—as well as their number signs. The horizon was clear, without even the haze of clouds to obscure it today. The pair walked until the sand turned to rock and finally sat down beside each other, their feet extending out into the water.

  Garen was silent and avoiding his gaze, so Morgan played around, changing the lower half of his body only into his sea dragon form, enjoying the strangeness of it. He wasn’t fool enough to try and move that way—he’d been warned what could happen if he got caught between forms, how these bodies weren’t designed to work well with each other. For the most part, you had to be all or nothing, or blood wouldn’t flow well, and muscles would lose their strength. But right now … right now there was nothing to do but play, and that was what he did.

  “I’m sorry about what they said.”

  Morgan didn’t let his delight at Garen breaking the silence show. If he made too big a deal of it, his friend might clam up again. “As if I care what they say. Calling me bad at fighting? That’s the oldest insult in the sea, and it’s not Brev’s fault either.”

  “They’re looking for any reason to make mischief.” Garen buried his left foot in the sand. “My uncle is getting tired of being the head of his house but not the head of the family. As long as my father lives, my mother has seniority over him in the council. I think … I think he might call a vote for chief soon.”

  Morgan scoffed. “Then I hope he likes the thought of my brother being chief.”

  “That’s just it. I’m worried that Brev won’t be made chief.”

  That was news to Morgan. He turned to stare at Garen. “Why not?”

  “Uncle Dinigan and Dren are talking to all the other families about what an overreaction it was to make everyone train more after that boat blew up,” Garen said, his misery clear in every line of his body. “They’re making much of the fact that it’s set our yam harvest back by at least a week, and the weather might make half the crop wither before we can pull it out of the ground if we’re not careful, and we don’t have enough fish salted and dried, and that it’s all because we’ve been wasting so much time at Brev’s behest, and—”

  “They all agreed to it!” Morgan protested. “Everyone on the council agreed to increase training! We had no way of knowing there wasn’t going to be another boat or an actual attack.” Not even Auban could tell me about that.

  “It doesn’t matter that they agreed then. They think the danger has passed, and Uncle Dinigan is saying that your brother is using this as an excuse to cling to power.”

  “He doesn’t know shit about Brev,” Morgan snapped, then immediately felt bad. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to take my temper out on you. I just … you know that my brother and I don’t always get along, but he always, always wants what’s best for the village. He doesn’t care about power, he just wants people to be safe, and everyone knows he’s our top fighter. He’s taking care of us the best way he knows how. That’s what he’s always done for me, and I appreciate it even when I get tired of it.”

  “Do you indeed?”

  Morgan and Garen both startled, and Morgan’s long, shimmery green tail became legs a second later. “Brev!” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Don’t scare me like that!”

  “I apologize.” Brevaer looked at Garen. “Your mother is asking for you.”

  “All right,” Garen said quietly. “Thank you.” He stood up, brushing sand from his tunic. Brevaer took a moment to set a hand on Garen’s shoulder, holding him gently. Morgan resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he practically felt the wave of adoration roll off Garen.

  “I appreciate your support, earlier.”

  “I … I meant every word of it,” Garen said. Brevaer nodded and let go, and Garen staggered off down the beach.

  Morgan was surprised when his brother took Garen’s place. “You’re not going fishing today?” Morgan inquired.

  “Not yet. I wanted to talk to you for a moment.”

  Morgan sighed. “If this is about what happened after the meeting, I’m sorry, but they really shouldn’t get to treat you like that without some pushback.”

  “I agree.”

  Morgan was so startled at his brother agreeing with him about anything that he couldn’t speak for a moment.

  “But that doesn’t mean what you did was smart.”

  And here comes the criticism.

  “I can handle being spoken ill of,” Brevaer said, his dark eyes earnest as he stared at Morgan. “It wouldn’t be the first time, and I truly don’t care if I ever become chief. All I want is to keep us safe. You most of all.”

  “Brev …”

  “And now I’m afraid that those idiots will get it into their heads that you’d be a good target for their wrath, or petty revenge, or whatever stupid thoughts might be going through their head. They can’t attack me directly, but Garen’s cousin could make trouble for you without the council making much of it.”

  “I can run faster than them,” Morgan said glibly.

  “Can you? Really?” Brevaer laughed as Morgan knocked their shoulders together. “No, I’m just teasing. I know you’re working hard.”

  Morgan felt his heart soften toward his brother in a way it rarely did anymore. He knew he loved Brevaer, but he rarely liked him all that much these days, but now … Now, he realized just how much he did like his brother when they could be like this. “I’ll be careful,” Morgan promised. “And keep working hard for you.”

  “Thank you.” Brevaer gathered himself like he was about to get up, but Morgan laid a hand on his arm. “What?”

  “I—” Truthfully, he didn’t have a reason to hold him back other than the fact that he didn’t want him to go. “I—uh—how do you make a boat?” he asked at last.

  Brevaer’s eyebrows went up. “What?”

  “A, a boat. How do you make one? We, um, we must have had them, right? When we came here? To bring our belongings with us instead of just swimming for hundreds of miles … didn’t we?”

  “Hmm.” Brevaer thought for a second. “Well, not boats, exactly. We had rafts and not very good ones either—they kept falling apart in the water. We had to repair them over and over again.” Well, that didn’t sound very promising. “But … Father did once teach me how to make a boat out of a single tree.”

  Morgan brightened. “Really? That’s possible?”

  “We only did it together once … I’m not sure if I remember how. And we can’t use one of the village trees to experiment on.”

  “What about the one in our house?” It was actually half a tree trunk, Brevaer’s share of a particularly impressive harvest several years ago. They’d been using it as a bench, but Morgan could see the possibilities.

  “I’m not sure if it’s big enough.”

  “You won’t know unless we try,” Morgan said winningly.

  Brevaer laughed. “You really want to do this?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then we’ll do it. Let me talk to a few of the other villagers first, though.”

  “Whatever you need.” Morgan put his feet back in the water, keeping them feet this time. He splashed them back and forth, making little, inviting ripples. He smiled to himself when Brevaer stretched his legs out to join him in the surf a moment later.

  “Thanks, little brother,” Brevaer said.

  “You’re welcome, big brother.”

  Chapter ten

  It turned out that making a boat out of a single log was a lot harder than Morgan had thought it would be. He’d been thinking that a few choice strikes with one of their stone axes, a little shaping and some ballast, and the thing would just … float like boats were supposed to. Wood floated, after all.

  But noooo, it was nothing like that simple. It ended up being an entire project, one that involved fire, of all things. Fire! Fire to make a boat! How was that logical? But it had to do with hollowing and charring and a bunch of other things Morgan didn’t quite understand. Honestly, the whole thing felt like—not a waste of time, because it couldn’t be denied that Auban was going to need a boat, but time that Morgan didn’t have to spend. He wanted to be with Auban, or failing that with Garen, but Garen was being held close by his mother right now, and Brevaer, in turn, was forcing education on Morgan with the help of every elder man in the entire village, it seemed.

  That, at least, was something good to come of this boat-building exercise. As soon as Brevaer started asking around for advice on how to make a boat out of a log, every person with the slightest hint of an interest came out of the woodwork—ha—to give their opinion. Many of them were people on the village council, people who Dinigan said he was turning against Brevaer.

  They turned right toward him again as soon as Brevaer gave them a challenge that didn’t require them to work on their fighting skills or spend time away from their fields. It turned out heckling—ahem, Morgan meant giving advice—could be delivered from porches.

  “Hotter coals, lads, hotter coals! You’re going to get a bad char at this rate!”

  “Oof, not that hot though! Do you want to burn right through the side of that log?”

  “Should go deeper at the front end, deeper—you need a place to stick your legs, don’t you? Can’t be using this little thing in your sea serpent form, after all.”

  “The shape of it, think about the shape of it—you want it to cut through the water, not wallow around like a beached whale!”

  Needless to say, the work on the boat was going slowly and with much fanfare, but it gave people a reason to be interested as opposed to being angry at them, so Morgan was for it.

  He was less for it when he realized he was going to have to sneak out of his house to get food to Auban either in the dead of night or ridiculously early in the morning at this rate. He hadn’t seen his friend for three days, and although he’d left him with a healthy store of yam patties, berrybread fruits, and fresh water, it wasn’t the same as seeing him and knowing that he was all right.

  Maybe Morgan could bring him some more berrybread; it was delightfully sweet, and he knew Auban loved it, and the harvest was almost over …

  “Are you sick?”

  “Hmm?” Morgan was jolted out of his thoughts by his brother’s blunt question. “What? No!”

  “Morgan.” Brevaer stared at him from the other side of the fire, his eyes still but his hands clenching and unclenching. “Don’t lie to me. You ought to be a turtle’s weight heavier than you are now with all the food you’re eating, and instead, you’re losing weight.”

  “I’m not!”

  “You are!” Brevaer slapped his own waist. “Look at how many times you’re winding your kilt!”

  “I—” Morgan looked down and was a little surprised to find that, in fact, he’d added another half twist to his kilt fabric without even realizing it. The layer of baby fat that had been with him his whole life, comfortably padding his stomach and arms, was almost gone.

  He hadn’t set aside that much food for Auban … had he?

  “Huh.”

  “Yes, huh. So I ask you again—are you sick?”

  “No.” Morgan tried smiling winningly at his brother. “Maybe I’m going through a growth spurt?”

  “You’re never going to get any taller than you are now.”

  “I might!” Morgan stood up and gauged the distance from the top of his head to the top of the door. Nope … he wasn’t even close to needing to duck. “All right, maybe not.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  Morgan blinked, then laughed. “Don’t be.”

  “I am. You’re different lately. Distracted. You haven’t made any art for days.”

  “I’ve been working with you on the boat,” Morgan defended himself. “And I have been making art; you just haven’t noticed because it’s small.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s …” It’s a present for Auban. Something for him to take with him when he leaves. “I’ll show you.” Morgan pulled out the tiny frame he’d bent into position and showed his brother the painstakingly precise cuts he’d made in the edges of it to loop tiny lengths of thread through. “It’s all from scrap, I promise,” he told him. “I’m not using any of our good cloth to do this.”

  Brevaer touched the frame gently. “What is the picture going to be?” Right now Morgan was just getting the first layer down—the background, as it were. It rippled with tiny waves, but there were several carefully flat spaces in the fabric that would soon be filled with …

  “Us,” Morgan replied. “In our sea forms.”

  “It’s …”

  A waste of time, ridiculous, dull …

  “Beautiful.”

  Oh. “Thank you.”

  “But it’s not a reason for you to be losing weight.”

  “Ugh!”

  In the end, Morgan didn’t need to sneak out of the house. Early the next morning, a call went out in the village that the sturgeon migration was beginning, and Brevaer—and many of the other good swimmers—immediately ran to transform and bring in a heavy catch. Which was perfect because Morgan was very happy to run the other way.

  It was actually getting a little easier to make the run now. Despite himself, Morgan was getting fitter and still eating plenty, thank you very much, Brev! He made the run even in the semidarkness of the early dawn, and when he reached the rocky beach, he expected to find Auban asleep.

  Instead, he found him standing in the water, entirely nude.

  Morgan proceeded to swallow his tongue.

 

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