Chapter 1

Honestly, the explosion on the horizon was a relief, given the way the council meeting had been going.

Well, all right, that wasn’t true. Morgan was a lot of things, most of them disreputable if you listened to his brother, which no one who had any sense should, but … Anyhow, he wasn’t foolish enough to wish the worst upon their people as an anodyne for boredom. Not when there were plenty of less dramatic diversions around.

Garen had scowled at him when Morgan announced that he’d be skipping the meeting as usual. “How can Brevaer possibly let you get away with that?” he demanded sourly. “I have to attend every council meeting even though my mother never allows me to speak at them.”

“That’s the whole trick,” Morgan informed his best friend as he tossed his bright-green braid over his shoulder. “I make my brother think that I am going to speak at the council meeting, and he can’t wait to get rid of me. It’s quite strategic of me, don’t you think?”

It was enough of a jibe to coax a reluctant smile out of Garen. “I don’t know about strategy, butafter the last time you talked there, I suppose I can’t blame him.”

“All I said was that I would be happy to take any interested parties with me to dive for pearls!” Morgan crossed his arms with a huff. “How was I supposed to know half the council would interpret that as me being inappropriate? I don’t know what our women call their personal parts—”

“You should know that; you’re twenty years old—”

“And it’s of no interest to me anyhow, because I have nointerest in their personal parts,” he pressed on. “I like actual pearls, thank you very much. And I’m very good at finding them! Aren’t we supposed to share our unique gifts with the clan?”

Pearl diving was the only gift of Morgan’s that his clan was interested in for the most part. The majority of them were indifferent to the art and sculptures he made, and his talent at making paints and pigments was useful but not the sort of thing that would get him out of doing his daily chores. Pearls, though … those were special, and being able to dive deep enough to reach the oysters that made them was a challenge.

“The point is, my brother is happy enough to let me do as I please when the council comes together, and you are jealous of my good fortune.” Morgan patted Garen on the cheek. “My heart weeps for you! Have fun now!” He whirled around and flounced off toward the big beach, the one the village was closest to.

“I’m going to make you run around the island tomorrow morning with me, see if I don’t!” Garen called after him.

Ugh. Running. Not Morgan’s idea of fun, but if it made Garen and his brother happy, he would do some training with them just to get them off his back.

Training. Training for what, he asked himself petulantly as he practically skipped to the beach. There had been no fights with the humans since he and Garen were five years old. This island, the new island—although new was relative since Morgan had lived here for the past fifteen years of his life—was safe. Humans didn’t sail this far north. Why would they? There was nothing for them here, not even the whales they once hunted—the great beasts didn’t like the confusing currents.

No one would ever find their clan here. They could be bored and useless and isolated forever.

That’s not fair.Morgan slowed as he reached the beach, skirting around the groups of playing children and their minders and heading for a slightly more isolated section of sand, protected from view by a windswept hummock of seagrass and rocky soil. It wasn’t fair to miss what he barely remembered. It wasn’t fair to wish he were back in a place that had claimed the lives of so many of his kind—or, in the case of Garen’s father, his sanity. But the home island had been …

Morgan sat down on the sand, digging his long fingers into the cool grains and closing his eyes as he tried to remember. The home island had been bigger than this one, at least twice as large. It had been warmer, with more rain and never snow. The soil had been dark and rich, and food had grown there without the need to seed the earth with fish waste. There had been a waterfall with a pool beneath it—he remembered playing there with Garen when they were so small, when his parents had still been alive, and Brevaer had just been his big brother, not his guardian and the boss of his entire life. He remembered his mother’s laughter and how she and Garen’s mother, Rozyne, had giggled into each other’s ears as they whispered about their husbands and children and lives.

It had been good there. So good. Too good to last.

Morgan slowly opened his eyes. Waving seagrass met his view, and beyond that pale sand, and past that, the choppy, dark-blue waves of the ocean. The sky was clouded today, giving everything a flat, shadowed look, and the distant horizon was an uninspiring blur.

Flat. Uninspiring. Just like everything about this new island of theirs.

I am unkind.Morgan knew he was. He knew the elders had done what they thought was right by moving them here; he knew his brother did what he thought was right by forcing him to train when he would rather be painting; he knew Garen’s mother did what she thought was right by screaming at everyone, emphasizing her son’s failings and ignoring his triumphs. He knew it was all to make them tougher, stronger, more ready to protect themselves if and when they were ever found again.

There was another island somewhere, he knew—colder, smaller, even less inviting than this one. That island was their destiny if they were scared badly enough.

Morgan was more frightened of that fate than of dying. I am unkind, but I know myself. I will stifle in such a place. He was stifling here though he would never confess it to his brother. Brevaer thought he just needed to find more work to lose himself in, to exert himself more for the good of their clan, their people. Brevaer thought better of Morgan’s potential than Morgan did of his own.

I am not brave like he is. I cannot live like he does.

Melancholy threatened to sweep away Morgan’s fragile peace with himself. In an effort to preserve it, he pushed to his feet and went down to the water’s edge. The sand there was wet and malleable, and the tide was going out—he would have time to create something before the waves washed his work away.

This is life in this place, he mused as he scooped sand into a pile, then began to shape it. He made the sculpture long and sinuous, breaking up the circular shape of it here and there with the curls of fins and claws. He finally finished with the head, clambering over the sand to grab a broken piece of shell a few paces away, then using it to carve tiny details that would be too fine for any but the most curious to see. The curve of scales here … the ridge of an eyebrow there … the snake of a tongue reaching out to taste the world, to drink in everything it had to offer. The shell itself made a decent-enough eye.

Morgan sat back and looked at his creation, then chuckled. If he could color it in, it would be a perfect self-portrait. As it was, he might be able to thread some of the longer stalks of grass into the sand to make something like a mane, and—

BOOM!

Morgan startled so badly he fell flat onto his backside as he turned to stare at the horizon. A cloud of flame swelled and burst like a seedpod, jettisoning smoke into the air. The bright-orange flames died fast enough, but the smoke remained. He heard the children close by crying in fear and the worried tones of the few other adults on the beach at this time of day.

What is it?

Is it them?

Have they found us?

How?

The others fled the scene, rushing back to the safety of the village even as Morgan ran to the main beach, his art project abandoned in the sheer, intense rush of curiosity that came over him.

Was it a human ship? Could they breathe fire and smoke like that and survive? Was it something else? He stepped out into the water, waves breaking against his bare feet, and gave in to the urge to go and find out.