123. [REFRAIN] Family Time

  Of all the hiding places that dotted Krongard, the Sandbar had always been Renna’s favorite.

  It was a sandy ridge pushed up by the currents on either side. The river itself was one of the Sanzu’s many minor offshoots that bent too far from the main body, to eventually slide off the canopy and disperse into the open air. In other words, a path that led nowhere, which made it all the more enticing for a girl who wished to avoid making waves.

  What really set the Sandbar apart was, of course, the sand. Renna herself couldn’t quite decide why she liked it so much. Did she enjoy its coarse yet soothing feel against her skin? Perhaps. Did it remind her of the tales of her mother’s upbringing in Rotgard? Also yes.

  Best of all, Renna liked how sand made her feel as though she could blend, belong, be a part of something. She liked to roll around in it when no one was looking (and who would be looking for her, out here of all places?). The sand would stick to her and turn to mud—a camouflage for her ripples as much as her appearance.

  Some would say she was getting to be too old for this. Or they might, if they cared to say anything about her at all. Not that she cared, of course. The only people whose opinions she valued would never belittle her choice of hiding place or masking material. They’d be more likely to roll around in the mud right alongside her—if only they had the strength for it, that was.

  Indeed, it’d been on their behalf that Renna had been driven to one of her ‘hide-and-sulk’ moods on this fine day.

  Even after all these years, it still ate at her something fierce to see the way Queen Loha treated her mother. Was it not punishment enough for Ansig Sandvik—proud daughter of the Roots—to have been plucked from her ancestral home to serve as King Tyr’s handmaid? Did his old hag of a Queen then have to make it her life’s mission to single out and torment her?

  Renna disliked a lot of things, but she’d never hated anyone as much as she did Loha the Rakshasa Queen. No, that was a lie. There was someone she hated as much if not more—herself.

  She hated herself for watching from one of her many hiding places as her mother was humiliated in front of the whole dining hall. Watching, hiding, and doing nothing. What good were strength or wisdom if she lacked the courage to put them to use? What good was being the King’s daughter if she herself, let alone the rest of the Realm, refused to acknowledge it?

  Dark thoughts swirled in her mind as Renate Sandvik sat up from her bed of sand and touched the patch of scales atop her head. Rough and abrasive where the rest of her skin was smooth. Color of polished basalt where the rest of her everything was pink. It was also, incidentally, the only part of her body where sand refused to stick.

  ‘Scales’ were actually something of a misnomer, as she’d learned from her self-directed readings. The strictly correct term would be ‘denticles’, a quirk of evolution unique to sharks, rays, and a handful of other typings. But of course, the Denticle-less didn’t quite roll off the tongue as well as the Scaleless. Even an illegitimate Princess didn’t have the heart to deny her people their rights to a catchy insult.

  Whatever it ought to be called, the patch of polished basalt atop her head meant one thing above all to Renna. It represented the only part of her that refused to blend, to belong, to be a part of something. In fact, it was a constant reminder she could never do any of that. No, she could only ever hide, watch, wait. Wait until—perhaps one day—she might have her time in the sun, away from prying eyes.

  That day wasn’t today. Today, she’d roll around in the sand, mask herself in mud, and cover her ‘scales’ with her trusty hood.

  It wasn’t the most pleasant sensation—to muffle the ripples that abounded all around. If she had her way, she’d let her scales breathe, so they might experience the world in full. The murmuring water. The whistling wind. The leaves of the Realmtree swaying in the breeze, casting light and shadows upon the mud-caked face of a lonely frog girl…

  And the paddling of flippers, as a turtle approached from upstream!

  Renna jumped to her feet and raked the sand in her vicinity, erasing any evidence of her activities. She then dove into a bump upon the sandy ridge. She was nothing if not cautious, and as unlikely as it was to receive visitors in this far-flung corner of Krongard, she’d been prepared for just such a scenario.

  The topmost layer of sand fell away at the slightest touch, revealing a small depression underneath. Too small, in fact, to fit most any Yaksha typing, but not so for a diminutive and rather flexible frog girl. Renna squeezed herself into the hiding place inside a hiding place. She hid, waited, and watched from two peepholes—set wide apart to accommodate her amphibian features.

  Not long after, a turtle landed on the Sandbar. Its passengers—two of them, judging from their ripples—disembarked, sending out identifiable signals with the weight and cadence of their footsteps. One set was heavy, unreserved, and regal: Tyr Djofulsen, her King Father. And the other—

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  “Did we really need to come out so far, Father?” pouted the gratingly singsong voice of Rathor Tyrsen, before the (legitimate) Prince himself came into view. “You’re the Realm’s Immortal King. You should have your pick of Crown-leaves in which to hold private counsel.”

  Despite his complaints, Rathor wore a bright, fawning smile—as he seemed to know no other way to be. Seeing this, Renna’s breakfast curdled in her throat, but she fought down the bolus and killed her breaths. At this proximity, even the slightest movement could be detected by a reader of King Tyr’s mastery.

  The King himself entered the frame then, chuckling magnanimously as he put a placatory hand on his son’s bare shoulder (gods, would it kill you to put some clothes on?).

  “My boy, you underestimate the skills of the ripple-readers I have under my employ,” King Tyr began, “and how [Hungry] some of them are for gossip. These precautions may be overzealous, but they’re also necessary. You’ll thank me for it once you learn what I have to tell you.”

  And that was how—unbeknownst to her royal parent and sibling—Renate Sandvik learned the true nature of the Realmhunt, told from the lips of a 300-year veteran. None of the revelations was all that surprising to the frog girl, who’d already suspected much from careful observation and logical deduction. But she wasn’t prepared for the matter-of-fact manner in which her King Father described the willful deception of his loyal Kronvakt.

  “So, you see,” he concluded, drawing his son closer and lowering his voice—an uncommon feat for one as loudly spoken as he, “the most important rule is in fact the one that’s unwritten. An invitation for alliances to form, first and foremost, followed by implied forgiveness of betrayals and other cowardly acts. For all of this to proceed as it should, the time pressure is of paramount importance. What starts out as a united front to appease and entice the Frostkrill inevitably ends in chaos. A frenzied free-for-all. And I trust that you, son, have the desire and the means to rise above it all—as the lone and rightful victor.”

  More out of morbid curiosity than anything, Renna watched her half-brother as he received the information and their father’s seal of approval. Her curiosity deepened at the uncertainty that clouded Rathor’s smile.

  “You don’t look convinced, son.” King Tyr had picked up on the very same. “I thought you would’ve jumped—nay, [Flown]—at the opportunity. This is your grand debut. A chance for all Pretjord to see that the future burns bright with promise. And who knows? If you impress me enough, I might even consider promoting you to—”

  “My grand debut,” the Prince interrupted the King—perhaps the only soul in the whole Realm who would’ve dared, “but on a stage shared with another. Isn’t that so?”

  King Tyr was visibly taken aback, but he recovered quickly enough. He patted his son again as he continued, “Your mother has already been in your ear about this, has she? Well then, you surely understand my position. You and I both know the impossible task of dissuading your mother when she’s set her mind on something. Agree to this, son, for my sake as much as hers.”

  The King guffawed at his own joke as he punched Rathor in the ribs. A joke at Loha’s expense—a woman Renna despised—yet the girl couldn’t help but flare with indignation on the Queen’s behalf. But only for a brief moment, for she was curious to learn more about this mystery ‘partner’ meant to share Rathor’s stage.

  “What of the secrecy?” the Prince now asked. “Are you not worried about parading her in front of the whole Realm? And once they see what she is, they’ll put two and two together. People will talk, and maybe that’s what Mother wants, but I don’t see how that serves me or you—”

  “Let me worry about me,” Tyr said, tightening his grip on Rathor’s shoulder. “As for you, this is to your benefit too, you know. Renate might share our blood, but her roots are what they are. She’ll never measure up to Krongard stock, and your mother knows this. On the day of the Hunt, her presence will only serve to prop you up—just as her people have served the Crown through the Kalpas, since long before my time. You’ll see.”

  The King and the Prince exchanged a few more words after this, but Renna was too stunned to take any of it in. The only thing she could hear was a continuous din inside her own head, drowning out all thought, whether help or hindrance.

  By the time her senses gradually came back to her, she saw that Rathor’s fawning smile too had returned, bright and unclouded. The conversation must’ve ended then, for her brother practically bounded out of frame, back to his turtle.

  King Tyr too turned to leave, gazing after his son with a fond smile of his own. But as he took his first step, his shimmering-black shark eyes dropped onto something at his feet.

  Renna followed Tyr’s gaze… and was forced to choke back a gasp of dismay. There, still etched upon sand despite her hasty attempt to erase it, was a frog’s footprint, unmistakable for the webbing between the toes.

  Her father stared at the footprint for a moment, a peculiar frown knitting his brow of polished basalt. He then looked up, down, and about, until his eyes found hers—or the wide-set peepholes she’d poked into her hiding place.

  I’m done for. Renna froze, clueless as to what might befall her or how she ought to respond. She cursed her own ceaseless curiosity, one that sat ever at odds against her need for caution and anonymity.

  But her agonized panic proved short-lived. For King Tyr merely grinned at her—baring all of his serrated teeth—before walking off without a word.

  Renna stayed inside her hiding hole for a long time.

  She was still there long after her family’s ripples had faded into the unreadable distance, as the setting sun cast the Sandbar in a hazy, greenish glow. It wasn’t that she was scared to come out. No, she just needed the cool, damp cover of mud to help contain her excitement. Because as much as she hated to admit it, it really was true what they said. You can’t fight blood. Like father, like daughter.

  Because she read and understood the irrepressible [Hunger] behind Tyr Djofulsen’s smile—and the challenge contained therein.

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