Page 7 of They Call Me Blue

“Now isn’t the time or the place,” he reminds us.

“This is sacred ground. It’s disrespectful to our ancestors.

” The spotter guides me away from her, brushing aside an armful of blue reeds to reveal a hidden trail that leads deeper into the swamp.

“You should go, Arden. The funeral is about to start.”

I glance between him, the other spotters, and the letter in my hand. He’s right. Now isn't the time. Nodding, I pull Nirissa through the prickly plants, and the opening closes behind us. Heated whispers come from the other side, but the words are inaudible.

Thumbing the letter, I guide us down the moonlit path, silver puddles rippling and splashing beneath our feet. I replay the woman’s words, letting them sink in.

My fault.

“What did she mean?” Nirissa asks, as if reading my mind.

Curiosity eats at me, and I unfurl the letter, my throat tightening as I scan the contents.

It’s a conscription notice from the Grand Overseer, employing hundreds of elgrew for one purpose—hunting me—and offering great rewards to whoever succeeds in my capture.

I knew he wanted me in the city, but this . . . This is something else.

I don’t answer Nirissa. I can’t bring myself to.

Would Mom and Dad be alive without me? Were they just collateral damage?

The heaviness in my chest makes it difficult to breathe. I shove the note into my back pocket as if hiding it can erase the words from my memory. It doesn’t.

I’m still mulling them over—stewing in them—by the time we reach the end of the path.

Reeds part to reveal a shallow expanse of murky water that stretches for miles.

In the center, a thick and twisted tree root arcs into the air, as pale as the moonlight.

A low hum escapes from it, revealing it for what it is—a piece of the Korring-Marr.

Though our Great Tree is nowhere in sight, the roots have always run deep, as if trying to find us.

Gathered around the root are the last remaining members of our tribe.

Standing atop it is High Priest Selik, dressed in his customary funeral robes made from thick animal fur.

Bone necklaces, bracelets, belts, and earrings adorn the outfit, all taken from the high priests and priestesses who came before him.

His gaze is downcast, focused on something in his fist that I can’t quite see.

No one notices us at first—not even Fenris, who whispers something to the elf beside him.

But then, Nirissa and I splash our way forward, toes squishing in the muck, warm water seeping into our breeches.

Selik’s gaze meets mine, gray eyes dark rimmed from crying.

His lips press into a hard line, and as I get closer, I notice that thing in his hand is a carved wooden flower.

My heart cracks.

All married elves wear flowerpins in their hair, only removing them when their spouse dies.

Selik’s eyes narrow into thin slits—an unspoken accusation.

His fist tightens around the pin until silver blood drips onto the root below, rippling the stagnant water.

The other elves follow his line of sight back to us, all holding similar objects—flowerpins, toy blocks, rattles.

Nirissa and I are the only children present.

My fault.

I can see it in their eyes, in their tense postures, in their clenched teeth. How did I miss it before? How did I convince myself this is normal?

No one speaks to us as we take our places in front of Selik, the air so thick with tension it could be run through with a knife.

“Are they mad at us?” Nirissa whispers, loud enough I’m certain they can hear.

“No, bug, they’re mad at me.”

Selik shoves his fingers in his mouth and whistles three sharp blasts. Behind us, the blue reeds swish and part, and our spotters emerge near the water’s edge. They don’t come any closer, instead choosing to remain as silent observers with their weapons raised preemptively.

The elgrew won’t hunt us here. The sawgrass is too sharp. The mud below our feet is too wet and too deep. Still, that doesn’t make us safe. Instinct has every one of us scanning the surface of the water for rising bubbles or hissing pops, for the twenty-foot mudsnakes that accompany them.

My spine prickles when a section of sawgrass bends at an unnatural angle. Then, the breeze comes and the grass rights itself just as Selik clears his throat.

“We are gathered here to say goodbye to our loved ones,” he says, voice wobbling.

“When an elf loves something strongly enough, that love transcends death, taking root in the objects and people they’ve left behind.

Because of this, it is our tradition to plant a seed alongside their most treasured possessions, so that from their death, something new may grow. ”

Sniffling, he wipes tears from his bloodshot eyes, then reaches for a leather pouch tied at his waist. Unfastening it, Selik flips the bag upside down and pours something into his hand, then leans forward and gives the pouch to Fenris—whose parents are just as absent as mine.

Face stoic, my best friend repeats the gesture, then passes the bag to the elf beside him, and so on and so forth until it’s in my hand.

I shake the bag until two fuzzy, arrow-shaped seeds fall into my injured palm. The elf beside me snatches it away, but I barely feel it. I’m too busy staring at the sawgrass seeds—at the glove concealing my burn marks—a surreal numbness overtaking me.

This can’t be happening.

It can’t be my fault.

Nirissa wraps her arms around my thighs and hugs me tightly.

She might as well be hugging a statue. It’s like I’m trapped outside of my body, seeing this moment through someone else’s eyes.

When Selik speaks again, my arms move mechanically, reaching for the leather duffle strapped to my shoulder, withdrawing the only thing left of our parents not burned in the fires—Nirissa’s wooden doll.

“Until integration,” Selik says. He kisses the flower pin with reverence, then places his seed atop it and lets it drop. The hairpin splashes as it hits the muddy water and sinks into the mud.

“Until integration,” the crowd repeats.

They place their seeds into their objects and drop them in.

I do the same, plunging both seeds into the doll’s leafy chest. When it lands in the water, my hearing turns garbly, like there's wax trapped in my ears. Somewhere faraway, my sister’s distorted voice begs me to pick the doll back up. Tells me that it’s her toy. Hers.

I shush her. I stroke her hair. I do all the things I’m supposed to do because that’s what Mom and Dad would have wanted.

The truth is, my baby sister was the only thing they loved.

Every waking moment of my life, they spent training me for the day the elgrew Claimed me, teaching me their languages, their customs, anything that might help me stay alive in the capitol.

Not Nirissa. Our parents played with her and built her toys.

They sang her to sleep at night and poured their hearts and souls into making that wooden doll so she wouldn’t be lonely in her hammock.

They loved her so much, but me . . . To them, I was always a lost cause, a child destined for capture.

The high priest chants something in an old language that I don’t understand.

We bow our heads, just as we’ve bowed them for the last dozen funerals, and the Korring-Marr’s root starts to glow, bright and white and blinding.

It pulses with the beat of my heart, thrumming with energy as dark and as ancient as the world itself.

In unison, we hum in tune with the Great Tree to a song that only exists in our bones and blood, that the elgrew will never hear. Then, the light fades and it’s over—the rite complete.

Water splashes around us as the spotters join our gathering, their weapons still raised, their eyes still scanning the waters for danger. Fenris and Selik exchange places, the root wobbling as he jumps atop it. Fenris doesn’t meet my gaze, though. His eyes sweep over everyone else.

“Tradition dictates that any survivors reconvene here three days following an elgrew attack.” Fenris’s throat bobs.

Normally, his father would deliver this speech, and it seems unnecessarily cruel that they’ve asked it of him.

“Anyone not present at roll call will be presumed dead. An election will be held tomorrow at sunrise to fill any existing vacancies.”

Moments pass as he reaches into his pocket and withdraws a crumpled, ancient scroll. The silence of our people is punctuated by chirping insects and hooting birds as we stare at one another and count how many of us made it.

Twenty-seven.

Three days ago, there had been one hundred and twelve. Now, almost everyone I’ve ever known is gone. It doesn’t feel real—not even when Nirissa reaches for my finger, curling her small fist around it like she used to do with Mom.

I wade closer to Fenris, wanting to offer him my comfort, my support, but he sidesteps me and climbs higher onto the root, the wood groaning beneath his oversized frame.

“Alysa of Darkmarsh,” Fenris says. He reads off the scroll, a stick of charcoal between his fingertips.

“Present.” The spotter behind me raises her hand.

It’s the same one who confronted me earlier, or at least I think it is, judging by the way she carries herself.

Alysa—the historian’s daughter—has always been kind to me.

She taught me how to sew, how to clean my blades.

It’s hard to picture that woman pointing an arrow at my chest. Then again, her daughter is missing too.

“Aman of Cliffstone,” Fenris says.

Silence.

“Aris of Redden.”

Silence.

Fenris scratches the names from his list, keeping his eyes on the parchment. “Arden of Ashwood.”

“Present,” I whisper. A few heads turn in my direction, scowling. I wipe my hands on the front of my leather breeches and keep my head low as roll call continues.

“Brenan of Razorwood. Caris of Smoke Valley. Clent of South Vale.”

Silence. Silence. Silence.