by Jess Corban
Leda was thirteen years old the summer she lay on a blanket along Bella’s riverbank, reading a delightful book under the shade of a massive fig tree. Absorbed in stories of the foremothers’ accomplishments, she startled when a strange racket rose above the swirling hush of the water, interrupting her reverie.
Whack, whack, whack.
She traced the sound across the river and a little upstream, where a curly-haired Gentle about her age stood in water up to his bare stomach. With a long pole, he beat at a branch above him until a fat, scaly iguana—long as an arm—lost its grip, slipped from the limb, and plummeted into the water with a great splash. With catlike speed, the Gentle grabbed the thrashing animal, firmly clamping its mouth and tail. Then he plunged it underwater and held it there, his thin muscles tensed. Eventually the creature went still, and the Gentle tossed it into his boat. It landed with a thud next to three other dead lizards. Then he climbed into the boat and rowed toward her shore.
She watched the dripping Gentle lumber up the bank toward her, four scaly, limp iguanas bundled in his arms. She was curious—more so about this peculiar Gentle than the lizards. She knew her mother would never, ever approve of her talking to a Gentle for any reason other than giving orders, but she was particularly tired of her mother’s control that summer, and the freedom of Aunt Salita’s finca had incited in her a growing independence. What could it hurt to see the lizards? She asked to view his catch.
Leda often conversed with the Gentle that summer, and eventually without guilt. He was fourteen, recently assigned to the finca after the last Initus ceremony. To Leda he seemed different from other Gentles his age, though she couldn’t put her finger on what set him apart. He looked like them, but the lizard-catching Gentle was more sure of himself, quicker with his words, and when he happened to be working nearby—more often than seemed coincidental—he made eye contact and went out of his way to help her.
The other Gentles called him Torvus.
When she returned the following summer, Leda caught herself scanning the fields for him, relieved to see him carting water nearby. And when he chanced upon her later that day, while she picked plumeria blossoms in a hedge far from the main villa, she realized she was hoping he’d find her.
Summers came and went, and Leda’s interactions with her unlikely friend became more frequent. He taught her to hunt iguanas. She taught him to read, using as primers a Holy Bible and a few other volumes from Aunt Salita’s collection of rare books. Her aunt would never notice their brief absences from the display in the back hall. Nedéans had no interest in reading books by long-dead Brutes; they only boasted about their “antique relics.” But as Torvus learned to make sense of the letters on the page, he hung on the stories about a great quest and an enchanted ring, Dumas’s tale of injustice and revenge, and a strange story about the senseless slaughter of songbirds.
Torvus was animated, attentive, asked questions, and made her little gifts. She trusted him with the secrets of privileged life, and he commiserated with her sorrows. She found relief in venting about her controlling, unpleasant mother, and his resulting dislike for the Matriarch justified hers.
As time passed, Torvus became different in other ways. He grew taller than the other Gentles. His face widened, his shoulders broadened. Confused and embarrassed by the changes, he wore baggy tunics to cover growing muscles, and kept to the outlying fields to escape the notice of female eyes.
Except Leda. He trusted Leda. He loved Leda.
By the summer of her seventeenth year, she could no longer deny his otherness. His voice had grown deeper, chin stronger, eyes more intense. That was the summer she suspected Torvus wasn’t a Gentle at all, and worried what would happen when someone else noticed. That was the summer she realized she loved him in return. The summer she broke every Article, denied every virtue. The summer he told her he was leaving.
“Come with me,” he whispered in the darkness, under a tangle of plumeria trees, their secret bower. “I can’t leave without you.”
“Where would we go?”
“The Jungle. I’ll make a home for you there. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you happy, I promise.”
Her lips found his, their bodies entwined, and they sealed the promises made. He would venture beyond Nedé first, to build a home for them. She would return to Finca del Mar until he sent word.
If Torvus had known what Leda would discover when she returned home—what would tear them apart—he would have stolen her away that very night.
A few weeks after returning home, while her mother was away for a Senate hearing in Fik’iri Province, Leda browsed the Matriarch’s personal collection of rare books for a volume her tutor had mentioned. She knew better than to be in the Matriarch’s office without permission, but she assuaged her guilt by telling herself she would have asked if her mother ever had time for her. As she worked her way along the gleaming shelves searching for Intelligent Virtue, she stumbled upon an unmarked leather journal, the contents of which would turn her world upside down.
Through Tristan Pierce’s words, Leda discovered the truth about the vaccines. The confirmation of what Torvus was—however improbable—collided with all Leda had known of the Gentles. In contrast to their weakness and apathy, Torvus’s strength, resilience, and passion—his belief that things could change—rang true. He was what they were meant to be.
She loved Torvus deeply, but as she continued reading the Scripture book she had taken from Bella Terra, she felt a deep responsibility to help other babies have the chance to be what God intended. So while she waited, she dedicated herself to combing through every book at Finca del Mar, and leveraged her status to spend hours at the Center, researching what could be done for the babies changed against their knowledge.
Then, one day, her painstaking research became unimaginably personal. Unable to deny the signs any longer, she was forced to accept the unlikely, terrifying truth: she was carrying a child of her own. And she couldn’t tell a soul.
Months passed, and now Leda was the one forced to hide her changing body. The Matriarch’s daughter loosened sashes and wore oversized tunics to hide her swelling abdomen, but time was shrinking as the baby within her grew. Fear threatened to suffocate her. Had Torvus forgotten? Even if he sent word, could she go? Could she deny the growing conviction that she needed to do something to help the innocent?
Finally, one night after returning home from the Center, Leda found a single plumeria blossom scenting her bed pillow, and beside it, a necklace strung with a small mahogany pendant, carved in the shape of a tree. She remembered her promise, and knew she couldn’t keep it.
She met Torvus under the plumeria trees one last time. One last time, to tell him she couldn’t go with him.
Her rejection shattered Torvus’s heart into angry fragments. He wanted her to choose him; she wanted to give others a choice.
His pleading ripped at her heart, his touch nearly convinced her, but she knew she had to think of more than herself now.
Despite Torvus’s deep grief, as she walked away, he told her how to find him, hoping she would change her mind. She touched the pendant strung around her neck, hoping someday she could.
As her eighteenth birthday approached, Leda accepted another truth: fate had chosen her destiny for her. Only one future would enable her to deliver a baby secretly. Only one would ensure that her child—should it be a boy—would remain like his father.
When Leda chose Materno, she obliterated the last of Teera’s faith in her. The eighth Matriarch of Nedé had hoped Leda would succeed her and was incensed at her “weakness.” Yet she couldn’t publicly disgrace a daughter who chose Materno—the “highest destiny” of Nedé. To preserve her own pride, she forced Dr. Karina Novak to share the Center leadership position with her daughter. Teera also begrudgingly granted her daughter the finca she requested: Bella Terra. Leda ensured Aunt Salita was relocated to a grander finca farther south, and consequently the benevolent Senator felt no ill will.
T
he day Leda arrived at the Center, Karina’s contempt was evident. It wasn’t hard to imagine why. Leda had heard whisperings. And she knew herself what it was to be manipulated by the Matriarch’s whims.
“I know this isn’t fair,” Leda conceded, once they were alone. “I’ve heard you worked for decades to secure the directorship. Why should an eighteen-year-old’s connection to a meddling Matriarch sidestep years of study?”
The hard line of Dr. Novak’s mouth gave a little. “Well, we’ll see.” Then a little more. “I’ve also heard you’re not much like your mother.”
Leda took to Dr. Novak as only a teenager starved for motherly affection could. She aimed to please and devoted herself to learning every process and procedure. As the weeks passed, she sensed the older woman soften toward her, take pleasure in her inquisitiveness, admire her willingness to work long hours, and applaud her patience under pressure. Perhaps that’s why Leda trusted her with a secret she hadn’t shared with anyone else, and asked something of her that could cost the Center codirector her job . . . or much, much more.
When Karina learned that Leda had encountered the Brute Torvus at Bella Terra, she doubted it could be a coincidence. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to tell Leda about her own secret. Leda confided that Torvus was leaving Nedé, which meant Karina could avoid facing what she had ignored decades before. Still, suspecting her mistake was the reason for Leda’s predicament, she purposed to help, whatever the personal cost.
Karina agreed to deliver the baby in secret. She supplied Leda with formula and diapers, blankets and the customary health vaccine, and urged her to hide the child at Bella Terra until he was old enough to transfer to a Hive. He could enter the Gentle system easily enough, and they could put the ordeal behind them.
Leda had other plans. With no record of her child’s birth, nothing stopped her from declining to administer the vaccine. But with no vaccine, Leda knew she couldn’t hide her boy in Nedé forever.
It took her a week to locate the place Torvus had spoken of, following his landmarks through the wild Jungle to the foot of an enormous mahogany tree. There she found the house he had built for her, a simple wood dwelling radiating safety and warmth, a plumeria blossom carved into the door like a seal of promise. Their reunion threatened her resolve to leave—and nearly dissolved his will to love—but in the end, Leda convinced Torvus to care for their child as he had promised to care for her.
She named their son Jason, hoping his presence would heal her absence.
CHAPTER FOUR
I DON’T BLAME TRIN FOR APPREHENDING ME, or for handing me over to Adoni. Any well-trained Alexia would have done the same. At least she was decent enough to have someone grab my horse before taking me to the cells.
Adoni didn’t blindfold me on our way down the narrow stairs to this hole. I appreciate knowing exactly where I am: beneath the Arena via a vine-covered door near the northern entrance. Unfortunately, her indifference hints she has no intention of letting me out anytime soon.
“It’s too bad,” she said, clanking my cell door shut. “You’d have made a half-decent Alexia.” Shaking her head, she left without giving any hint at what comes next—how long I’ll be here, whether they’ll feed me, if I’ll get a chance to defend myself, what tortures Teera will employ to get what she wants.
The stone wall at the rear of my cell cools my bare arms and sweat-soaked vest. It might be dark, musty, and unsettling in here, but at least it offers a break from Phoenix City’s incessant dry-season heat. I release a shaky breath, the aftermath of adrenaline leaving my chest hollow, my limbs weak.
A small prick of light from an electric bulb down the corridor to my left barely reveals my immediate surroundings. The opposite end remains a dark mystery. My cell runs about a meter and a half by three, with a slim cot taking up half that space and a bucket in the back corner. A single corridor runs the length of the underground prison, flanked on either side by enough identical metal-barred cells to surprise me. How many chambers does Grandmother need to subdue threats to Nedé? And . . . who has she actually banished here? Were they all Gentles? Or did she torture other women who stood in her way? I wouldn’t put it past her to defy Nedé’s protections against barbaric punishments and lock away anyone she deemed threatening.
In that case, I take my present occupancy as a compliment.
As the quiet minutes tick on, with no distraction from the enormity of the past hour, I’m forced to let it slam into me. Threads of grief and fear tease their way through my veins until I’m shaking. I can’t escape the image of my mother spread across the floor, color drained from her face, can’t erase the feel of her blood seeping through my fingers. There’s no way she could have survived that wound. I pound my fist on the ground, sharp pebbles piercing my skin, and try unsuccessfully to stifle a sob. Not Mother, too! The tears come, and come, and come. One for every regret.
I didn’t always treat Mother like an annoyance. I didn’t always resent her nagging or prickle at her affection. When I was young, I welcomed her love as any child does: with both arms. But as I grew older, our differences emerged and instead of appreciating them, I resented her for who I thought she was. I assumed she was weak to choose Materno, a coward for leaving the privilege of Finca del Mar for rural Bella Terra. And I resented her for caring so much about my safety and having an opinion about my future.
Regret intensifies the pain of losing her. I didn’t even know her—not really. I spent years dreaming of being a hero, and all along I was living with one.
But it’s too late to tell her now. And I’ll have to live the rest of my life realizing what a gift she was, too late to enjoy her.
You don’t know that, Reina. Maybe Dr. Novak was able to . . . I twist away from my weakness, my neediness. Hope will only hurt worse in the end. I have to face reality. Mother is gone. And she asked me to take Jonalyn’s baby to the Jungle. So I can’t stay here. I have no clue how I’m going to get out, but there’s no other option.
I squint toward the light at the end of the corridor and see what might be a door beyond it. If I could just talk to Trin. After the way she looked at me outside the Center, with such surprise, betrayal, and anger, I’d rather take an arrow to the arm than talk to her—but she’s the closest thing I have to an ally. I doubt she’s within earshot—there isn’t even a guard posted in this secret prison—but I let my voice probe the darkness anyway.
“Trin?” The word cracks from my parched throat and echoes strangely through the row of interconnected cages, bouncing off stone walls. “Trinidad?” Then stronger, “Hello?”
Silence. I pound my fist again, sigh, and slump back against the wall.
From the unlit void, a rough, brutish laugh creeps along the damp earthen floor. The distinctly wicked, eerily familiar chuckle freezes me solid.
“Well, well,” he says. “Isn’t this a treat?”
Amid the shadows three or four cells to my right, a dark shape moves slightly, a hunched figure turning toward me. The weak light barely illuminates a mussed shock of red hair.
I scramble to the corner of my cell, slamming back against the bars with enough force to make the cage shudder. It takes a full minute for fear to recede enough to realize Dáin is also locked up. He can’t hurt me, and I can’t kill him.
“The only ‘treat’ is knowing you’re going to die,” I spit back at him.
He laughs outright, but a childish quality in it catches me off guard. It calls to mind the small Brutes at Tree Camp, chasing lizards and scampering up trees. Even Dáin was small once.
“Wouldn’t you like that,” he jeers, leaning back against his own wall.
“You deserve it—after what you’ve done.”
“To you? I didn’t hurt you, you sniveling, whining girl.”
“To my sister,” I bark back, “when you raided her finca.”
“Your sister is lucky to be alive, after what she did to me.”
His meaning eludes me until I remember the large scab across his face
the night he attacked me. Attagirl, Jonalyn.
He sniffs loudly, then adds, “They weren’t supposed to be there, anyway. My source told me the place would be empty.”
“Oh, so it’s okay to steal other people’s stuff as long as they aren’t around?”
“The sage has spoken!” he mocks, with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “You tell me, is it okay to steal something from someone, if they don’t know it has been taken from them?”
His meaning is clear, and it shuts me up. He doesn’t need to know I have my own doubts about Nedé’s practice of gentling Brutes. His existence is the strongest case for continuing the practice.
“I thought so,” he says, then spits toward the corner of his cell. After a moment of silence he speaks again, this time with less anger and more reason. “Sometimes people have to get hurt so the right thing can happen.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” I mutter. “What if you hurt someone for a ‘greater good,’ but the good never comes? Then you’re a devil, not a hero.”
How puzzling that you can go through life thinking you’re a pretty decent human being, then suddenly, in a single instant, you realize you’re on par with pond scum. I killed Tre for the greater good. Dáin raided fincas. He had no business hurting those women, or killing anybody, but I can see how hope for a greater good could push someone to do the unthinkable. We’re not so very different. How disgusting.
“I’d rather be a devil than a Gentle,” he says, kicking the bars of his cell.
The metallic clang makes me jump, but I have nothing to say in retort. Deep, dark silence envelops us again—for minutes or hours, it’s hard to tell. Without sun or stars, clock or food, one moment bleeds into the next like gray watercolor seeping across parchment.
Eventually I stretch out on the dirt floor and hope sleep can overpower despair.