by Jess Corban
I’m jarred from a fitful nightmare by the scrape of a door. As firm, confident footfalls echo down the corridor, I scramble to a sitting position, forcing stiff joints to bend. When the dark figure crosses under the single bulb, the backlit flash of gold on her biceps gives her away. She heads straight for my cell.
“Trin, I can explain,” I rush. “It’s not what you think.”
She paces in front of the bars, avoiding my eyes. “Now you’re an expert on what I think? Adoni’s right—I shouldn’t have been so free with you. I shouldn’t have trusted you.”
“But I—”
“It doesn’t take an Innovatus to figure out what’s going on, Candi—Dom Pierce,” she says hotly.
The switch to formality stings, even though I’m not technically a Candidate anymore anyway. But more concerning is what she thinks is “going on.” Could she know why I was at the Center?
“What are you talking about?” I probe.
“Teera told Adoni about your plan. Honestly, I thought you were better than that. It’s low, Reina, even after what happened in the Arena.”
“I don’t have any plan, Trin.”
“You come back here,” she continues, ignoring my plea of innocence, “and say you want to be one of us, to give yourself an alibi so you can take out the winner.” I stare at her, disbelieving, as she continues, “None of us wanted Jamara to win, but bats, Reina, what were you thinking?”
“Take her out? I have good reason to hate Jamara, but I wouldn’t kill anyone—”
Trin raises an eyebrow at me, and I instantly regret the words.
“That was different,” I defend. “I had to do what I did to—to the Gentle.”
She stops pacing to stare straight into my soul. “What you do is your business. I’m just saying it surprised me. Made me wonder what else you’re capable of that I wouldn’t have guessed.”
I want to scream. She can accuse me of wanting to assassinate Jamara, fine. It’s not like the thought never crossed my mind. But not Tre. His death is sacred to me, and I can’t have her thinking I shot him for my own benefit. Can I trust her? Can I tell her without breaking my word to Torvus?
My face burns with heat. I hope I’m not making a mistake.
“He was my friend, Trin. Okay?” A lump threatens to choke me. “She chose him to test me. To see if she could control me. And I wish to Siyah I had failed the test. Yes, I shot him, but only because I wanted to help others like him.”
“Help them? What do you mean?” Her eyes narrow.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t know if telling her more will help or hinder my case when I ask her to break me out of this place, but something in me needs her to understand why I’m in here, and why I have to get out.
“I believed that if I became Matriarch, I could make life better for the Gentles. Treat them better than my grandmother has. Maybe give them a chance at a better life.”
“A better—?” She curses under her breath. “So you shot the Gentle to convince Teera you hate them as much as she does, so you can help them?”
“Well, when you put it that way . . .”
“And then you went to the Center to—what, save the world by taking out the competition?”
“No! Why would I go to the Center if I wanted to kill Jamara? Even if she were there, what would I do? Poison her with herb tinctures? Bandage her to death? I don’t need any more weapons. Besides, only an idiot would think killing an Apprentice would land her the Matriarch’s seat. It makes no sense.”
She seems to consider my point, though her next words barely slip through her tight jaw. “So why were you there?”
“A Gentle got hurt at the Arena stable, pretty bad. I took him so he didn’t bleed to death.”
“And because you were doing a good deed you had to sneak back out?”
“No, Grand—Teera—ambushed us.”
“Us?”
“I found my mother working that night. She’s a Center leader.” I force composure into my voice. “Teera ordered an attack and . . . my mother was hit with a dagger. One of the doctors hid us. She told me how to get out, and that’s where you found me. I swear, Trin, I’m telling you the truth.”
“Why would Teera want you dead? And Dom Pierce—her own daughter?”
I roll my eyes at her. “You said it yourself. She’d kiss a fer-de-lance to keep her power. My mother and I have . . . discovered things. The bottom line is she doesn’t trust us.”
“Should she?”
“I’m not trying to kill her or her Apprentice. You have to believe me. You have no idea what my grandmother is capable of.”
She tilts her head, but her steely eyes don’t give away what conclusions she might be drawing. Desperation presses my voice to a near whisper.
“She’s going to kill me. You know that’s why I’m down here.” I let the words drift and settle, uninterrupted. I lock onto her golden eyes, begging her to trust me. “I need you to get me out of here.”
She is literally my only hope of escape, and I’d have better luck reading the stars at noon.
Eventually Trin reaches into a pouch attached to her belt and tosses me a banana. “Thought you might be hungry.”
“Thanks.”
She still seems deep in thought, as if trying to decide: Am I lying? Or have I been framed? Maybe if I can press just a little further . . .
“You didn’t have to come down here, Trin. You’re here because something didn’t add up. What they told you doesn’t match who you know me to be. Please,” I beg, “I’m asking you to trust me.”
After another agonizingly long silence, she says, “I’m not promising anything.” Then she retraces the corridor and closes the door behind her.
“Well, that went well,” Dáin jeers.
“Shut up.” My cheeks grow hot when I realize he just heard the entire conversation.
“No, really. I’m impressed. Maybe you’re not as useless as I thought.”
I refuse to grace him with a response. Instead I eat the banana slowly, meticulously exhaling, hoping the smell tortures him. But when I get to the last bite, nonsensical pity takes over my rational brain.
Without a word, I toss the final piece between the bars into his cell. It hits the dirt, but I doubt he’ll be picky about it.
Then I curl up on the floor and beg my mind to sleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
IN THE GREAT EXPANSE OF SILENCE—HOURS? DAYS?—that follows, I have plenty of time to play what-if games with fate. What if Trin returns? What if she doesn’t? What if I go mad before anyone comes to check on us?
The latter scenarios offer little substance to toy with, so I concentrate on the first one. If by some chance I’ve convinced Trin to help me escape, I need to have a plan.
A plan. Right.
First order of business, I need to get to Bella Terra to make good on my promise to Mother. That means I need Callisto. Get the baby, find the Brutes. How, I don’t know, but I’ll have to cross that bridge later. Once I find the Brutes, then what?
The gentling has to stop. I honestly still don’t know which is better—safe Gentle or unaltered Brute—but it seems they should have that choice for themselves. The foremothers “played God,” as Mother put it, and there were—are—other consequences.
I rub my temples to push back the headache forming from dehydration and probably—oh, I don’t know—maybe a little stress. I try to focus through the pain. I have to believe I’ll get out of here somehow. In the meantime, I could have weeks to figure out a plan, or scarcely minutes. So . . . What are you going to do when you find the Brutes, Reina?
For no reason I can name, Rohan hijacks my concentration, standing at the top of the mahogany tree, awash in evening charm, holding my eyes with his questions.
He can’t have my allegiance.
And yet . . .
I want to see him. So much so that if there were no baby to take, I might still find myself searching the Jungle wilds for Tree Camp. Why in Nedé does he make
me so illogical?
A plan, Rei—you need a plan. And “see Rohan” isn’t one.
Hunger gnaws at my insides, thirst dries out my tongue and lips. I ignore the discomfort the best I can, trying instead to flip through my other options as the hours pass.
What about Jase? Could he help? Even here, alone in the dark, the thought of his easy-come belly laugh and familiar hazel eyes, so much like Mother’s, puts me at ease. I imagine those eyes lighting up when I tell him I’ve heard the story that wasn’t his to tell. He will help me if he can. I think. If Torvus even allows me back into camp.
The hulking Brute leader didn’t technically forbid me from returning. Sure, he made me swear not to tell anyone what I’d seen, but that’s not exactly the same thing, by my count. I’d never expect a warm welcome, but he’d have to take Jonalyn’s baby, wouldn’t he? To honor whatever arrangement he had with Mother? And maybe I can convince him to help me . . . do . . . something.
I go over my plan progress: get out, get baby, find Brutes, give baby, convince them to help me “do something.” I cringe at the flimsiness of my plan just as a loud snore rattles the darkness.
With satisfaction, I add to the list: let that beast rot in his cell.
Teera will kill him once she has what she wants, and I’ll never have to fear him again.
Once she has what she wants . . .
Bats.
Teera thinks Dáin—the “asset” she spoke of—is the leader. She’s wrong about that, but she’s right that there are others out there. What if she tortures him for information? My dear, she once told me, anyone can be persuaded if the right tactics are employed. Could she break him with those tactics? Tear from him the location of Tree Camp?
Would it even take much persuading? I remember the growl of Torvus’s voice as he yelled at Dáin across the circle of fire, disavowing him. Being banished from camp might leave little motivation to protect his kin. It might not take much coercion for Dáin to snap, to give Teera whatever information she wants. And once she knows where they are . . . She made it clear that once the two hundredth celebration was out of the way, she planned to devote “every resource” to dealing with the Brutes. Time is not on my side.
The thought of Teera’s forces flooding the Jungle fills me with surprising panic. The Brutes are strong, and I’m sure they are brave, but there can’t be more than seventy-five of them, and many are too young to fight. What the Brutes possess in strength, the Alexia surpass in number. If Teera unleashes the full might of the Alexia into the Jungle, the Brutes won’t stand a chance.
I have to warn them as soon as possible—Jase, Rohan, the little cubs who can’t possibly have committed any great crime in their short lives.
I wish I could say for certain that the Brutes I’ve come to care for wouldn’t ever hurt us. I have no such promise. Still, the thought of Teera suppressing them—killing them—for fear of what they could do? Tyranny never wore such obvious colors.
I can’t let Teera get to Tree Camp, which means I can’t let her get to Dáin. And to keep her from him . . .
A red-hot shudder creeps up my spine. I’ll have to face my greatest fear of all.
CHAPTER SIX
BRUTES AS BIG AS HORSES CIRCLE AROUND the fire ring, trapping me inside. They sneer down, watching flames lick up my legs. Heart pounding, I beg them for water in vain. I scan the onlookers for a flicker of familiarity, desperate for a trace of kindness or humanity. For anything good. Anything safe. Any indication that one will help. But their faces are hollow, devoid of features. Behind them, withered, baby-faced Gentles look on with resigned sympathy, holding out flasks but unable to reach past the sneering Brutes.
Somewhere in the tree huts above, a door opens, and the sudden scrape of metal on wood scatters them all. I jolt awake, hitting my head against a metal rod.
In the foggy land between sleeping and waking, I struggle to get my bearings, but the bar that just collided with my head leaves little question where I am. I recognize the space; it’s the same depressing view that has taunted me after too many fitful bouts of sleep. But I’m still here—haven’t died from starvation or thirst, so my occupancy can’t have been as long as it feels.
Against the familiar canvas of bars, stone, and gloom, something stands out of place. A person—just on the other side of my cell door. A rush of panic drives away the last remnants of sleep, until the who registers.
“Trin.” The dry, groggy croak sounds so foreign I clear my throat and try again. “Hi.”
She stares at me for a long moment before speaking, sadness—maybe dreaded pity—softening her features. I must look terrible.
“They’ll bring food and water tomorrow—enough to keep you alive.” She pauses, looks at her hands and what they hold, as if deciding. “But I thought you could use this tonight.” She crouches down, slipping a dark, roundish object as big as her hand and what looks like a blanket roll through the bars, setting them on the floor. “I wouldn’t wait to eat it. Won’t keep well.”
She turns to leave, seeming suddenly as eager as I am to get out of this hole.
“Wait, Trin . . .” I try not to beg, knowing how pathetic it must sound, but I can’t help it. Not when I know my only chance of escape is striding out the exit. “Please, you have to believe me,” I call after her, hoping my innocence will trail her, haunt her until she finally stares it in the face. Trinidad doesn’t respond. She doesn’t look back. And as the door scrapes shut, sealing my fate, something like a defeated moan ruptures from me, echoing through the darkness.
I wait for a jeering taunt from my fellow captive, expecting Dáin to rub failure in my face like a cow pie.
Silence.
Perhaps near starvation has tempered his tongue. Good. I wonder for a split second if he could have died while I slept and steal a glance his way. In the dark shadows layering his cell, he slumps against the bars, but his eyes are open and alert, watching me.
When I was ten, I visited the Rylo Animal Preserve in Kekuatan Province with my mother and sisters. A relic from before the foremothers, the original enclosures are hundreds of years old. A group of Agricolátios repaired them, and they maintain the preserve in an effort to help Nedéans appreciate our animal neighbors. Most of the residents are injured local creatures that workers have nursed back to health but can’t release into the wild: a tailless kinkajou, a limping margay, a stork with a broken wing. But near the back of the preserve, adjacent to a pair of crocodiles, we saw a one-eyed puma pacing its cage—a ferocious cat that would have torn the flesh from our bones had those bars been removed. However, there were bars, and with the carnivore secure in its cage, we could consider the beauty of an animal we might otherwise have run from.
From the safety of my cage, I have a rare view of a Brute brought so low I can look in his eyes without terror. Without his harpy-headed club, without his rage, transformed by hunger and the same defeat that dogs me, I see . . . a human. A new connection freezes me solid: Mother took him there. She took them all to Torvus, rescued them from the fate of Gentles. She risked her own safety to give him that gift. He’s a Brute because of her. I picture my mother carrying a redheaded baby into the Jungle, risking her life to give Dáin a better one. Should that make me angry at her, or cause me to hate him less?
The connection both fascinates and disgusts me, but mostly it makes me feel the loss of her, and I have to turn away. My gaze lands on the items Trin left for me, and I lift my creaky body and crawl across the floor to them.
The round object is brown-green with scale-shaped markings, leathery and a little sticky around a puncture. The skin gives easily to the pressure of my suddenly greedy fingers. I tear open the custard apple with the ravenous haste of a starving prisoner, sinking my teeth into the creamy white flesh. I don’t bother spitting out the large, smooth seeds. I’ve inhaled half of the fruit and started in on the other when my teeth scrape something small and metallic. I probe the white mush with a finger, retrieving a hard, sticky treasure too beautifu
l for words.
I nearly spew a mouthful of fruit. I laugh and sigh and squeal and whisper, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Trin.”
Euphoria blooms in my chest, making me jittery, in part from the hope of getting free from here, but more so because she believed me. I told her the truth and she trusted me. I can’t explain why that’s so important, but it is.
Slipping the key into my vest pocket, I turn to the bedroll next, untying the jute with sticky fingers. It’s a thin blanket. Which would make perfect sense if I were staying another night. Or if it weren’t the infernal dry season. I shake the cloth open anyway and am startled as a straight white stick thuds to the floor.
No, not a stick.
Anything would have made more sense than this—more food, a sack of coins, a change of clothes. Yet, strangely, there’s nothing I would be happier to find lying at my feet.
The stark white bone of the knife is unmistakable, even in the dim light. The deep grooves of the basket-weave handle are so intricate, I can’t help running a finger over them. The blade is nearly as long as my forearm, and it calls to mind the strangely thick arms of the Brute who carved it. I can almost see the concern in his dark eyes as he gave it to me just before I left the Jungle.
How Trin happened to possess Rohan’s knife I can only guess. The last I knew, Teera had it. But I don’t have time to wonder now. With no way of knowing how long I’ve been down here, I’d better be cautious. Trin said someone would be by tomorrow with food—that what she brought “won’t keep.” I’d better move quickly.
The jolt of sugar from the custard apple mingles with adrenaline, and I’m ready to take on the world, one lock at a time.
Once I figure out the right angle, the key slides easily into the hole and turns with minimal effort. I’m on the other side in three seconds, staring down the corridor toward freedom. Behind me, my cellmate croaks dryly, “Look at that. The girl got herself an accomplice.”
“Shut up,” I snap, already second-guessing what I’m about to do, even as I make my way to his slotted door. “Listen carefully, you pitiful excuse for a human. I despise you with every fiber of my being, and I trust you less than a snake with a mouse. But we have a common enemy, and I’m banking on the hunch that you hate her more than you hate me. Am I right?”