by Jess Corban
If Leda knew the real reason he had taken them in, he doubted she would continue to supply his future army. Then again, when it came down to it, would he be able to attack, knowing it would put her in danger?
Torvus’s crew of little Brutes multiplied, coming one, sometimes two or three, at a time. At first, he could barely resist the urge to speak with her—fought the desire to intercept her when she snuck onto his porch in the middle of the night, leaving the infants in a specially designed cradle. She came to the Jungle dozens of times to bring babies and supplies: bottles, powdered formula, scraps of metal, fruit tree seedlings, medicines—anything she thought they might be able to use and that she could transport easily.
He got his wish—he never saw her face. At first, he decided it was easier that way; as time twisted memory, he convinced himself it was what she wanted. How could she forgive him for what he had said all those years ago? He refused to mend the bridge he had broken, and time widened the river between them like a swelling wet-season rain. As the years passed, he saw no way to cross.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
OUR CAPTORS MARCH US TOWARD the tree, bound at the wrists, spears pressed to our backs. I scan the crowd for a familiar face, finding none. Three younger Brutes lead our animals. One reaches curiously toward Horse, but jumps away when she tosses her head.
“Was this part of your plan?” Bri hisses, as we near the center of camp.
“If they haven’t already killed us, I doubt they’re planning on it. Not without Torvus’s permission, anyway.”
“Very comforting. And who is this Torvus?”
“I think you’re about to find out.”
The imposing leader emerges from his dilapidated, wood-planked house and stomps down the steps, straight at us, as if he was expecting visitors. He’s dressed in skins from the waist down, and his wild hair doesn’t look to have seen a comb in the two weeks since my last visit. A fierce fire in his stride melts my courage. When he stops directly in front of me, I’m swallowed up by his shadow. Muscles bulge across his bare chest and down his arms, his skin tight and rough with hair. This is the Brute Mother confessed to loving?
“I told you not to come back.” His deep voice reverberates with an otherworldly timbre. “And what are they doing here? Have you no sense, girl?”
I won’t let him see fear. I set my jaw and stand straighter, rising to meet his volume. “They will be the least of your worries soon. Did you get my message?”
“Oh yes, that traitor came here, with more of his subversiveness. Asking for supplies and men. The same stupidity he’s been jawing about for years.”
I ignore Bri’s gaping mouth for now. I don’t even glance at Neechi or Jonalyn. First I have to convince Torvus to let us stay, then I can explain.
“It’s not the same,” I argue. “Things have changed in Nedé. Teera put the pieces together about the raids; she was planning on using Dáin to locate the rest of you. She won’t stop until she finds what she’s looking for. You need to make a plan.”
Torvus’s jaw tightens, twitches. “You sent word with the traitor. Why come yourself?” He motions toward the other prisoners. “Why bring more danger to us?”
A familiar face weaves slowly through the onlookers, making his way toward Torvus. His light hazel eyes find mine, and I’m overcome with the depth and familiarity of them—warm and trusting, like Mother’s. In my relief to see Jase, I stumble over my words.
“Moth—Leda sent me. With a baby.”
He notices Jonalyn’s cargo for the first time. A flicker of confusion wrinkles his brow, quickly replaced by anger. “Oh, she did, did she? Was she tired of sneaking in at night? Decided you could do the job just as well?”
How dare he speak of Mother that way?
“No! She—” I can’t answer, my throat tightening from confusion over his response, anger at being treated so unfairly, grief over the real reason Mother couldn’t bring the baby herself. I can’t stop the tear that slides down my cheek, and I watch it erode his fierceness enough to absorb the meaning beneath my silence. His gaze flickers between me and the baby, then something in him snaps. Like an enraged, caged predator, he paces and shouts orders.
“Ori, take the baby. Jase, deal with the others.” He storms away from camp, snapping a branch and smashing it against a trunk as he goes. Just before he’s out of earshot, he growls, “Prepare a fire meeting tonight!”
Once the Brute leader has disappeared into the Jungle, Jase approaches. Before I can resist, he squeezes me in a tight embrace, lifting me off the ground.
“You came back!” He grins, setting me down but not releasing his grip on my shoulders.
At least someone is glad I’m here.
“Well, somebody promised to let me kill myself jumping from a cliff the next time I was in town.”
He slaps my back with a laugh. “I’ll hold you to it. And who are they?”
“Jase, this is my eldest sister, Jonalyn.” I don’t miss the way he processes the connection. Not sure of what she knows, he refrains from wrapping her in the hug I bet he’d like to give her, too.
I motion to the only Gentle present. “Neechi was Matriarch Teera’s lead stablehand, until he helped me. Now he’s on the run.” The younger Brutes stare, even more curious about him than they were about the horses. I wonder, have they never seen a Gentle? “He wants to help,” I add. With what, I’m not sure yet.
“And this is Bri.” I nod in her direction. “She was a Candidate with me in the Succession, but now . . .” I consider explaining her unexpected loyalty, wonder if it would help him trust her, but decide it just sounds weird. So instead I say, “Now we’ve both joined the Alexia.”
Bri fixes Jase with a signature steely glare while addressing me. “They’re Brutes. They’re Brutes, Rei? They’re what we nearly died trying to find? They’re supposed to take care of the baby?”
“It’s a long story.”
Jase looks puzzled. “She didn’t know about us?”
“I kept my word to Torvus. I didn’t tell anyone about you or the camp—not even Neechi or Bri. They came anyway. Mother told Jonalyn so they could bring her baby here. Before Mother—”
Again I can’t seem to put words to what I know I should explain. Jase steps back, helplessness dragging at his features, but not angry as Torvus had been. He says simply, “Not here. We’ll talk later.”
Meanwhile, Ori approaches Jo, who has unwrapped the baby and cradles him in her arms. She hesitates before giving him over. I know my sister well enough to perceive a silent war raging underneath her calm exterior. And how could it not rage? As a Materno, she’s trained not to attach herself to Gentle sons, but this week’s events have shaken all we’ve known.
I recognize Ori. The day Rohan wrapped my arm in a sling in the kitchen hut, he led an adventurous troop of cubs through the brush, a baby strapped to his back. Now he takes this child with practiced ease, cradling its tiny head in his large palm. He seems younger than Jase by a few years.
“How will you feed him?” Jonalyn asks, tucking a stray end of blanket around the baby.
I’m amazed by her fortitude. As far as I know, this is her first time seeing Brutes, but she hardly seems shaken. Any other emotion is eclipsed by concern for that baby.
The Brute has honey-blond hair that curls just past his shoulders, and his skin is fairer brown than most of the Brutes around us. He stands almost a head above my sister and is nearly twice as broad, yet he seems more intimidated by this wisp of a woman than she is of the ancient evil standing close enough to touch her. His gaze hovers between the ground and her waist. “Goat milk. And some powder the Rescuer leaves. We mix it with coconut water.”
“Will you give him a name?” she asks.
Ori looks to Jase, who answers for the bashful Brute. “Torvus names the babies—uses some old books the Rescuer left us.”
She nods, looking for a moment as if she might ask something else, decides better, takes a deep breath, and turns away.
“Not to be rude,” Bri interjects as rudely as possible, “but is someone going to explain what a fire meeting is? Because if it involves being tied up and flames, I’m not interested in attending.”
“She’s a live one,” Jase says, slipping a knife from its sheath on his thigh. Bri tenses.
“You have no idea,” I assure him. “Don’t worry, Bri, they don’t roast their guests the first night.”
Jase takes the knife to the rope at my wrists.
“I’m glad you’re all buddy-buddy,” she hisses, “but last I heard there was a reason the foremothers ended the Brutes.”
Jase hitches mid-saw. An uncomfortable silence stretches, and I feel the eyes of every Brute on us.
“Maybe you shouldn’t untie that one,” Ori half-whispers to Jase.
Jase meets my gaze. “Do you trust her?”
Bri’s snark has always rubbed me raw, but she’s here, isn’t she? She knew I was questioning whether all the Brutes of old were evil, yet she followed me to Bella Terra, and now to the Jungle. Still, when it comes to how she would react in this situation, I can’t say whether I trust her completely, or whether they should.
“I’m hoping you’ll change her mind,” I say, “like you did mine. Whether you want her hands free in the meantime is up to you.”
Bri huffs, then slings a few choice words in my direction.
“And the Gentle?” Jase asks.
I glance at Neechi, realizing I haven’t heard a word from him since we were captured. The quiet Gentle’s hands visibly shake, and his wide eyes fixate on the strange shapes around us—bare chests, biceps corded with muscle, prickly jaws, thick thighs. What must he think of them?
“He’s safe.” I don’t add, All Gentles are. What could Neechi possibly do to these Brutes, even if he meant them harm? Seen side by side, the contrast is glaring—Neechi’s timid expressions, small frame, thin arms, and round face, next to Jase’s sculpted bulk and confident movements. One appears harmless, the other . . . Remembering the way Torvus’s rage squeezed my chest, I can think of only one way to describe these strange beings: volatile.
At my vote of confidence, Jase breaks Neechi and Jonalyn’s bonds. Hopefully Bri will behave so they can cut her loose soon too.
Jase leads us toward the enormous mahogany tree. “You hungry?”
“Famished.”
He changes course, calling on two other Brutes to follow. He dismisses the rest to their “regular duties,” whatever those are.
On our way to the kitchen hut, I finally get the nerve to ask about the void I noticed as soon as we arrived.
“I haven’t seen Rohan.”
Not that I care, I want to add, but that might sound forced, and I’m suspicious enough of what made me ask for both of us.
“He’s out hunting near the hollow. He should be back tomorrow. Ever since Dáin returned with the knife, claiming you sent him to warn us, Rohan’s been busy building our food supplies.” He chuckles. “It’s his way of getting ready.”
Disappointment mingles with relief. I’ve tried to picture Rohan’s piercing dark eyes for the past two weeks, but now that I’m back—now that they could appear at any moment—I’m not so sure I’m ready to see them.
Speaking of what I’d rather not see . . . “Where’s Dáin now?”
“It’s complicated.”
I wait for him to elaborate.
He sighs. “Torvus doesn’t want him back in camp and refuses to listen to reason. But Rohan and Dáin have been meeting, talking about our options.”
It probably shouldn’t, but hearing their names together sends a shiver through me. I know I sent Dáin back here to rally support, yet the thought of Rohan working with that vile devil makes me want to scream at both of them.
“Rohan trusts Dáin?”
Jase scratches the short amber stubble along his jawline. “Not exactly. Dáin’s a hothead. His temper makes him dumb as a peccary. But despite the stupid things he’s done behind Torvus’s back, if what he told us—what you told him to tell us—is true, we’ll have to work together.”
He says it so naturally, like working with Dáin is no more terrifying than rummaging through the underground storage pits for food.
He hands us each a bit of meat and fruit, which we stuff into our mouths with eager gratitude.
“And you’re okay ‘working together’ with Dáin?” I probe further, swallowing a smoky-sweet bite of dried meat. “He did attack me, remember?” And then Rohan beat him up for it, I remind myself. When Dáin showed up to the fire meeting, Jase tucked me behind him. He didn’t seem the least bit afraid of Dáin either.
“Like I said, dumb as a peccary,” he says casually; then, noticing my unease, he adds, “But he’ll be good to have around. He’s fearless, and a good hunter. Always has been.”
“A good hunter?” I’m having trouble connecting why this is a preferable trait in a potential partner.
“Yeah, he can track an animal better than most. He’s sneaky, like a snake.”
Finally, a metaphor that fits him. “Like a snake. And I should feel good about that?”
He laughs.
I stare back, dead serious.
His nonchalance about the Brute who haunts my dreams makes me testy. “I mean it, Jase. I only released him to protect you. He wanted me dead, remember?”
My change of tone catches his attention, deepening his sincerity.
“I’d never let that happen. Neither would Rohan. We’ll knock his teeth out if he threatens you again, okay?” He gives my hand a quick squeeze.
He says it so easily, like he’s promising to smash a little scorpion if it gets too close.
I suppose his lack of concern over Dáin should comfort me. If they’re not afraid of him, and I’m with them, maybe I don’t have to be terrified either.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes. “Now, let’s figure out where we’re going to put you all.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
AFTER CONSIDERABLE DELIBERATION over where the four of us will sleep, eventually it’s settled: the very top of the mahogany tree. Jase and Rohan’s hut.
“It’ll be tight, but you’ll have the best view,” Jase persuades. Plus, he doesn’t say but I presume, five dozen other treetop residents will be able to keep an eye on you.
We cross through camp quietly, speechless in part from exhaustion, part awe. While I’ve seen Tree Camp before, my companions watch in silent absorption, considering the thatched huts, raised gardens, treetop bridges, and neatly ordered orchards. Two blackened animal carcasses smolder in the fire circle, filling the forest with blue-gray smoke.
Brutes attend to various tasks, carrying water in clay jugs, whittling the ends of sticks into sharper points, herding the smallest cubs into a netted pen strewn with simple wooden toys. Some stare at us outright as we pass. Though none seem as shocked as the first time I arrived at camp, our group is as unusual a sight to them as they are to us. Neechi seems especially bashful from the attention. He keeps his gaze low as onlookers pass by, whispering among themselves.
When we reach the centerpiece of camp—the enormous mahogany tree, stretching at least sixty meters into the cloudy blue—Jase says to me, “We’ll have to go up in two groups. I’ll take you and the Alexia first.”
He reaches for Bri’s upper arm to help her onto the meter-high platform, since her hands are still tied. Not surprisingly, she wrenches away, opting instead to flop across the waist-high wood slats and wiggle her way from stomach to a standing position.
Amused, Jase teases, “Stubborn, too.”
Bri says nothing, just fixes him with a death glare.
I grab the railing and hop on behind her. “He was just trying to help.”
“He can keep his help to himself,” she says, loud enough to make sure he hears.
After securing a small gate, closing us in, Jase takes to the thick rope. Hand over hand he draws it downward; meter by meter we rise into the leafy limbs.
We’re soon env
eloped in a blanket of emerald leaves, each nearly as long as my arm, densely packed one minute; the next, sparse enough to reveal glimpses of the world beyond. Along the way, eclectic huts hug the trunk or sit sandwiched between stout limbs, compact but impressively designed. Since the terror I felt my first visit has mellowed to a manageable apprehension, I’m free to notice the finer details of their craftsmanship: smooth planks, curved awnings, netted windows. Dozens of rustic, but ingenious, dwellings.
From one of the porches, a slender Brute with upturned eyes and long, stick-straight black hair wraps his hands in two leather straps attached to a curved bar that arcs over a long rope. Then he takes two running steps and jumps from the platform. I gasp, expecting to watch his body writhe through the air, falling thirty meters to the unforgiving ground. Instead, the bar whizzes and zips along the rope, the Brute flying gracefully beneath, angling toward the ground at the far end of camp. Only now do I notice a dozen other ropes connecting huts up and down the tree to various parts of camp. My jaw drops.
“What’s that?”
Jase looks confused. “Parrots?” he asks, considering a flock of green birds perched among the foliage, talking and squawking in their singsong way.
“No, that,” I repeat, pointing at the figure bracing for impact.
“Looks like Jem. He’s a quiet sort, but nimble as a monkey.”
“Not the Bru—oh, never mind.”
“Ah, you mean the speed lines?” He chuckles, and I realize he was teasing me the whole time. I bump him with my shoulder.
“Are they safe?” I ask.
He responds with a quizzical expression, and I remember we have very different definitions of the word.
Far below now, my sister, Neechi, and the Brutes guarding them have shrunk to doll size. As we crest the surrounding canopy, we’re met with a view stretching clear to Nedé. Bri can’t hide her awe any more than I could the first time I saw the Jungle hills roll away like a carpet, revealing the patchwork grid of Amal Province melting into Lapé, and farther still, the doorstep of the Halcyon Sea, obscured today by clouds. Threads of rivers curl and cut through the foreground, disappearing into the hazy distance.