by Jess Corban
He leads me west along the southern tip of the island, affording us a perfect view of the sun’s descent through low-lying clouds; it sparks them to life like tangerine electric bulbs. I still don’t understand how the sun can set in the very place Nedé should be. So many curiosities I’ve never had occasion to ponder.
For a long time, gulls’ cries and the nonstop rustling of palms are the only sounds. I sense Rohan wants to talk about something, but, perhaps, doesn’t know how to start.
I focus on dragging my big toe through the sand as we walk, trying to give him the space I’ve learned he needs to sort out words. But his larger-than-life presence makes it terribly difficult to ignore him, so eventually I cave and try for idiotic small talk.
“I still can’t believe how beautiful it is here.”
“You’re going to love the stars.” He grins. “Without any trees or mountains to block the sky—it’s unreal. More constellations than you could imagine.”
“Wait—so you have been here before? Dantès said he had only been here once.”
Rohan chuckles. “Think about who he was saying that to.” Bri, I realize. “Who wouldn’t want to get her goat?”
I have to give him that. She certainly doesn’t shy away from giving them plenty of grief. “So you have been here.”
“Twice. Dantès and Jem are most interested in the sea, but I’ve tagged along a few times to learn the basics. Mostly south.”
South. Away from Nedé.
“Are you going to tell me why, or do I have to ask?”
He sighs. “I’ve taken a couple runs with Dantès to see how the two-hull holds up. As you saw today, it’s impressive. The plan . . .” He stalls a bit, grows quieter. “The plan is to load it up with supplies and see how far it can take us.”
He eyes me sideways, as if eager to catch my reaction to this piece of information.
“You said you were thinking about seeing what else is out there,” I press, turning to face him. “You didn’t mention you already have a plan in place.”
“We weren’t expecting things to come to a head so quickly, but now that we’re making our move, things are speeding up.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I don’t know why I wish he would have. He doesn’t owe me the courtesy of sharing the Brutes’ inner-circle plans.
He ignores my inquiry, lobbing a question of his own. “Why does it matter to you if I go?”
I stiffen, irritated that he changed the subject and put this on me. “If your mind is set, why bother telling me about this ‘plan’ at all?”
The exchange is heating, and I expect him to fire back a defense or, more likely, call me on yet another layer of my seemingly eternal hypocrisy, as so many of our conversations go.
His jaw tenses, but his eyes flash less with anger than a strange, helpless earnestness.
“I don’t know!” he says miserably. “It was easier before I met you. Jase and I knew what we had to do: cripple Nedé, explore the unknown. But since the first time I—I saw you . . . you changed all that . . .”
“Well, I’m sorry for interrupting your life.”
His eyes snap to mine, and he runs a hand through his salt-tousled hair as he steps closer. “That’s not what I mean.”
Weakness, and indecision of any kind, are so foreign in this Brute that I can’t help but soften a little. “Then tell me what you mean.”
“I’m trying to say . . .” He leans even closer, searching my eyes, as if the words will appear there. When he speaks, his voice is as soft as the sand underfoot, deep as the sea beyond. “I’m trying to say . . . that ever since I met you, none of it holds purpose anymore. All I can think about is you, Reina—being near you, understanding you—” he traces a finger across my cheekbone—“taking care of you.”
I melt under his touch, like the sun rapidly dissolving into a puddle of orange liquid on the horizon. I want to tell him that I know exactly what he means, that I feel it too—whatever this is—even though it scares the bats out of me. But no words come.
He hesitates at my silence, yet risks taking my hands in his anyway. He stares at them as he says, “I want you to come with me.”
“With you?”
At my surprise, he adds, “You don’t have to decide right now. But I wanted to ask—wanted you to know—before . . .”
“Before we die?”
He grins at my bluntness. By Siyah, his smile undoes me.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen when we reach Nedé.” He grips both my shoulders as if already imagining how he’ll protect me. “But when it’s over, Rei, I don’t ever want to leave your side again.”
I stare into his eyes a long moment, considering his words. I think of Mother and Torvus—the long-standing connection they share. I think of the people who lived at the ruins ages ago, and the implication that there were good men, men who cared for women in times past. And I can’t ignore the strange magnetism that has drawn me toward this Brute—the inexplicable, subconscious longing I’ve had for this very moment since my first sunset in the mahogany tree, when he asked me which was better: Gentle or Brute.
If Article V doesn’t make allowance for this, for us, then perhaps our Virtues—those Nedé recognizes as absolute, yet even our own Matriarch abandons—maybe they aren’t sufficient after all.
The desire welling in me now doesn’t rage uncontrollably like the emotions that frightened me at the waterfall. This feels rational and right: I want to be with Rohan too. Always.
If he ventures from Nedé, I’m going with him. Wherever he goes, whatever wonders he discovers or distant lands he explores, I want to be by his side, facing what may come together.
In answer, I let myself lean into him, pressing my cheek against his chest. This time, a seeming decade of experiences later, my initial fear in the teak forest has been replaced by a deep, courageous trust in this Brute—this man.
He enfolds me in his strength, wrapping one arm around my waist, sliding the other hand into my disheveled hair, and draws me against him. I let myself savor the warmth of his breath in my hair, the scent of sea salt on his skin, the rise and fall of his sigh, the rhythmic, steady beat of his heart. This has to be the safest place in the entire world.
His fingers brush down my arm, leaving pinpricks of heat in their wake, then intertwine with my own. My heart swells like a rainy-season cloud, impossibly full, threatening to burst with . . . with love.
How could this be a violation of the virtues? No . . . I suspect it’s the truest of them all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
HIS FINGERS REMAIN WOVEN IN MINE as we continue north up the western shore. Though we’re virtually silent, this time I don’t mind. To speak now would disturb the recollection of what came before. I prefer to let his confession linger.
On this island, even muted twilight seems magical somehow—an airy, softer side to the blazing sun, azure sky, and underwater rainbows of daytime. The gray-blue expanse overhead preludes the starry display I can’t wait to witness.
Or perhaps the magic has everything to do with my present company.
Rohan squeezes my hand and says, “Tell me about the Gentle you—” he stops, kindly redirecting his phrasing—“the one who died with honor.”
It hurts to think of Tre; it hurts doubly because I haven’t thought about him much in the days since Tree Camp. Not as much as he deserves.
“My mother named him Treowe. He was kind, sharp for a Gentle—” I suddenly recall sparring bananas with Tre until we both held mushy lumps—“and he put up with my impulsiveness.”
Rohan chuckles at that. “He must have been exceptional.”
My elbow finds his ribs. “He was,” I say, smiling. “He was a good friend.”
He rubs my thumb with his. “You said you regretted your choice. Why?”
So he was listening on the trail to the cave. I suppose he just chose to move on in that moment—literally and figuratively. Perhaps the skill is something I should learn from him.
“Because I miss him. But mostly because it didn’t work—Teera chose Jamara as Apprentice anyway. I don’t see how his death means anything now.”
Rohan stops abruptly, then turns me to face him.
“Honor itself means something.” There’s an urgency to his words, unmistakable conviction. “Even if the outcome doesn’t go as planned.”
A warm tear slides down my cheek. He finds it with his thumb. Though I nod, I’m having a hard time reconciling that possibility.
“You have to understand that, Reina. Especially with the odds we’ll be facing.”
He presses his lips to my forehead, takes my hand, and leads us on.
This side of the island has less sand and more vegetation; the pebbly ground grates on my feet, and we have to pick our way around stands of mangroves.
In the fading light, a dozen of night’s first stars announce their existence. We haven’t walked ten meters before I notice another light—a strange glow farther down the beach, red-orange and . . . smoking.
Rohan stops short, releasing my hand and gripping my forearm instead. With his other hand, he slides a blade from its sheath on his leg.
That’s a fire—no mistaking it.
I follow him away from the sandy shore into the cover of dense palms, thankful the sand dampens the sound of our footfalls. We need to get a better look. Maybe another Gentle fishing boat got loose and washed up here. My eyes roll of their own accord. Of all the stupid theories. But why would anyone else be here? I thought Nedéans didn’t sail this far.
The fire grows larger as we approach undercover, illuminating two wooden sailboats at the water’s edge. Their polished sides shine in the firelight; the lax sails appear brand new. Around the fire, no fewer than a dozen Alexia lounge, bows leaning against a nearby tree.
We crouch behind a mangrove, strain to hear their conversation.
“. . . Adoni would never agree,” one says. “She won’t take any chances, or we wouldn’t have been sent out here to our deaths.”
“You’re so dramatic. Sailing wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. It was kind of fun, actually.”
“I didn’t mean the boats, stupid.”
Another voice says, “I wonder what they’re like.”
“Trinidad said they fought with the strength of two women apiece.”
“I’ll take my chances,” a gruff voice cuts in. “I’m not afraid.”
“Look, if they actually come this way—and we have no way of knowing whether they will—we’ll do what we can to stop them. Whether or not we triumph, we won’t fail to send up the signal. As long as Teera knows they’re coming, we can say we did our job.”
“I’m just saying,” the gruff voice retorts, “if they show up here, they’re not leaving alive.”
A few assent, then settle into a quiet unease.
I want to tell them they don’t have to be afraid, that they don’t know what Brutes are actually like, but apart from Trin—who, I’m relieved to hear, made it back alright—I haven’t had any experience trying to convince the Alexia of the truth. I don’t know how understanding they’d be. And I don’t like the odds presenting themselves tonight.
Rohan scurries to another vantage point, motioning for me to follow. From here, he points silently to a handful of arrows lying near the fire. Each has a narrow cylindrical rod lashed to it, with a threadlike tail protruding from the bottom. Those must be the “signal” they spoke of. They resemble the fireworks Innovatus sometimes supplies for the Initus celebrations.
Rohan’s moving us again, this time deeper undercover.
When it’s safe to whisper, he says, “No matter what direction we leave this island, they’ll see us once we make for Nedé. If they send that signal, their leaders will know we’re coming, and this is going to get a lot harder.”
“Should we get the others? Attack first, while we have the element of surprise?”
He shakes his head. “We need to save our strength and numbers for the real fight.”
“So we need to relieve them of the signals before we get the others and set sail.”
His brow furrows, and I can tell he’s thinking very hard about the best way to play this. Finally he says, “Not we. You have to warn Torvus to get moving. I’ll meet you at the southern tip of the island.”
“But I can help. Just give me a blade—”
“I only have one knife,” he blurts.
“One—are you kidding me?” These Brutes are veritable walking weapons caches, and he’s down to one? “Of all the times to pack light!”
I didn’t mean to insult him, but I’m afraid I’ve hit a very Brute nerve. You’d think he was caught with his pants down the way he reddens.
“I didn’t—I was afraid you wouldn’t walk with me if I—” He blows a mouthful of air. “Look—it doesn’t matter now. I have one weapon, and you have two legs. I’ll wait twenty minutes. That should give you time to reach them. Tell Dantès to get that boat in the water and be ready for anything.”
I don’t move.
“Go,” he urges, and the grit in his tone leaves no room for argument.
The thought of leaving him rips my heart to shreds, but I trust his judgment. At least, I’m trying to. So I press my forehead to his and whisper, “Be careful.”
He cups my face with his broad hands. Then I run like I’ve never run before.
I weave through palms and jump over debris, straining my eyes because the only thing that could make this situation worse is if I slammed into a tree or face-planted into a rock. At least, that’s what I tell myself. In actuality, there are probably quite a few scenarios that could be worse. I just can’t think about those now.
Finally the shore widens out, and I sprint headlong across the sandy beach. My side aches from breathing all wrong.
I’m sure more than ten minutes have elapsed by the time I round the southern curve of the island to find those we left stringing hammocks between palms and lazily drinking coconuts by the fire.
They startle as I approach, several reaching for the blasted things Brutes usually have strapped all over their bodies. Gratefully, the only bows in our cohort belong to me and Bri, or I might’ve been skewered before they had a chance to see who approaches.
I stumble into camp, panting and doubling over. “Alexia . . . West side—”
Torvus crosses the beach in three strides.
“How many?” he demands, even but brisk.
“We counted twelve.”
“Where’s Rohan?”
As I explain Rohan’s instructions, Torvus stiffens. Then he begins shouting orders to anything breathing—including me, though I can barely suck enough oxygen to qualify.
Within seconds, Théo and Dáin fill coconut husks with seawater to douse the fire. Jase, Bri, Jem, and Dantès get the boat floating, then we shove our supplies into our packs, stuff the packs in the twin hulls, and wade out to the boat. Left with only moonlight to guide us, we paddle quietly into open water, and wait.
Waiting is hardest of all. Even if we were close enough to see or hear any hint of what’s happening at the Alexia camp, the curve of the island would prevent it. So I keep my eyes peeled toward the night sky, dreading I’ll see a signal—not because I fear what will happen to us, but because I can’t bear what that would imply has happened to him.
The complete, eerie silence, broken only by the slip-slosh of our paddles as we work to remain in one place, doesn’t bode well for my nerves. My pulse won’t stop racing until Rohan runs down this shore and swims safely to our boat.
A sudden whizz-thunk startles us all—none more so than Dantès, who stares down his nose at an arrow embedded in the mast, centimeters from his chin. He scrambles back as another thunk reverberates from the right hull, just below Jase’s elbow.
Torvus booms, “Paddle! Raise the sail!” just as an Alexia ship materializes in the hazy moonlight.
“No!” I yell. “We can’t leave Rohan!”
Torvus ignores me, sinking his
paddle and drawing mightily.
How can he not care?
Jase interprets from across the platform, paddling double-time. “First priority: make sure we’re alive to help him.” He ducks as another arrow flies past, then shouts, “He’ll be alright.” But he’s not convincing enough to douse my panic.
An arrow narrowly misses Jem, who’s trying to tie complicated knots in the darkness. The Alexia’s sail versus our oars doesn’t make for good odds. We need to give Dantès and Jem a reprieve so they can focus.
I scramble to retrieve my quiver and bow from under my seat. The rocking surf isn’t going to make this easy, is it? I brace myself by wedging one foot in the hull and the other on the platform. It’s just like riding a horse, I tell myself, trying to imagine I’m swaying in time to Callisto’s four-beat gait. I disconnect my lower body from my upper, focusing on the mechanics. The Alexia’s stark-white sail makes spotting their ship easy enough. Nocking the arrow quickly, I set my sights on one of the six dark shapes in the boat.
Steady, Rei.
But even as I adjust for wind and distance, something holds me back. I might not know her name, but she’s Alexia. I have no desire to kill her, for the same reasons I couldn’t fight those who attacked Tree Camp. I just want them to quit chasing us so we can go back to Rohan.
At the last moment I shift my aim, sending the arrow barreling toward the taut sail. The tip rips through the fabric, and the strong wind instantly takes up the mission, tearing the sail bit by bit with mighty gusts. The Alexia scramble to hold the fraying pieces together, but it’s too late. Their boat already drags to a slow stop, the sail rent in two.
Whoops and cheers erupt from our boat. Théo slaps my back as I retake my seat in front of him. A second later, Dantès gets us into position and the two-hull lurches forward. I squint to see the island, only a jagged coal outline against the moonlit sky.
Dantès keeps a steady course northward, waiting for orders.
“That’s half of them,” I reason with Torvus. “And Bri and I can shoot from the front as we approach. There’s still a chance. They haven’t—”