Esteban separates himself from the rest of us, seeking quiet so he can concentrate on Illan’s thoughts moving through his own. I wonder what it’s like to hear voices, see inside someone’s mind, and then simply walk away, free.
“Are you sure?” Esteban asks, his dark eyes focused past us, on the horizon. Sometimes, when he’s in a trance like this, he starts responding to his thoughts and it’s like he’s speaking to a ghost. “But—Yes, yes, of course.”
By the way his brow furrows, Illan’s instruction must not be what Esteban wants to hear. He sighs deeply and presses his palms against his face to shake himself from the headache that comes with such a use of his magics.
“Well, speak,” Dez commands.
Esteban’s eyes scan our faces—the life has drained from his. “We aren’t going home.”
“What?” I blurt out.
“Illan has ordered us not to return. To set up camp in the Forest of Lynxes,” Esteban says, though he winces from what must be a terrible headache. “Hawk and Fox Units, and the elder council themselves, will rendezvous with us there in two days’ time.”
“The elders?” Sayida gasps.
Any doubt that the weapon was a trick is gone. The elders never leave the safety of the ruins. They preserve the history and traditions of the kingdom of Memoria. Why risk it now?
“Wouldn’t it be best if we meet at the capital?” Margo asks.
Esteban shakes his head, his mouth set in a taut line. “The elders have word that the king’s justice is raiding citadelas and villages near the mountain pass. Word of rebels setting fires in Esmeraldas has spread.”
“Lies,” Sayida spits.
“This is your doing, little incendiary,” Margo mutters so only I can hear her.
“West is the safest option. I know the Forest of Lynxes,” Dez says. “I named our unit for it. The goddess smiles down on us.”
While Margo looks alight with our orders, Dez carries a new stiffness around his shoulders. I grip the coin he gave me and look at it, unable to shake the feeling that Dez is holding back. He snatches up his pack.
Marching away from the Via de Santos and into the field of dried grass to the west, Dez glances back, his familiar smile flashing across his face. “Come on, you rebel bestaes. You wanted a fight. Now we have one.”
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT, AND UNDER THE COVER OF TREES, THE WIND CHILLS down to the bones. A nervous quiet settles over our camp. We spread out our bedrolls around the fire pit for warmth and share what’s left of the bread and salted dried meat in our packs. Sayida makes irvena tea and we sip it. Two days. We’ll have two days to hide out in the Forest of Lynxes until the others come. So much could go wrong before then. Margo scouted ahead and returned with news that the neighboring towns of Sagradaterra and Aleja are also being raided. The Second Sweep has plastered my and Dez’s likeness across markets with a reward.
Two days to not get caught.
Two days to replay everything that went wrong in Esmeraldas.
If only I’d been faster in finding the stone. If only I’d gotten the boy out before the soldier arrived. If only I had controlled my power better. If only I hadn’t been distracted enough to let myself get wounded.
If only, if only, if only.
Sometimes I wonder if a person can have so much regret they’ll drown in it.
At the memory of Celeste, of me reaching into her mouth for the alman stone, my food feels like coal going down my throat. I don’t dare waste any, though, because who knows if we’ll catch any game tomorrow. I swallow more water to help keep it down.
“How’s your headache?” Sayida asks Esteban.
“Better. Instead of feeling like I took a mace to my skull, it feels like one of Dez’s right hooks.” He takes a swig from his flask. Dark eyes roam the canopy above, the trees that conceal the stars and give nest to all sorts of critters. He offers it to Sayida, who declines.
“You’ll be able to see across far distances yet,” Margo says, ripping bread with her fingers. She washes it down with her waterskin, giving him a broad smile. “Your duties as a postmate will be complete.”
“I am not a glorified messenger,” Esteban says, trying for dignified.
Sayida and Dez chuckle. I break off a piece of the hard goat’s milk cheese and nibble at it. I’d like to tell Esteban that when he uses his power to contact Illan across leagues he appears to be talking to a ghost, but I wonder if he’d take that with the same humor as this. It’s hard for me to insert myself in their conversations, so I remain quiet. I drink. I eat. It’s so hot out we go through our water too soon, tapping the last drops onto parched tongues.
“We should rest early and refill our water reserves,” Dez says, undoing his leather vest and tunic ties. Even though we’ve all seen each other in various stages of undress while out on missions, I look away from him. “I’ll lay some traps.”
“For the guards or for our breakfast?” Margo asks.
He flashes a cocky smile. “Both.”
“I don’t care for the taste of guards,” Sayida says, wrinkling her nose.
“I hope the Hawk Unit brings a jar of pickled peppers,” Esteban says dreamily.
“Not if Costas eats them before he gets here,” I say. When we’re back home, one of the youngest Whispers, Costas, is known for eating everything in sight. Only Sayida chuckles, and Dez gives me a pitying smile.
“Esteban, Margo, will you refill the waterskins?” Dez asks.
“I can do that,” I say. I get up, dust crumbs from my hands.
“You’re wounded, Ren. Let us help you,” Dez says, and I wish he wouldn’t look at me the way he does—as if I’m fragile and breakable. I should remind him that I’m supposed to be a shadow in the night and all of those things he called me in Esmeraldas.
Margo lets out a tiny grumble for my benefit, but she and Esteban gather the empty waterskins. He lights an oil lamp, and they head off into the dark. The rush of the river is loud enough to find, and the ground of this forest is easier to traverse than yesterday.
While Dez takes his ropes and iron traps into the forests, Sayida and I wipe mud and dust from our packs. Even when something doesn’t belong to us, we help each other this way. Living with the Whispers was different than my time in the palace. I learned to share, even when I didn’t want to. I learned that if we all spent the same amount of time cleaning our rooms and our training weapons, we’d get everything done faster. It was supposed to teach us how to be a family, regardless of blood. But part of me can’t connect. As I dump out the dirty water, I wonder why I keep trying.
I wash my face and clean my teeth with the gritty paste that staves off gum rot and bad breath. The water is ice cold, but I rub the towel along my bare arms until my skin is red. Sometimes it’s like I’ll never feel clean. Unraveling my hair from the tight braid releases some of the tension at my temples.
“You could join me if you feel restless,” Sayida offers.
She sits close to the fire and meditates to keep her emotions balanced. The elders encourage all Moria to do this, but I hate having so much time with my thoughts. Her hands are loose at her sides, fingertips dug just into the earth like she’s drawing power from it.
I shake my head, but realize she can’t see me. “Another time.”
A low whistle coming from the trees signals Dez’s approach. Relief unwinds the muscles of my shoulders, and I let go of a small anxious breath when he comes into full view. He’s undone the laces of his tunic down to his sternum. He grins when he catches me staring, then nods, eyes sweeping over our camp.
“Are Esteban and Margo still gone?” he asks suggestively.
Sayida lifts one eye at him, her smile lazy like a cat’s. “Let them be.”
“On the contrary,” Dez says, shooting a wink in my direction. “I only worry one of them might make the other smile.”
He takes his position at the edge of our campsite, leaning against a roblino tree like a sentry, his stolen sword staked in the ground at his feet. H
e told me once that the Forest of Lynxes was his favorite place for how green the leaves always were, the trees with bark so thick they retained water and could be drained of sweet sap. Long ago, lynxes roamed this forest, but they were hunted so much that the creatures haven’t been seen in a decade. It’s why Dez chose to name us Lynx Unit.
The campfire crackles and sparks, warming my skin as the sun sets, bringing out a chill in the air. I think of the brush of Dez’s thumb on my cheek, the easy curve of his lips, the gold flecks in his eyes. When I realize Dez is staring at me, something in me wants to leap forward. I wrench my gaze away and busy my hands with wrapping the rest of the cured meat in waxed paper and stoppering a bottle of olive oil and throwing another log in the roaring fire. I look at anything but him because I know a person can never really belong to another—I should know it better than anyone. And yet, when Dez looks at me the way he just did, I want to believe he could be mine.
Suddenly, Sayida is leaning into my ear, her meditation over. “We should change our unit name to Squirrel Unit. Instead of walnuts, our commander collects swords and daggers.”
Despite my best efforts, I laugh. “I don’t believe our commander would appreciate being compared to a furry rodent.”
“That boy would let you call him anything, and you know it.” Her voice is low and conspiratorial among the chitter of night birds and insects. “Should we find out?”
I gently shove her away, but the movement still sends pinpricks of pain up my stiff arms. “Be serious, Sayida.”
She laughs in reply, the music of it is a beautiful thing.
“What’s so funny?” Margo asks.
She and Esteban drop the swollen waterskins in a heap, then settle in for the night. Margo’s lips appear puffy, and Esteban’s tunic is inside out.
“I was just reminiscing about Ángeles,” Sayida says, fighting back a grin.
“Soon we’ll take back the lands of Memoria and you won’t have to reminisce,” Margo says. The fervor of her words brings an end to our silly gossip.
“If we survive at all,” Esteban says.
“Always the optimist,” Dez says. “Tell us, Margo, does he at least smile when he kisses you?”
Esteban grabs a flat stone and throws it at Dez, who doesn’t move at all as the rock misses. I draw my knees closer to my chest, but unless I walk off into the forest, I can’t escape this conversation.
Margo leans forward across her bedroll to me. “Tell us, Ren, does Dez ever stay quiet long enough to kiss you?”
A hot sensation starts at my sternum and spreads across my chest. I glance at Dez. He does delight in being the center of attention. Maybe it’s the impending attack we have ahead of us, or Margo is in a particularly good mood, but I don’t feel on the fringe of their teasing this time.
“Dez has never been quiet in his life,” I say, matching her playful tone.
He winks at me, and everyone falls into an easy laughter. It’s better than thinking about what’s happening at the palace or what this weapon is or what would happen if the king and justice use it everywhere from the populated citadelas to the tiniest hamlet. What if they already have? What if that’s the real reason the justice set fire to Esmeraldas? What if we’re too late?
I snap out of it when Margo lays claim to all the sugar bread the moment we’re back at the Ángeles ruins. This time, Esteban doesn’t suggest our demise. Instead, he offers his flask to me. I hate the smell of it but take a swig of the aguadulce anyway. It’s so cold it tastes like ice water at first. Then it burns going down, leaving behind the slightest taste of flowers. I pass it around, and even Sayida takes the barest sips.
The chatter turns to things everyone misses from their childhood, and the drink burns even worse when it comes back around. Dez fishes in his pack for a set of his favorite ivory dice. He and Margo take turns rolling them, using their pocketknives, bootstraps, and pesitos as wagers. Esteban doesn’t play, because he doesn’t like to lose. But we watch and take sides and share this brief moment of joy.
I think about how we are joined by the magics we were born with. It is the one thing that unifies us and makes us Moria in a world where our ancestral lands have been swallowed whole. When Memoria was first annexed, Moria families settled all over Puerto Leones. We were meant to become Leonesse, but our magics would always set us apart. Illan says that there was peace for a time. Esteban’s family settled in the tropical south of Crescenti. Sayida’s family never left their roots in Zahara. Margo’s people were fishermen in Riomar. Dez and I were both born near the capital. I can’t miss a place that I betrayed, can I?
“Are you ever afraid of who you’ll be when this war is over?” Esteban asks, lying on his back. His long fingers drum on his abdomen. “What if we win, but this weapon gets into the wrong hands? Worse than King Fernando. What if we cut the head off the lion but it doesn’t change anything?”
Margo rolls her eyes while Sayida replies, “Can you let us dream a little, Esteban?”
A sad smile tugs at his mouth, but he quiets. I wish I could admit that I share his worries, but I decide it best to keep them to myself.
“Tell me more about your dreams, Sayida,” Dez says, punctuating his words with a wink. “Am I in them?”
Esteban frowns and Margo nearly chokes on her aguadulce while Sayida throws her head back to laugh. “Of course you are. I’ve composed many songs about you.”
Dez perks up at that, though none of us believe it. “Sing us a song, Sayida.”
We beg her enough that she relents. There is one thing Sayida would never part with, and that’s her small guitar. It’s red wood with golden paint that’s chipped away over time. She strums and twists ivory knobs to tune the strings. When Sayida sings about a love lost, we all fall silent. It could be anyone. Friends, parents, siblings, partners. Her soft alto voice wraps around my heart and squeezes. Tears gleam on Esteban’s face, and eventually, he closes his eyes and falls asleep. Margo follows.
“That was beautiful—thank you, Sayida,” I say.
She wraps her guitar in its red cloth, then slips it into a leather pouch. She curls onto her side and whispers, “Buonanocte.”
I echo it, but I’m keenly aware of Dez watching me from across the fire as I settle into my bedroll, too. Like most nights, sleep doesn’t come. When the campfire is nothing but red burning coal and snores join the serenade of night animals, I tug on my boots. With the oil lamp in my hand, I walk away from the campsite and down to the river.
“Are you deserting, Ren?” Dez’s voice, teasing, comes from behind.
I turn, seeing nothing but trees. The silhouettes of moss hanging from crooked tree branches move like the ghosts in my mind. No Dez. And yet—I can feel him. I don’t know how, but I can. Even if we were in a crowded city, I could pick him out from thousands.
“You know me better than that,” I say. Straining my senses, I think I detect a small shift of dark against dark. My oil lamp is a tiny flicker, no better than a firefly here. The metal handle squeaks. The next step I take crunches on dead leaves and rocks.
“I thought I taught you to be stealthier.” His voice floats to me from somewhere behind a thicket of alder trees. “You’ll wake the dead with that heavy tread of yours.”
“A heavy tread for a heavy heart.” I wait a beat, then I lunge, ready to grab him. Instead, I grab a fistful of air.
“Share your burden with me, Ren.”
“I can’t.”
I feel him move in the dark, the slightest breeze in my hair. There’s leather and the bitter scent of smoke that has seeped into our clothes. He’s right behind me, but I don’t turn. He wraps his arms around me. My heart jolts like a stroke of lightning, right down to my belly button, as Dez’s warmth is at my back. Every time, it’s always the same—a spark that singes straight through me.
“Maybe you’re not as good a teacher as you think considering you fell asleep during your own watch.”
“I was thinking with my eyes closed.” His chuckle is muffl
ed as he lets go, and a chill tickles my skin where his hands just were. “Besides, I set traps, remember?”
For the first time I realize there’s a blanket rolled under his arm. “What’s this?”
“I thought you might get cold.” He threads his fingers through mine. My desire to be alone with my thoughts wars with my need to be with Dez.
In the flickering shadows of my oil lamp, I can make out his sharp jaw and a week’s worth of stubble that makes him look older than he is. The worry mark on his forehead is prominent, and for a moment, I have a tiny bit of insight into the man he could be one day. A great man. A beloved leader. Mine.
Then his smile is gone, and the weight of what’s to come hangs heavy between us.
“Why are you out here?” he whispers, stepping so close I feel his warmth radiating.
I keep walking along the river, knowing if we’re approaching one of his traps, he’ll warn me. “You know I can’t sleep. I thought you’d be used to it by now.”
“You always surprise me, Ren,” he says, and manages to look boyish when he smiles. “Like today. It was the first time this trip I didn’t think you, Margo, and Esteban would rip one another’s throats out.”
I laugh, and a bird answers. “They’re afraid. Fear makes people do things they normally wouldn’t. Like share a drink with someone they despise.”
“Things like take long walks in the dark?” he offers.
We stop near the riverbank on a flat stretch of grass. The half-moon above makes the rushing river look like a shot of silver cleaving a path across the rocky forest. I set the oil lamp on a small boulder, and he smooths out the blanket. We sit side by side facing the running water.
“I know these woods better than any of the king’s guard,” I say. “Better than you, even.”
He takes my gloved hand in his. “You’ve never told me that.”
“I was born just outside of here. It’s been so long, but I think I could find my way home. If there was a home to return to.”
He sighs, eyes full of sympathy. “I’m sorry. It can’t be easy for you when we reminisce about our parents.”
Incendiary Series, Book 1 Page 7