by Emily Colin
The scent intensifies as we get closer—dried meat, unwashed bodies, the sharp reek of medicinal salve. We hike up a final rise through a mountain pass. The trail bottlenecks, cliffs rising on both sides to hem us in. It’s the perfect spot, clearly chosen for ease of defense—evoking the battle of Thermopylae. As we approach, I take note of the Brotherhood’s traps: a tripwire, laid across the trail and disguised by leaves; a hail of rocks, set to be triggered by a hastily placed foot. A less observant individual—or one approaching under cover of darkness—might be taken in.
We edge through the bottleneck unharmed. The path drops down into a clearing in a valley, surrounded by woods on three sides and hemmed in by the cliff on the fourth. In the clearing is what remains of the camp, the tents concealed beneath cut branches. I can see a few figures moving around, lugging water, huddled on the ground in conversation.
“That’s all that’s left?” I whisper to Ari, unable to keep the horror from my voice.
“That’s it,” he says, expressionless. “You stay here.”
Then he is gone, moving fleet-footed and silent down the rise. A few yards from the edge of camp, he gives a long, low whistle. Immediately all the figures stand, and I see one of them separate himself from the rest: Ronan. He comes striding toward the perimeter as Ari steps into view.
“Westergaard,” I hear him say. “I thought you were a dead man.”
Ari gives a rough chuckle. “Closer than I would have liked. But no.”
“You went back for her. Didn’t you?” His tone isn’t accusatory, but I flinch back from it anyhow. He thinks what they all do—that I deliberately caused the bombing. That their friends are dead because of me.
“I did,” Ari says evenly. He tells them, then—how I was on their side the whole time, how I did what I did to make sure he escaped. About the tracker, and the torture.
“Kilían told me as much.” Ronan’s tone is dry. “But he wasn’t sure Eva spoke the truth.”
Ari says nothing, and Ronan raises an eyebrow. “I haven’t heard from Kilían since you left. I was growing concerned. Should I be?”
“Well,” Ari says, “probably. But he’s all right, as far as I know. If you’re able to contact him, he’ll vouch for what I have to say.”
The other people in the camp have been staying back, letting their leader speak. Now one of them, a tall man a few years older than Ari, with ink-dark hair and eyes set in a pale, grim face, comes up behind Ronan. “I can’t believe you’re listening to this,” he says. “It’s a trick, a trap. I say we shoot him and be done with it.”
“Be quiet, Jaxon.” Ronan doesn’t raise his voice, but it cracks like a whip just the same. “Where is she, then?”
“Up the path,” Ari replies. “Waiting.” He raises his arm, giving the Bellatorum’s signal for ‘follow me.’ Cautiously, I step over the rise and make my way down the scree of pebbles and loose dirt.
I come to a stop next to Ari and nod my head to Ronan in greeting. He returns the favor. “Eva,” he says, his voice grave.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I tell him, which is what we are taught to say in the Commonwealth when a death occurs. Here’s hoping it’s appropriate on the Outside as well. “It’s true, what Ari said. I really didn’t know.”
He looks me up and down, as if he’s assessing my sincerity. Or maybe he is trying to figure out where I’ve concealed my weapons—which is a joke. Since I lost my borrowed weapons belt somehow in the skirmish with the beast, all I have left is my sverd. I feel naked and underequipped, and I hate it. “Thank you,” he says at last.
“I know you don’t have a good reason to believe Ari,” I say, the words spilling over each other in my haste to get them out. “But please, don’t punish him on my behalf. I didn’t ask him to come after me. Not that I’m not grateful,” I say, giving Ari a sideways glance in time to see his mouth twitch. “I wouldn’t trust me either, if I were you. Just—it wasn’t his fault.”
Ronan regards me, his face expressionless. “We don’t punish people here. Not in the manner to which you’re accustomed.”
The dark-haired man—Jaxon—gives a nasty laugh. “You must be the great Eva Marteinn. The girl that launched a thousand bombs,” he says. “Why wouldn’t they kill you? What makes you so special? Obviously you had something to bargain with. I’d like to know what it is.”
I smile at Jaxon in an effort to disarm him—or at least to lessen his hostility. Efraím used to tell the new recruits that smiling would make people trust us, if we could manage it sincerely enough. But apparently I’m all out of sincerity, because Jaxon just glares, unmoved.
“The two of you are responsible for that bombing. Or at least, you are.” He jabs an index finger in my direction. “And you”—he jerks his head at Ari—“you’re foolish enough to be taken in by her lies a second time, because you want to get in her pants.”
I’ve never heard the saying before, but it’s clear enough what it must mean. My face flames red, and I don’t dare look at Ari.
“Jaxon!” Ronan sounds appalled. “That was out of line. Apologize.”
“The hell I will. How did you two get away, with so many of your kind focused on killing one of you and locking the other one up for safekeeping? I assume you were locked up, huh?” he says, turning to me.
“I was,” I say, my voice tight. “We escaped, like Ari said. Efraím—Ari’s mentor, the lead bellator—he led a hunt for us. But we outsmarted him, in the end.”
“Ha.” Jaxon imbues the word with more sarcasm than I would have believed possible. “How?”
“I killed him.” I give Jaxon the most guileless look I can manage. “Indirectly, I must admit—but the end result’s the same.”
Ronan sighs and runs a hand through his hair again. He looks exhausted. “I think,” he says, stepping back to let us pass, “you’d better tell me the whole story.”
41
Ari
An hour later, as darkness falls on the Brotherhood’s small campsite, Eva and I finish talking. Aside from the two scouts—Adrien and Fade—who are out on patrol, everyone listens with rapt attention. Mateo and Isobel don’t say a word, and Camila, the weapons expert, uses the time to take apart, clean and reload all the camp’s guns. Still, publicly sharing the events of the past few days is not pleasant, especially with Jaxon giving us the evil eye every other sentence and Mei—the camp’s botanist and healer—gasping in horror as punctuation, clapping her hand over her mouth and tossing her sleek dark hair over her shoulders in surprise.
Ronan listens quietly, interrupting only to clarify a point or to ask a question. Midway through our account, since we can’t risk lighting a fire and giving our presence away, he hands out more dried meat and fruit for dinner. Mei serves up some dandelion greens she found growing by the stream that runs close to the camp, and the scouts, on their way back from patrol, come bearing flasks full of water. It’s not a bad meal, although by this point I’m so hungry, I bet my weapons belt would taste good.
Eva sits next to me on the log that serves as our chair, her body taut. I’ve got my dagur in one hand; I fight the urge to put the other arm around her, to draw her in against my side and make sure she is real. Now that I have her back again, I don’t ever want to let her go. But she’s been by turns as skittish as a wild animal and as remote as she’d been when we waited for the door to the scholar’s chamber to swing open, with no real knowledge of what lay on the other side. It’s a strange conundrum: The more I keep my distance, trying to respect her space, the more aware of her presence I become. I swear I can feel her beside me, a disturbance in the air.
Noticing how easy the Brotherhood are with each other only makes things worse: Mei eats on the ground, leaning back against Mateo’s legs, and Camila nudges Adrien with the butt of her gun when he makes an offhand comment that strikes her the wrong way. Next to them, Eva and I are at a loss in this new world, strangers to the laws that govern it.
Aggravated, I clear my throat and turn to R
onan. “Is there anything else you want to know?”
He shakes his head, looking around at the group for confirmation. “No. I think you’ve been through enough...for now.”
“All right. So, then—do you mind if we ask a few questions?”
“About what?” Jaxon says, sounding wary. He’s sitting on Eva’s other side, methodically shredding a piece of jerky into bits and shoving them into his mouth.
“About what’s next,” Eva says, speaking for the first time in several minutes. “It’s not safe to stay here—but you’ve stuck around as long as you have for a reason. You’re waiting for something, am I right?”
A smile spreads across Ronan’s face. “You’re an intelligent one, Eva Marteinn. A real asset to the Brotherhood—if you’ll join us.”
“They’re here, aren’t they?” Mateo says. He’s gotten to his feet and is dusting off his hands. In the growing dusk, the blue of his eyes is unnervingly bright.
“Being here and committing to being part of our effort are two different things,” Ronan says mildly. “But yes. We are waiting—despite what some among us believe is wise—to hear from Kilían. If things have gone badly, then perhaps he’s in such significant danger he must run. And if he does—I’ll not abandon him.”
Jaxon makes a disdainful sound deep in his throat, and this time I feel it might be warranted. “I don’t think Kilían will leave unless he has to,” I say, recalling our last conversation. “He hasn’t told me why he’s helping the Brotherhood—nor do I expect you to—but whatever his reasons, seeking freedom for himself isn’t among them. And the last time we saw him”—firing tranquilizer darts at the creature ripping out Efraím’s throat—“none of the bellators seemed to suspect a thing.”
“Be that as it may,” Ronan says, “we’ll wait twenty-four hours. Then we’ll continue on to the next Commonwealth to the east, to recruit more members to the resistance, unless—well. We’ve heard a rumor—but the content of it isn’t something I’m free to share as yet, until you make your decision and we can be certain of your loyalty.” His gaze flicks toward Eva.
I nod, fighting back my exhaustion. “Before the bombing,” I say, the words catching in my throat, “you started to tell us about the origins of the Commonwealth, and the locations of the Brotherhood’s bases. You didn’t trust us enough to finish then, but now—we deserve to know.”
The wind rustles through the pines, and Eva lifts her head, as if scenting the air. Satisfied, she fixes her gaze on Ronan’s face as he says, face grim, “You do. And I intend to tell you—in the morning, after all of us have had some sleep.”
“And that’s my cue. Goodnight, all,” Mei says, boosting herself to her feet and walking toward one of the tents. Mateo’s eyes are trained on her as she disappears into the shadows, and I wait automatically for the consequences, but of course there are none. Out here, looking at a girl like that isn’t forbidden. No one would judge me for kissing Eva, or holding her hand. It’s hard to imagine, but I know it’s the truth.
One by one, except for Ronan and Jaxon, the rest of the Brotherhood party bids us goodnight. Adrien and Fade, the two scouts, are last, making arrangements for Ronan to wake them when it’s their turn to stand guard.
“We’ll take our turn watching the camp,” I tell Ronan after the two of them have gone. “Or scouting, like I was doing before. We’ll pull our weight. Just tell us what you need.”
He inclines his head in acknowledgement. “The two of you need sleep. You look exhausted. We’ll wake you tonight if we need you, but I’d rather you get some rest.”
“We’re Bellatorum,” Eva says, offering him a half-smile. “We’re trained to operate without sleep. Don’t worry about us. We won’t be a liability and we won’t let you down.”
Next to her, Jaxon, who has been mercifully silent, gives a mocking laugh. “Bellatorum. You know what we call you in the real world, boys and girls? Assassins, plain and simple. You think love makes you weak, that it’s the first step toward destroying life as we know it? Hate to disillusion you, but normal human beings believe the opposite. Caring about other people is what makes the world go ’round.”
“Jaxon.” Ronan’s voice is a warning.
“What, boss? Just trying to enlighten them, before someone else does the job.” He shifts his weight on the log, hands dangling between his knees.
“I don’t think love makes you weak,” Eva says, shooting him an irritated look. “But I do think it’s dangerous. For love, people will take risks they’d never dream of otherwise.”
She doesn’t glance at me—but then again, she doesn’t have to. I feel like she’s stripped me bare, revealing my deepest vulnerabilities for everyone to see. I do my best to keep my face blank, but Jaxon can’t resist.
“Ah. Like loverboy here, charging back into the lion’s den to rescue you, you mean. How many lives did you take to bring her back, Westergaard? How many men did you kill?”
My voice comes even, controlled, betraying no hint of how much I’d like to punch him. “I did what I had to do.”
“It doesn’t even make a difference to you, does it? How many people die, as long as you have what you want—”
I ball the hand that’s not holding the knife into a fist. “Of course it makes a difference. But in war, there’s always collateral damage. People who get hurt because they’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Ah,” Jaxon says, his eyes on my face. “Like your mother.”
At this, I surge to my feet. Enough is enough. “Yes,” I say, stalking toward him. “Like her. War is unpredictable. You never know who’s going to be a casualty until it’s too late.”
Now Jaxon is on his feet too, with Ronan right behind him. “What’s the matter with you?” he hisses at his second-in-command. “Why are you provoking him?”
This is a fair question, and I myself am curious to hear the answer to it. But instead, Jaxon turns on him. “Why aren’t you, Ronan? Why are you so accepting of the two of them? Everything was fine before they showed up, operating right on schedule. Then they come into camp, and before you know it, half of our people are dead.” His voice breaks on the last word, and he clears his throat viciously.
“That wasn’t their fault,” Ronan insists. “Westergaard’s right—we knew the risks when we agreed to do this. Either we support each other, or everything falls apart. They gave me their explanation. I accepted it. You have to make your own decisions, but I’m still the leader of this expedition and as long as you operate under my command, you’ll respect what I say.” His voice is as even as ever, but there is no mistaking the air of authority it carries.
Jaxon gives me a hard look. Then he mutters, “Yes, sir,” and stalks off toward the edge of the clearing, in the direction of the woods.
Ronan watches him go. Then he turns back to us. “I apologize for his behavior,” he says wearily. “Jaxon was born in Vik, our capital city, to parents who were never part of any Commonwealth. Everything he knows about your ways, he’s learned secondhand, and to outsiders—well, Commonwealth habits can seem restrictive, to say the least. Jaxon’s not an easy person by any means, but he lost someone he cared about very much in the bombing. Someone he loved. He’s grieving, and looking for a person to blame.”
“Oh,” Eva says, sounding uncharacteristically apologetic. I’m sure she’s thinking about my mother. “Oh, no. Should we—I could tell him how sorry we are—”
“Just leave him be,” Ronan says. “He’ll be all right...if you can refrain from doing him in.”
“I would never—” Eva begins hotly, before it occurs to her Ronan is joking. A blush washes over her face, visible even in the deepening darkness.
“Go to bed,” Ronan says, resting a hand on her arm. I can’t help but notice she doesn’t pull away from him. “We’ve got an extra tent for the two of you, staked over there at the edge of the woods. I dug up a sleeping mat, too. It’s nothing special, but it’s better than the ground.”
Eva thanks Rona
n for his generosity and wishes him goodnight. Then she turns and walks off toward the tent he indicated, and, commending my soul to the Architect, I follow her.
My heart is pounding by the time we unzip the tent flap and duck inside. It’s empty, save for the sleeping mat Ronan mentioned—but when I enter after Eva and pull the zipper shut behind me, I feel as if the walls are closing in. I stand, unmoving, as Eva shrugs off Benedikt’s sheath and lets the blade fall to the ground.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Really? Because you’re just standing there—”
“There’s not a lot of places to sit,” I tell her, trying to summon some bravado. “It’s stand here, or lie down there.” I point at the sleeping mat, and even in the dimness of the tent, see her eyes go wide.
“I didn’t mean that,” she says.
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
A long silence falls between us. I am searching for something to say when Eva breaks it. “About Jaxon—” she says. “What if he’s right? What if we’re just assassins? Not just how the Bellatorum trained us to be—but who we are?” Her voice is small.
“Jaxon’s an idiot,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter what he thinks.”
“No.” She messes with her hair, wrapping an errant curl around one of her fingers. “How about what you think, though?”
“What I think? What do you mean?”
Her gaze falls, and when her voice comes, it’s so low I can hardly hear it. “You hate me, don’t you? For what I did to Daníel—and to Efraím. You think I’m a monster.”
I blink at her, startled. “Of course I don’t hate you, Eva. How could you say such a thing?”
“Well, because.” She shifts her weight, still toying with her hair. “Since—what I did with the fence—well, you haven’t touched me. Not at all. And before…”