by Jess Corban
“Oh, I have something for you,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
Bemusement is far too endearing a feature on this Brute.
I reach into my pocket and, feeling the lumpy wooden gift, I have second thoughts. He’s going to think me a fool.
“Actually, it’s stupid. . . . Never mind.”
“Come on,” he coaxes, pulling my hand from my pocket. “Out with it.”
My fingers reluctantly uncurl, revealing the small token. “I mean, it’s nothing like what you gave me, but I did make it.”
Rohan’s lopsided grin nearly matches that of the roughly carved wooden monkey.
“Wow. It’s amazing,” he says.
Taking the angular token in his big hand, he turns it this way and that, examining my ten-year-old self’s craftsmanship.
“I told you it was stupid,” I laugh. “It’s the first thing I ever carved.”
“That makes sense.”
I huff, snatching at it, but he keeps it just beyond my reach.
My cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I cut myself carving it and vowed we’d never part.”
“I can see why. It’s good. Really good,” he exaggerates.
“Liar.” I bump him with my shoulder playfully, and he instinctively grabs it with his free hand, holding me steady.
“Thank you, Reina,” he says. It’s a simple statement of gratitude, but hearing my name on his voice has a strange effect. Like the shade of a palm on a blistering day, winking starlight, or rich cream in morning coffee. I catch a breath and let it go all at once.
With one hand still on my shoulder, he positions the monkey next to my face. “I see a resemblance.”
Even as I laugh, the word coaxes a flash, a question, from a teak leaf–littered forest.
“That day you found me at Bella,” I start, “when I woke up, you were saying something about there being a ‘resemblance.’ What did you mean?”
“You were awake?”
I find a dangling vine suddenly bewitching. “While you carried me, yes. I was scared into shock, I think.”
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he half-grins. “Jase had a hard time convincing me to go with him to the finca. Eventually he fessed up to his connection with the Rescuer, and with you. When I saw you, it was clear you and Jase were related.”
“But,” I tease, wanting to embarrass him just a little, “you said I was beautiful.”
He doesn’t stumble as I expect. Doesn’t even blush. Instead he trails a surprisingly confident fingertip down my cheek, little pricks of electricity igniting in the wake of his touch. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”
Suddenly, it’s as though the hanging lianas have wrapped themselves around us, tightening, drawing us inexplicably closer. He leans over me, and I feel the heat of him, find tiny flecks of amber in his dark eyes, notice the smallest cracks in his unsmiling lips.
I have the incomprehensible urge to know how those lips would feel against mine . . .
A sudden shout erupts from the bathing hole, snapping us out of the strange trance as quick as a blade severs cord. Other voices join the commotion, and Rohan springs into action, taking me by the arm as he runs toward the sound.
The two Brutes who were drying out near the bank are sprinting toward Tree Camp. In their place, a midsized, shirtless Brute is doubled over, sweat dripping down his smooth back and arms, panting like an overheated dog.
Rohan rushes toward him. “Galion—what is it?”
The Brute straightens as we approach, revealing dark, bushy eyebrows that angle toward his thin-bridged nose like a deep V. His face glistens with perspiration, except where a shadow of stubble covers his protruding chin and upper lip.
His voice is as thick as his wild, soot-colored hair. “They’re coming.”
“How many?” Rohan asks, calmer than I’d expect from someone who just discovered their enemies were approaching unannounced.
Galion takes a water flask I offer, gulping down its contents before answering. “A hundred by my count.”
“That’s all?” I ask, surprised.
Rohan scoffs. “All?”
“Knowing how mad Teera is, I expected her to send half the Alexia force.”
“She’d be a fool to leave her land exposed, especially before knowing our location or numbers. It must be another scouting patrol.”
Galion doesn’t seem so convinced. “We’ve never seen a patrol that large. Besides, if they were scouting, they wouldn’t have someone important with them.”
“The Alexia with the dragon tattoo?” Rohan asks.
Galion shakes his head. “No. This leader isn’t Alexia. But she’s riding in like she and that bright tunic own the place.”
“Jamara,” I whisper.
Rohan straightens. “Who’s she?”
I consider how to answer: The Matriarch’s Apprentice? A Gentles Regimen worker so cruel I pity Kekuatan’s entire labor force? The woman who tried to kill Bri and succeeded in beating me unconscious?
I settle on “No one you want to meet.”
Rohan and Galion exchange a glance.
“I don’t think we’ll have a choice,” Galion says. “They have a trail to follow.” I don’t miss his gaze darting my way. Neither does Rohan.
“It doesn’t matter,” the latter says, sensing my embarrassment. “They would have found us eventually.”
Whether or not that’s true, I can’t say, but I feel awful knowing it’s our tracks guiding the Alexia—led by none other than Jamara Makeda—straight toward Tree Camp.
“I’m so sorry.”
Rohan rubs his jaw agitatedly, ignoring my apology. “How long do we have?”
“They passed El Fuego early this morning. I spotted the patrol from the lookout above the waterfall. I expect they’ll arrive by nightfall—they’re making good time.”
I cringe anew at the reason why. And, without a baby requiring frequent stops or a Gentle’s slower pace, they’d beat our time even if they didn’t have a blasted map underfoot.
“Bats,” I mutter. The surrounding Jungle has already taken on the softer quality of early evening. “We don’t have much time.”
“An hour, maybe two,” Rohan agrees, seeming to make internal calculations. He smacks his fellow Brute between the shoulders. “Good work, Galion.” Then he makes straight for Tree Camp.
I nearly jog to keep up with his long, purposeful strides, panic settling in. “I’m sorry, Rohan,” I offer again, miserably. “I never considered someone might follow us.” The reality of what I’ve done nearly suffocates me. It took all my courage to protect the Brutes by releasing Dáin—and for what? I led the danger right to their door like an idiotic child.
Rohan stops abruptly and turns me toward him, squeezing my arms a bit tighter than perhaps he means to. His expression isn’t soothing or even forgiving, but neither does he reveal a shred of anger at my carelessness. His jaw might be tense, but his words are softer than I deserve. “Even if the entire Alexia force had followed you here, Reina, I’d still wish you back.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A LIGHT BREEZE RUSTLES THE BROAD LEAVES, crisscrossing around me like a botanical shield in the quickly fading light. As the sun sinks, the usual nighttime choruses rise. Buzzes, chatters, hums, and croaks fill the deep Jungle like an earthen vessel, drowning out any potential warning of the coming intruders. Bri crouches beside me on our perch a third of the way up the mahogany tree, bow in hand but not aimed, an ample supply of arrows stacked between us on the platform.
We didn’t have time to test the Brute-crafted arrows on our Alexia bows before Torvus stationed us here, but it might not matter whether they fly true—we may not shoot them at all. When Torvus pierced me and Bri with a hard stare and asked whether we would fight with them, Bri said, “I won’t shoot you, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I don’t promise to shoot them, either.”
She had voiced my own unease. I’d do anything to protect my sister or Neechi
. I’d probably act rashly for Jase or Rohan. I might even go to some effort for Bri. But how could I attack my fellow Alexia, who are only obeying orders—innocent women, the brave defenders of Nedé? All they know of Brutes is what they’ve been told by the system ordering their approach. For the love of Siyah, part of me still wants to be among their ranks—standing for the Virtues—even as I perch in the enemy’s camp.
When I met with him earlier, I reminded Torvus about our deal—that I would only help them find Teera if he didn’t kill innocent Nedéans. I was admittedly a little fuzzy about where self-defense fell into that equation. In the end, I simply urged him to spare their lives if he could. Not surprisingly, he gave no indication he heard my request or planned to honor it. The Brute leader was impossible to read, per usual.
He did, however, strategically place us here in the tree, and made us swear we wouldn’t shoot at all if we were conflicted. Should we find ourselves sympathetic to the Brute cause, he said, at least we’d be in a good position to use our archery skills. And if we turned on the Brutes, I surmised, we’d be as far from him and his men as possible.
Who could blame him for being cautious? One of us is the reason the Alexia know how to find Tree Camp, and the other tried to make an armed escape three days ago. Adding to our list of faults, we could count on two fingers the number of Nedéans Bri or I would shoot without hesitation, and according to Galion, only one of them is among those approaching. I guess you could say we’re not exactly trustworthy allies. The fact that Torvus didn’t tie us up and stuff us in his house for the duration of the night actually speaks to a measure of trust.
I’m glad to say I’ve earned it.
My sister, who, to my knowledge, has never held a weapon in her life, valiantly offered to hide Finch and three other cubs in a cavernous tree trunk hollowed out by a strangler fig, so the assigned Brute could join another detail. I’d prefer to take my chances with the Alexia over the impossible task of keeping Brute cubs quiet. But she’s a Materno, and as such, possesses something akin to magic with smallish humans.
When Jase asked Neechi whether he could fight, the Gentle looked as scared as a kitten dangled over the Jabiru, though devoid of frenzied clawing, which made him even more pitiable. As an alternative, Jase suggested that since they “don’t have stumps big enough to hide the horses,” Neechi should lead them half a kilometer south, and instructed him to stay hidden until he was sure it was safe to return. Then he gave Neechi two weapons and slipped one more into each of the three horses’ saddlebags. Apparently, even a Gentle can’t have too many knives. When Neechi disappeared into the darkening brush, I thanked Jase for taking care of my friend. If we’re going to face an impossible foe, I feel better knowing Neechi and Jo are safe.
Funny—I guess I do understand something of Rohan’s protectiveness.
Earlier, after he and I returned with news of intruders, he disappeared. I thought he must be readying the camp with Jase and the others, except just before I ascended the tree to join Bri at my post, he emerged unexpectedly from the outlying Jungle, heading toward camp. At the sight of me, he stepped double-time, making sure to intercept me before I reached the last hanging platform.
Rohan seemed especially rigid, but then, everyone had been jumpy in the hour since Galion brought news of the Alexia’s approach. His brow furrowed as he appraised each of my weapons: the bow slung over my shoulder, a Brute-crafted blade strapped to my thigh, and his own bone dagger occupying the sheath at my hip.
Seeming satisfied with my arsenal, he asked, “Where will you be?”
“Up there,” I said, pointing lamely toward the canopy, as if the meaning of “up” were ambiguous. Why does he make me so awkward? “With Bri.”
Relief softened his stance some. “That’s good.”
“Why? You afraid I’ll stab you in the back?” I teased.
“No.”
“Worried I’ll get myself killed?” When he didn’t respond, my pride bristled just a little. “I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can,” he conceded, but something else seemed lodged between his heart and his voice. With some effort, he finally put words to whatever led him to find me when there were a dozen other tasks probably calling for his skill. “I just . . . all hell might break loose tonight, and I don’t know if I can protect you if it does.”
“You don’t have to protect me,” I countered.
“Yes, I do.”
He said it so urgently, as if begging me to understand. I think I did. He wanted to keep me safe, not because he thought me weak or incapable, but because he was afraid of what could happen. Because he cared . . . about me. Rohan protects those he cares about, like a Materno nurtures, like an Ad Artium creates, like an Alexia rides. It’s just who he is.
“Whatever happens when they arrive,” he said, “no matter what—promise me you’ll stay up there?”
I considered his urgent sincerity, weighed it against my lingering pride that wanted to prove I didn’t need safekeeping. Truthfully, I was still conflicted about the coming confrontation. Even if I found cause to fight, without Callisto to bolster my courage, it was running thin. And before me stood a Brute who seemed made of the stuff. If I sliced his skin, he’d probably bleed valor. In that moment I chose to trust his strength for the both of us.
“Okay,” I promised.
He took my face in his hands, touched his forehead to mine. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll find you when this is over.”
I knew he would do anything to keep that promise.
Something told me he wanted to stay with me as much as I wished he would. But a moment later, he ran off to join the other Brutes scrambling to attend to the last details of Torvus’s plan.
I watched him go, my skin tingling where his had touched mine, stunned by the strange longing welling up within me.
Was that what Mother had felt for Torvus?
I barely remember my ascent up the tree. I couldn’t stop puzzling about the strange way Rohan made me feel—nervous but safe, exposed but . . . beautiful.
When I had reached Bri, I figured her sharp tongue would give me a respite from the swirling conflict inside. Instead, she stoked it.
“What was that?”
“What?”
She rolled her eyes. “You and Big Chest down there?”
Though she peered at me expectantly, I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to answer.
Finally, she slumped back against the door of the tree hut. “Fine, keep your secrets. But you better be careful, Rei.”
“You and I both need to be careful,” I deflected. “The Alexia could be here any minute.”
We took our positions and watched the outskirts of camp for movement.
We haven’t budged since.
From our perch, we have a clear vantage point of the surrounding Jungle floor. Tree Camp itself seems hollow without the usual Brute activity. No one carves or builds, prunes or yells. There’s no gray smoke curling from smoldering coals in the fire ring, curing various strange kills on spits. Not a single hammock sags with the weight of a night guard catching up on sleep. With all of the cubs divvied up between hiding places, no small Brutes play tag among the mango trees in the orchard. Not a single laugh, grunt, or deep voice reverberates through the forest.
All is still and empty.
Within and beneath and above the seeming void, we wait, holding our collective breaths, hoping Torvus knows what he’s doing. My fingers absently trace the weave of Callisto’s horsehair bracelet as we keep watch. Evening slips away, draining the surrounding Jungle of its vibrancy, replacing it with the color of uncertainty—the moments just before nightfall.
The Brute leader stands on the outer edge of Tree Camp like a living landmark, a proud statue, strong and unmoving, ready to intercept the Alexia when they make the final approach from the stream to camp.
And approach they do.
Their advance is heralded only by the quiet swish of bodies against brush, the snapping o
f a twig underfoot, the occasional snort of a horse.
“Well,” Bri whispers, “I guess you don’t have to worry I’ll tell Adoni about the Brutes.”
I’d laugh if I wasn’t about to pitch my last meal.
There’s at least a hundred Alexia—outnumbering the Brutes of fighting age more than four to one—advancing as close to orderly as the Jungle will allow, in five waves of twenty, more or less. Most ride, but some walk their slightly disheveled steeds. I notice immediately that a few Alexia don’t have horses, and I wonder how many they lost on the approach—to injury, escape, or predators.
The Alexia close the distance to Torvus timidly, each with a bow or sword drawn, as if feeling intrinsically that something doesn’t add up. They were expecting more.
Galion was right—this is no patrol. This is a contingent ready to carry out Matriarch Teera’s greatest wish: the elimination of the Brute problem. And to do so, she sent her new protégée—no doubt to endear the people to Jamara when she eradicates the mysterious attackers.
Torvus draws himself up to his full height. “Who is your leader?”
Jamara maneuvers to the center of the front line, halting beside a familiar horse. I can just make out its gold-fringed dark mane, and though I can’t quite see its rider from this angle, I know who the ranking officer is. There’s only one Alexia fit to ride Midas—the second-in-command I long to see most, but want to see fight least.
Torvus, hopelessly outnumbered, doesn’t flinch. His jaw remains set, his broad back and half his legs concealed by an array of weapons.
Jamara sits back on her horse like she’s riding a throne, her features placid. Still, I notice she doesn’t come within ten meters of the formidable Brute.
He bellows at her, “Why have you come?”
“To exact justice,” Jamara seethes, gathering her nerve, “on those that dare attack Nedéan soil. And,” she adds, “to retrieve any Nedéan traitors aiding our enemies.”
“There are no such perpetrators here.”
Jamara sneers with the calculated coldness birthed the moment she won the Succession. “Then we’ll start with you.”
