A Brutal Justice

by Jess Corban

  All creatures long for companionship—find meaning in adding their lives to a greater whole. It’s a fact I’ve been taught since childhood. It’s why Nedéans value family, celebrations, our destinies. Why we esteem our very society, our common heritage. Why we need each other. Only in the past few weeks, since meeting these Brutes, have I found those familiar opportunities for connection—the places I’ve found wholeness in the past—to be lacking somehow. Meeting them . . . finding Rohan . . . has exposed a deeper part of me—an ingrained absence—that no mother, sister, friend, or destiny has filled.

  It’s the only way to explain why, despite all these years apart, Mother would choose Torvus over her life in Nedé.

  Once I hear the scrape of a chair against the floorboards, movement around the room, Torvus asking what else she needs, I figure it’s safe to interrupt. I knock tentatively on the door, noticing again the gently curving petals carved into the wood. The design has always struck me as odd, but as I remember Jase’s words now—that Torvus built this house for Mother—it makes sense. Every board and thatch, stair and window, was meant for her.

  The door swings open and Torvus fills the frame, his shoulders somehow even broader than before. Out of habit, I half expect him to grunt and turn away, but he remains, unmoved, weight evenly balanced over a wide stance. His leathery skin still bears the signs of age and battle, the thick stubble of his chin still tinged with gray. But there’s fresh life in his eyes that wasn’t there yesterday—a humming energy that radiates from him. He is, somehow, a man made new.

  “I’m here to see my mother,” I say, a little awkwardly, wondering if my cheeks bear any lingering pink from listening in on their private conversation.

  “Reina?” Mother calls from somewhere within.

  Torvus shows me to where she rests, then respectfully takes his leave, claiming he needs to check on the cubs. I suspect he aims to give us some privacy, and I’m grateful to him for it.

  Torvus’s transformation isn’t the only change. The house seems different too, and not only because the washbasin sits full, the sparse furniture relieved of its layers of dust, the windows unshuttered, and the bed frame where Mother rests covered with a woven mat and thin blanket. No, the clearest difference is more of an ambience, a feeling. She hasn’t been here three hours, and already love lives here.

  “Sit,” she invites, motioning to the narrow space beside her on the bed. I obey, sidling up to her in a way I haven’t since I was probably, oh, seven years old—before I discovered I was vastly different from her and my sisters. Before I began bucking at her affection.

  “Are you going with them?” she asks, getting right to the point.

  I nod.

  “And do you know what Torvus means to do?” She angles to better read my expression.

  I nod again.

  “I learned long ago that I could not control Torvus, and I know better than to think I can dissuade you once you’ve set your mind to something. But I will tell you this, and I beg you to listen. To withhold forgiveness is like drinking poison and expecting the other to die. Yes, sometimes things must be done for the greater good, and perhaps this is one of those situations. I really don’t know. But bitterness will destroy you. Seeking revenge never offers the closure one hopes it will.”

  She strokes my knee a moment, then adds softly, “I know what she asked of you, Reina.”

  My eyes fly to hers, instantly on the verge of tears. Somehow, realizing my own mother knows what I did to Treowe unearths a depth of shame I haven’t felt since that day in the Arena.

  “I don’t blame you,” she says quickly. “My mother can be very . . . persuasive. But I do worry what guilt might lead you to do.”

  I don’t pretend not to know what she means. She worries I’ll kill my own grandmother, ironically, to avenge the life I took at her command.

  She might not be wrong.

  But my distrust and distaste for Teera isn’t my only motivation. “Torvus and Jase—they say it’s the only way to fix this. To make things better for the Gentles.”

  “Perhaps they’re right. Or perhaps there’s another way they can’t yet see because they’re blinded by the injustices done to them.” She sighs, leaning heavily against the polished wood headboard behind her. “Forgiveness often gets thwarted by pride. That’s something I know all too well. But where forgiveness grows, new paths appear.”

  The quiet reflectiveness of her tone, the impossible goodness of her words, would have made me testy not so very long ago. They would have reinforced my belief that she was naive to the world—too much a Materno to understand me. But after witnessing the strength she displayed at the Center—and in light of what I now know she’s risked for others—I purpose to sit with her words awhile. See if they have merit. She deserves that, at least. So as I reluctantly kiss her goodbye and walk toward the kitchen hut, I play her words over in my mind.

  Forgiveness often gets thwarted by pride. Perhaps the pride that kept her and Torvus apart—at least, I think that’s what she meant—could have been prevented by forgiveness.

  That makes sense, even without knowing the details. Torvus is a new man in the span of a few hours, just by making things right with someone he loves. I watched the weight fall from him—from both of them. But I don’t see how that applies to Nedé’s eighth Matriarch. What she has done—what she continues to do—to Gentles is beyond forgiveness. How can we change the future without removing her from power? I’m afraid Torvus is right: I don’t see another way.

  But that last part . . . Where forgiveness grows, new paths appear. Her words pulse in a puzzling rhythm, and instead of thinking about Teera, I find I’m remembering Rohan’s pleading eyes this afternoon. The way he seemed so restless to talk. I can’t fathom trusting him again—not completely. But, if Mother’s right, perhaps I have it backward. Maybe forgiveness needs to come before the path will appear.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, I find Rohan in the kitchen, packing a small satchel with food. He straightens slowly as I approach, shifting a rucksack hanging on his back. I can’t help but notice the weapons strapped snugly to every limb—more than usual for around camp.

  It appears he’s leaving, which inexplicably saddens me. “Where are you going?” I ask, irritated at the disappointment in my voice.

  “To the cave. We need some supplies kept there.”

  “Oh.” I just stand there, still as a frightened gecko. He wasn’t supposed to be busy. I was going to find him unoccupied and ask him to talk, but now . . .

  “I was wondering—” I begin, at the same moment he says, “Reina, I—”

  I chew the corner of my lip. He runs a hand through his thick hair.

  After sufficient awkwardness to make me clam up, he asks tentatively, “Do you want to come with me?” As my eyes widen, he quickly adds, “I could use some help carrying everything back. Jase said he’d come, but I know he has a lot to do here.”

  I consider the question: a Brute who has drugged me and attacked a Nedéan finca just invited me into the Jungle with him. Alone. Any rational person would say no. No, no, no. In fact, a smart woman would run the other direction. Following him would take an enormous amount of . . . trust.

  And there’s the crux of it. I came here to let him tell his side of the story, hoping his answer would lead me toward a path of trust. But maybe—if what Mother said last night is true—forgiveness has to come first, before I can trust.

  The bandages around his waist remind me that he went out of his way to make a sling for my arm my first time at Tree Camp. He was the one to save me from Dáin. When Fin spied me, and when Dáin returned, Rohan took a protective stance. He was frantic to help me the night the Alexia attacked. Someone who wished me harm wouldn’t look at me, talk to me, the way he did at the stream, would they?

  Can I forgive him for his involvement in the attack on my sister’s finca—for other offenses I might not even know about? I honestly don’t know. But I think he has proven I
should try.

  “Alright,” I hear myself say.

  He grins with all the enchantment of a sunburst through storm clouds.

  When we pass a large patch of bird-of-paradise flowers, their spiky heads peeking up from oblong wing-shaped leaves, I recognize the trail. It’s the same we took with Jase on the way to the chute. I forgot the other day Rohan mentioned the cave was just upstream from that landmark, the place I first learned Brutes have a playful streak.

  When we pass low bushes of fernlike sensitive plant, I trail my finger along dozens of fronds just to watch them curl in on themselves, like Jase showed me.

  It’s warmer than a pig’s armpit, per usual, and I’m grateful Bri and I had a chance to repurpose the clothing Jase gave us into something better suited for Jungle travel than Alexia uniforms: lightweight breeches, cropped just above the knee, and a simple sleeveless top. Dom Tourmaline would probably cringe at the rustic fabric, but I find it surprisingly soft and blessedly cool.

  We weave along the narrow path, through encroaching plants of myriad greens, angular shapes, and striking peculiarities—trunks covered in spines, broad leaves punctured with irregular holes, stalks of flowers so vibrantly crimson or pink I can’t help but touch their waxy petals. The Jungle is nothing if not fully alive. Dangerous, mysterious, but abounding in sights and sounds that ignite something wild in me, too.

  Walking in time to Rohan’s steps, I watch his calf muscles flex and relax, flex and relax, as they march out a soothing rhythm. I could almost be content with the chatter of animals and insects for conversation—avoid bringing up the subject he seems happy to ignore for now. Maybe in his mind, my coming with him has put the issue to rest. But just because I’m here doesn’t mean we can forget what happened. I hate to ruin this peaceful moment, but I need to know. Deep down, I need to know.

  “Rohan?” My voice does little to fill the vast Jungle around us. “Why were you at La Fortuna?”

  The predictable beats of his stride stall. His head hangs forward a moment, as if he’s gathering the courage to turn around. Searching for the strength to face me.

  When he does turn, his resolve to tell me the truth is written all over his face. Right alongside regret.

  I press further. “Was Dáin telling the truth? Were you part of the attack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” he begins, “but we’ve been waiting a long time. Waiting to do something about the injustice.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not in our nature to stand by when things need to change. Dáin said they were getting some supplies from a finca that would help us when the time came to fight. But when we got there . . . it didn’t seem pruning hooks and coin were worth . . .”

  My throat tightens as I imagine Jonalyn at the mercy of a nightmare she hadn’t even known to fear—the panic she must have felt.

  “Did you hurt—?”

  “No!” he interjects. “But I didn’t do anything to stop it, either. It was before I really knew you—before I realized . . .” He trails off, hanging his head. “I didn’t hear until later about your sister.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I would have . . . eventually. I—” He struggles to find the words. “At first I didn’t see a reason for you to know. By the time I realized I should tell you, I was afraid if I did, you wouldn’t—” His gaze falls to the packed dirt underfoot.

  “Trust you?” I finish, wrapping my arms tightly around myself.

  He takes a step closer. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

  I want to stay mad. I want to channel all the anger I feel toward Dáin into resentment of this Brute. He put so many innocent people at risk.

  My own hypocrisy slams into me like a runaway mare.

  My anger deflates as I whisper, “No less than I deserve yours.”

  His brow furrows.

  “It’s my fault the Alexia found Tree Camp,” I continue. “I practically led them to your door. You might have had a hand in an attack against my people, but I’m responsible for the death of six of yours.”

  He doesn’t deny it—doesn’t minimize my guilt. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. Just fixes me with an unreadable gaze—both welcoming and distant at once. I crumple under it.

  He forgave me so easily when Galion returned with the news of the approaching Alexia, but that was before Brutes died because of my carelessness. I was so quick to judge Rohan’s motives, even after he trusted mine. An entirely new kind of fear suddenly cripples me: What if he won’t forgive me for what I’ve done?

  Rationally, he has no reason to.

  “Please, Rohan,” I say, begging him to reconsider a rejection he hasn’t yet spoken. “Please forgive me.”

  He sighs, not with resignation, but with conviction. “Sometimes people have to get hurt so the right thing can happen.”

  “Why do you all keep saying that?”

  “Because it’s true. It’s the way life works. There will always be terrible things in this world, Reina. But there will also be good. It’s our job to make sure there’s more of the latter, even if it means sacrificing our very lives.” His intensity rises. “It’s part of being a man. Those who died in the Alexia’s attack understood that. They died with honor.”

  They died with honor. I can see how choosing death to overcome tyranny carries inherent nobility—a unique type of strength. I’ve watched it firsthand. The corners of my eyes sting with threatening tears as I remember Treowe’s insistence that he face me in the Arena, his eyes urging me to shoot.

  “Brutes aren’t the only people who would sacrifice themselves for the good of others,” I say. “My best friend—a Gentle—he understood it. He died with honor too.”

  “A Gentle?” he asks, incredulously.

  “Yes, a Gentle.” My own insecurity over my unsanctioned friendship with Tre warms my cheeks with embarrassment. “It’s forbidden to talk to them, let alone form a friendship, but he—”

  “No,” Rohan interrupts. “I mean, a Gentle sacrificed himself? For the good of others? I didn’t think—Why would he—?”

  “I killed him,” I confess. If we’re going to forgive and trust each other, telling Rohan the whole truth is probably important. Still, I look away, unwilling to watch his opinion of me sour.

  I feel his eyes on me, hear concern in his question. “Why?”

  “To prove to Teera I was Apprentice material. Tre knew it was coming, but he chose death anyway. He chose to take my arrow because he believed I was the Gentles’ best chance of change. But I’ve regretted my choice every day since.”

  Rohan grows somber. Once again, I find myself wishing for a pat It’s okay, or Don’t beat yourself up, Rei.

  Instead he says, “We’d better get going.”

  I follow silently, imagining what terrible things he must think of me.

  Not five minutes later, he veers off the trail into seemingly unmarked territory. “There’s something I want to show you,” he says. “It’s not far out of our way.”

  We climb an exposed hillside covered in ferns, drenched in sun, and punctuated with towering cohune palms. When we reach the summit, Rohan shimmies through a narrow crevice between two boulders taller than both of us combined.

  “Through here,” he says.

  I don’t particularly like being squeezed between slabs of stone, but when we reach the other side, I swear I’d crawl through far worse for the chance to see what awaits us.

  We’ve emerged into a lush paradise so breathtaking I wouldn’t have imagined it possible ten seconds before. Delicate ferns and spongy moss cling to dark rock walls on all sides, which enclose us like a living arena, the deep green peppered with vibrant strands of white, violet, and peach orchids. At our feet, a crystal-clear pool stretches ten meters across. From the ridge to our right, a waterfall cascades down an incline of rock, sliding along slippery moss and smooth stones before tumbling over a ledge into the rippling pool below. The rich
scent carried on the mist can only be described as deliciously living—fresh and pure and even greener than the plants surrounding us. A single morpho butterfly—bluer than the azure sky above—pumps its papery wings, fluttering haltingly up the rock wall and down again, then around the perimeter, nearly brushing my cheek as it passes by.

  Speechless, I slowly step straight into the pool, letting the cool water inch up my legs as I spin to take it all in. Beauty like this shouldn’t be possible.

  Anywhere my gaze lands, new details demand awe—from the tiny yellow-and-black frogs sunning on a rock to the riot of red leaves unfurling from a nearby bush. The place is stunning in its detail, marvelous in its combined effect. I spin another complete circle.

  That’s how I see him. Just looking at me.

  He wears a grin as wide as that time he flipped me off our raft outside the chute. He dropped the subject of Tre so abruptly that I’ve been worried what he must think of me. But I don’t see a trace of condescension or anger.

  Stepping in beside me, he cools his limbs with handfuls of water. I try not to notice the way his wet skin glistens like the pearlescent multicolored pebbles under the dancing surface of the pool.

  “It’s amazing,” I say, though the word seems a fiercely inadequate descriptor. “Thank you for showing it to me.”

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  We stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the hypnotizing water fall, fall, fall, breathing it in, in, in.

  Then he splashes me before diving into the dark center of the pool.

  “You Brute!” I laugh, as he quickly escapes toward the waterfall with effortless strokes.

  “Come on,” he calls back to me.

  I’m easily convinced, and swim to join him on the other side. He treads water right under the flow, purposefully angling his head so the water splashes into my face. I dunk him, which takes considerable effort. He pulls me under, too easily. We both emerge laughing and spitting water, drinking in the uncommon euphoria only available on this side of sorrow and loss, confusion and pain. For this moment, I feel like a child—free and alive.