CHAPTER SIXTEEN

LIKE ALL LITTLE SISTERS, I suppose, I craved association with my older siblings, though more so with Jonalyn than Ciela. My eldest sister walked into beauty’s bloom just as I entered the age of noticing my own shape. I vividly remember the first time I dared to hope I would resemble her as I grew up.

We were sitting around the rough-hewn kitchen table at Bella Terra, I was about eleven years old, and Aunt Julissa was visiting. Council business usually kept her from seeing us outside Grandmother’s annual Initus dinners, though Mother said the sisters used to enjoy summers at the finca as children, when it belonged to their “Aunt” Salita, a cousin of Matriarch Teera’s. Despite Julissa’s infrequent stays —years passing between visits —her return to Bella seemed to stoke a forgotten sentimentality in the typically stern woman. As we sat around the table that evening, eating Marsa’s exquisite herbed lamb chops and creamy risotto, she had peered at Jonalyn and me intently and then twittered in her sing-song fashion,

“Well, no one will take them for strangers, Leda. I’ve never seen sisters resemble each other the way Reina and Jonalyn do. Like two kittens from a litter, they are.”

I took it as a great compliment. Though I’d much rather be known for superior riding than beauty —the latter of little benefit in Amal —I was proud to be tied to Jonalyn. After hearing Aunt Julissa’s observation, I noticed Jonalyn’s and my similarities more acutely: the way our dark hair streaks honey gold from the sun; our thin noses and high cheekbones; the roundness of our eyes, though Jo’s irises are brown, while mine are hazel like Mother’s. Sibling sets usually highlight Nedé’s diversity; Aunt Julissa found our striking similarity peculiar because it’s uncommon.

Now, as I look from Jase to the hulking Brute beside him, I think of Aunt Julissa’s words. They are two kittens from a litter. Though Torvus is an old cat, no longer prone to chase his own tail, who could miss the resemblance? Both Brutes have broad faces, with wide noses and thick lips, and their hair has the same curl and color, though Torvus’s grays at the temples. They even stand similarly: legs shoulder width apart, weight perfectly centered over their feet, shoulders drawn slightly back.

They are different, to be sure. One scowls while the other seems pleased even without a smile. Torvus also looks to be nearly twice Jase’s age, and he is thicker and harder and more muscular than a human should be. He’s so unlike an aging Gentle that I gawk at his otherworldliness —a demigod with slightly-graying facial hair.

When Torvus speaks, his voice rumbles low as distant thunder; my heart pounds like the ensuing rain.

“Who are you?” he booms.

“I told —” Jase begins, but the older Brute silences him with a raised hand.

“I want to hear it from her.” He stares at me with penetrating, watery-grey eyes. I need to answer. I don’t have time to think about whether I should.

“I’m Reina Pierce,” I manage, with more strength than I feel.

He considers my clothing. “You’re Alexia?”

“No. Yes. I . . .” His intensity makes me nervous, and I don’t think through my words as carefully as I should. “I’m a Candidate for the Matriarchy. We’re currently training with the Alexia.”

Jase’s mouth drops open a little, his eyes growing wide. Torvus’s, on the other hand, narrow into thin slits.

“Who knows you’re here?” he asks.

Way to go, Rei. Why don’t you tell him about all your childhood fears while you’re at it?

Now they know I’m a Candidate —that I’m close with the Matriarch, that I could know things. What if Torvus plans to take down the Matriarchy too? If he knows I’m isolated, what might he do for information? I should tell him they will all be out looking for me, that they’ll be here any minute. But for some maddening reason, I can’t bring myself to lie —not with Jase standing there. He has been so honest —more truthful than he ought to be —with me. I know it’s stupid, but I don’t want to deceive him.

“No one,” I say, and though I will probably regret the words later, they feel right now.

Torvus grunts, then turns his back to us. The silence is torture. I stare at the back of his thick neck, at the thick arms attached to his thick body, and try not to think about how easily he could break my thinness.

Jase shifts. Just as I’m beginning to wonder whether that was it —whether Torvus has finished interrogating me —he turns and pierces me with a threatening glare.

“Jase will take you back to your mother’s finca in the morning. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve seen.”

I take a moment to ponder his words —uncomfortably, beneath his stern gaze —determined to avoid offering him any more revealing information.

Don’t tell anyone what I’ve seen. Sounds simple. The obvious, glaring hole in his strategy is that he can’t stop me from telling, and I know that he knows it. So why wouldn’t he keep me here? Why not just kill me? Now he knows I’m a Candidate, with ties to the Matriarch. He has seen my Alexia uniform —ties there, too. It doesn’t make sense. . . .Why would he let me go? Is he so sure I will keep silent?

Jase purses his lips to one side, apologetically. He’s fond of me. Truly, he has been as kind to me as . . . as Treowe, which is more than a compliment. Would Torvus spare me on account of Jase?

I glance again at the benevolent Brute. Bats, the two have to be related. The similarities are too striking not to be connected somehow. Can Brutes have sons? No, women have babies, not Brutes. That much, at least, Dom Bakshi taught me. Then . . . how did all these Brutes get here? When we were in the tree this morning, didn’t Jase say the young ones “came”?

My thoughts multiply like mice and prove as hard to catch too. They skitter and scamper in circles, like rodents trapped in a barn with a prowling cat. I fight to chase them away, at least for now. I owe Torvus an answer.

“I won’t.”

The words are past my lips before I really, truly consider whether I can keep that promise. Will I tell? Will I have to? Will I want to? I don’t know. But I do know this: I have to make Torvus believe his secrets are safe with me.

“Good,” Torvus says. His eyes pass over my face slowly, studying it, the way Mother reads her book of scriptures. For a long moment he seems lost in his thoughts, and their weight drags the sternness from his face. He almost looks sad.

Then, as suddenly as if one of the mice in my mind scuttled into his, he looks away, grunting again.

“Continue to keep her out of sight until morning,” he barks at Jase.

Jase shifts uncomfortably, his gaze sweeping the floor. I warrant “continue to” means I should have been out of sight to this point, which implies our little jaunt from Callisto to the kitchen and on to the chute probably defied a previous directive.

“A couple of the boys . . . may have seen her this afternoon,” Jase says, deepening his voice, trying to sound more authoritative. I fight amusement, intrigued both by his show of toughness and the courage it took to disobey his leader’s orders to show me a good time.

“‘May have?’” Torvus rumbles.

“Did. Did see her. Fin . . . and his hunting party.” Though clearly caught, I admire that Jase meets Torvus’s boiling gaze.

Torvus’s voice ignites with fresh anger. “When are you going to learn to follow orders?”

“I’m sorry. I . . .”

Torvus takes one long stride toward Jase, and I wonder for a terrifying moment if he will strike him. “Sorry is going to get you killed, boy.”

Though they are nearly equal in height, Torvus’s bulk, and temper, dwarf Jase. I want to help him somehow, to aid this Brute who has shown me kindness.

“It was my fault,” I blurt out.

Both sets of eyes turn to me, but I don’t back down. “I . . . snuck out . . . I was scared and . . . tried to get to my horse. Jase didn’t —and Rohan, they didn’t do anything wrong.” I raise myself up to my full height, trying to speak with the confidence a lie can never produce, and I think it works . . . until Torvus begins to chuckle —not maliciously, but it’s not comforting either.

“And you what —disarmed Rohan on your way through the door? Lies don’t become you, girl.”

He mumbles something angrily as he turns his back on me again; I can’t quite catch his words. If it weren’t preposterous, I could almost imagine he said, “Not you, and not your mother.”

In the ensuing silence, those bothersome, skittering rodents return. Torvus mentioned “your mother’s finca” earlier. Now I question how he knows that my mother has a finca. Jase knows where I live; how he got that information I couldn’t guess, but maybe he told Torvus. But what if that’s backwards? If I heard what I think I did, Torvus has some familiarity with Mother. And my association with her doesn’t sound positive.

I turn to Jase, hoping for reassurance, or at least a clue as to what I should do next, but he stares blankly at a dusty tabletop. His defeat unnerves me more than Torvus’s hefty presence. I want the ever-smiling Jase back. And I want to shout at Torvus that I’m not a liar, but the defense rings thin —a vain plea, hurled from one just caught in a lie. In fact, anything I imagine saying now —“I didn’t see anything,” or “I’m not a threat to you” —could be taken for another falsehood. So I stay silent.

When Torvus speaks again, I can’t miss his words this time: “You’ve been a fool, Jase.”

I can almost feel a puff of breath rush past my skin: Jase’s very spirit, sucked out of his body by his leader’s scathing words. His shoulders slump, his gaze glued to the tabletop.

“Never let them blind you.” Torvus’s livid words fill the small house in one last gush of frustration, pressing against me and the walls and the sparse furnishings. He overturns a small table with a flick of his hand. The action seems to deflate his gust of anger, and with a heavy sigh he says, “What’s done is done. Better to inform the others than let Fin spread rumors. Announce a fire meeting. Keep her secluded until then. Can you handle that?”

Jase lifts his eyes to meet Torvus’s. “Yes.” Though he answers evenly, without flinching, I’m struck by the realization that even these formidable Brutes experience emotions familiar to me: inadequacy, courage, joviality, care, and most astounding of all, fear.

Jase takes hold of my good arm too tightly as he leads me toward the door, for Torvus’s benefit I assume, because as soon as we return to the speckled light and thrumming green outside, he lets go completely. I inhale an exhilaratingly fresh breath of air, like one returning to the surface of the sea after a deep swim.

Rohan stands from the crate. “Sounds like that went well.” His cheeky comment coaxes Jase’s familiar grin from hiding. The warmth of it brings mine along.

Day is already losing ground to evening as Rohan heaves the rope pulley, lifting us back into the mahogany canopy. Jase is off telling the others about the “fire meeting” —whatever that is —and gave Rohan strict orders to keep me hidden until then. After Jase disseminated this information, Rohan reminded him that he had, in fact, heard the whole conversation.

With a day of experiences to color my understanding, I’m free to enjoy the slow journey through giant branches and emerald leaves as long as my arm. I don’t need Rohan to steady me this time. I take a wide stance and ride the slightly swaying platform, drawing on my experience as a rider to stay balanced. Although the other huts we pass still appear empty, we have company. A flock of scarlet macaws startle at our approach; they burst from the tree in a flutter of blue-tipped wings, their long, red tail feathers trailing behind. The birds’ throaty, gargled squawks disrupt a band of spider monkeys, who in turn scramble up and away, swinging on vines with able-bodied limbs. The monkeys’ squeals interrupt a sloth’s sleep next, but his moss-streaked, furry body barely moves. He only turns his head toward the commotion, then nods off again.

Just before the platform reaches his hut, the sun dips below the mountaintops. The resulting light waves illuminate the sky above and around us with a vibrant, blush-colored sheen. We come to a stop, but Rohan doesn’t move toward the door. He rests his forearms on the edge of the railing instead, staring out toward Nedé.

We watch the sunset from within it, above the whole world. Like our current view, everything has carried an air of the supernatural today, in this parallel universe where the wild Jungle holds delicate secrets, water flows through caves, and I am nearly touching a Brute who seems to prove everything I know about them wrong.

Trying not to be obvious, I watch him take it all in. It seems to move him —all the nature and light and lofty perspective. The glowing embers of evening play on his face as well as on the heavens, and I’m struck by . . . by the allure of him. His jaw, his breadth, an unruly strand of hair that brushes his cheekbone —he simultaneously sparks and soothes a piece of me I didn’t know existed before today.

His eyes flicker in my direction, and I quickly dart mine elsewhere, pretending fascination with some glorious sight just past him and to the left.

Don’t be stupid, Reina Pierce. Evening and morning light —you can’t trust them, remember? He’s a Brute.

To the east, beyond the Jungle, stepped foothills melt into a green puddle of flat farmland, interrupted only by an occasional snake-like ridge, dark thread of river, or shining lake. Beyond still, the Halcyon Sea’s great expanse diminishes to a hazy line of horizon.

That’s where I belong. I belong in Nedé. But the Arena, Finca del Mar, even Bella Terra, feel as distant as they appear. They are part of that other world —a world to which I will return tomorrow. Will all that feels so immediate, so magical now, seem as foreign to me then as home does at this moment?

“Have you ever been there? To Nedé?” My voice breaks something of the magic, the way the birds began a chain reaction of disruption, and I’m suddenly sorry for speaking at all.

Rohan shakes his head.

“Then how do you know about the Gentles?”

He takes long enough to respond for me to wonder if I should have asked. His answer confirms my suspicion.

“I know Jase is real free in what he tells you because he’s . . . ’cause he’s Jase, and he . . .” His voice trails off, thinking better of whatever he was going to say. “I can’t answer all the questions you have. Not about camp, not about Torvus, not about us.”

I plan to nod, but the prospect of not getting a single answer overpowers my assent. “One —can you answer just one question?”

Rohan doesn’t reply. Learning from Jase, I take that as an opportunity to try.

“Why do some of you . . .” How can I consolidate twenty questions into one? “Why do some of you seem good, when others, like Dáin, hurt people?”

Rohan straightens, making the platform sway.

“We’re men, that’s why.” The matched intensity of his words and gaze startle me, the return of electricity when he steps closer more so. “We can’t be forced to be any certain way. We are what we are. We can be violent, or we can be . . . gentle, but that choice is ours. No one has taken it from us.”

I try to process his answer, but rational thought becomes increasingly difficult with those dark eyes boring into mine. Why do I feel all melty inside? I turn away to sort through his words in peace —to break whatever spell he has cast on me —but he doesn’t let me.

“I answered your question,” he says. “Now you have to answer one of mine.”

“That’s fair.”

He stares out into the quickly fading light, as if bashful to ask. “Now that you’ve been here, with us, which do you think is better?”

“What do you mean? Between good and dangerous?”

“No. Between us and the Gentles —which is better?”

The weight of his question defies gravity, hanging in the air like a swirl of smoke or a flash of light. I consider the only Brutes I have for reference: Jase, with his affable, endearing smile; Torvus’s rock-splitting voice; the implausible quality in Rohan that draws me to him, even now. But then I remember the helpless panic produced by Dáin’s body pinning mine down, his hand around my throat, and the fear —even the memory of that fear —could make me want to wish away every Brute in existence. Their danger —their possibility of evil —overshadows all else. Not Treowe, not any Gentle in Nedé, has ever incited terror. Annoyance, ambivalence, maybe even superiority, but never fear.

Rohan takes my shoulders gently and turns me to face him.

“Which is better?” he asks again.

The echoes of panic and half my resolve melt instantly in his surprisingly warm urgency. Rohan makes me feel something that defies logic. But still . . .

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

And it’s the most honest answer I can give.

Jase appears in the tree hut doorway, a sooty smudge striping his cheek, like a wild thing fresh from the Jungle.

“It’s time,” he announces.

I’m relieved for the distraction. Whatever the “fire meeting” entails must be more entertaining than watching Rohan whittle the end of a stick. He hasn’t so much as looked at me since we came inside half an hour ago. Still, Jase must sense my unease, because he says, “Don’t worry. It’s going to be fun.”

Fun? I raise an eyebrow. Something tells me Jase interprets just about everything as “fun,” diminishing my confidence in the night’s activity. But I meet his smile with a half-hearted grin of my own, for his sake.

The ring of stones we passed earlier today seems to have grown exponentially, expanded by the raging duel between fire and night within it. Red and yellow flames spread wide and low, reaching nearly every crevice of the pit. The battle of light and dark twists violently, casting eerie shadows on the dozens of faces encircling it. The place is packed with Brutes of all ages. Some crouch in the dirt; others perch on low tree branches. A few of the eldest balance precariously on the rocky perimeter, thrusting long poles laden with meat chunks into the fire. The resulting savory smoke would make my mouth water if it weren’t suffocating me.

The din of their voices overtakes even the loud buzz of nighttime insects and animals. Laughter and shouts cut through the Brutes’ collective jawing.

“Give me some of that meat!”

“Who’s got the chicha?”

“Get off me, you big tapir!”

“Grab Pip before he gets burned!”

As we approach the mayhem, I slide behind Rohan, using his body as a screen. We skirt the crowd that way —Jase to my right and Rohan in front, so close my nose occasionally brushes his thin shirt. They lead me to a small dais adjacent to, and slightly higher than, the pit. There Torvus presides over the chaos in a large wooden chair at the center of the platform, gulping from a coconut shell. As we approach, the leader throws the shell aside, stands, and motions to the assembly. Immediately they fall silent.

Rohan steps aside, once again deferring to Jase the task of leading me to Torvus, exposing me to curious stares. Now I am the seagull among frigate birds —the only part of this wild scene that doesn’t belong. The spectacle. The anomaly.

Though the firelight limits my vision, the whites of a hundred wide eyes shine eerily back at me.

On the platform, I stand sandwiched between Torvus on my right, Jase on my left. As the others wait expectantly for their leader to speak, the chorus of nocturnal creatures and crackle of the enormous fire are magnified tenfold.

“We have a visitor,” Torvus thunders. “A woman of Nedé.”

A quiet murmur ripples through the half-light. A cub boldly chirps, “Is she the Rescuer?”

Torvus grunts. “Silence!” Yet a moment later he answers the little Brute’s question without malice. “No. She was a victim of . . .”

“She was no victim,” a voice yells from the darkness. “She chased me.”

A shadowy form ambles into the firelight, which illuminates a mop of thick, red hair. Not even the orange warmth of the blaze can hide his skin’s paleness or mask the hate in Dáin’s eyes. And he’s pointing his harpy-beaked club at me.

My hand instinctively flies to my belt, and I curse to find it empty. If I had my bow, a blade —anything —I’d draw it and put an end to this evil thing. But defenseless as I am, I take a step backward instead. Jase grabs my arm.

“It’s okay. Trust me. You’re safe with us,” he tries to reason. And though everything in me wants to snatch one of his many weapons and fight, or run, I force my feet to stay on the platform.

“You are not welcome here,” Torvus booms. “You’re no longer one of us.”

“Not welcome?” Dáin sneers, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“Not for a traitor! The rest of you, let this be a warning: anyone who defies my orders leaves this camp, left to eat hog plum and sleep with the cats.”

“Yes, yes. I know. I’m only here for one small matter, and then I’ll be on my way.”

Torvus scowls but allows Dáin to continue.

“I thought I would pay you one last visit to ensure you do what you know you must, Torvus.” He thrusts the club toward me. “I’m here to make sure she dies.”

Rohan draws a blade from his back and steps slowly, deliberately toward the platform. He watches Torvus, though, not me. He eyes his leader closely, waiting for a command. I don’t doubt he’d relish the opportunity to clock Dáin again. Jase tightens his grip on my bicep, for comfort or direction, I’m not sure.

Dáin takes another step forward. “You know what’s at stake, Torvus. If you let her live —to go warn that snake —you’ll give me no choice but to expedite my plans.” He canvasses the ring of Brutes, all listening in stunned silence. “And I believe there are others here who would rather join me than die at the hands of the Alexia.”

“Hot-headed fool!” Torvus’s hands ball into fists. “You have no idea who this girl is. Do you think you can eradicate a termite mound by batting at it? You don’t think about the consequences!”

Dáin flushes as he marches toward us. Now Jase whips me behind him and Torvus closes the gap, creating a two-Brute shield. Still, my heart thuds against my rib cage.

“At least I’m doing something,” Dáin jeers, “instead of hiding out in the Wilds like . . . like a spineless Gentle!”

A few snicker —probably Fin and his friends. I expect Torvus to lose it, to go after Dáin and break him the way I know he could, but the massive Brute doesn’t move.

“Muscle is pointless without a purpose,” he growls, his age, anger, and strength colliding in a low, raspy urgency. Then, loud enough for everyone to hear clearly, he offers: “Who wants to go? Choose now who you stand with. The clan, or this traitor.”

I can’t imagine why anyone would follow Dáin over Torvus. What merit does this vengeful Brute hold over his leader? Who could follow someone who kills innocent people, who burns and destroys without cause? And yet . . . Fin is the first to walk through the veil of inferno toward my attacker, followed by at least ten others. The remaining majority shift uncomfortably.

“Thanks for the new recruits, Torvus. That worked out even better than I hoped,” Dáin says, running his fingertips along the sharp teeth lining his club. “We’ll be on our way then.” He twirls the weapon once as he walks away. “Take good care of the enemy.”

Silence stretches uncomfortably, until the defectors can no longer be heard traipsing through the brush.

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Real fun,” I whisper to Jase, still hiding behind him.

He kicks my foot playfully, breaking some of the tension for us both. As he guides me forward to the platform’s edge, Torvus addresses the remaining “clan.”

“I make no apologies for my decision to let this woman live. To take life out of fear would make us no different than them. She will be returned to her home tomorrow. She has given her word to keep silent about what she has seen.” He turns to me. “And only a coward goes back on one’s word.”

Torvus thrusts his right hand toward me, a Nedéan sign of camaraderie. The gesture surprises me. How would a Brute know of such conventions? I’m also fully aware of the weight his action holds. If I respond in kind, I pledge my friendship with this leader. In effect, I vow to keep my word. Can I?

I don’t have time to deliberate —no other choice. I extend my own arm, fingers barely able to grasp the bulk of his forearm pressed against mine, and seal my silence.

If you study a thick, rainy-season cloud long enough, you can watch it expand with multiplying moisture and electricity. Water vapor, high in the air, gathers steadily until the fledgling cloud cannot bear its own restless weight anymore and pours its guts onto the earth below.

A kind of rainstorm comes now —the uneasy tension of the previous minutes releasing in a gale of riotous energy.

A cheer swells from the gathering as Torvus nods solemnly, and someone hits a drum. Another joins the rhythm, deeper in pitch, and then a third and a fourth of a higher timbre. As Torvus retakes his seat, Jase plops down on the wood slats of the platform, letting his feet dangle over the edge. I join him, not sure what else to do.

Youthful Brutes pass meat and chicha around the renewed hubbub. A medium-sized Brute with a snakeskin fastened around his waist hands me and Jase skewers bulging with chunks of blackened meat. I nod my thanks, genuinely grateful for something edible. But how does one eat it? I glance at Jase for clues. He takes each end of the stick in his hands and bites right into the middle. I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Really? You eat it like that?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, should we eat it like this?” he teases, nibbling at the tip of charred flesh.

“Alright,” I say, taking the challenge with exaggerated eagerness. I rip through the middle of my meat, filling my cheeks and letting the grease drip down my chin. Rich smokiness, with a hint of foreign spices, careens into my taste buds. It certainly tastes better than it looks.

“That’s more like it,” Jase says, beaming.

Still the drums pound, joined now by other instruments. They aren’t much to look at, but serve their purpose: the clearing mushrooms with lively grating, whistling, thudding, scraping, and trilling. The music coaxes a handful of Brutes, finished with their meals, to dance around the edge of the fire ring. Their legs swing and stomp, crouch and spring, their hands spinning sticks and slapping each other in time to the music. The air pulses with the sound of their song; my heart beats in rhythm to the bass.

Someone lights the end of a torch and begins to spin it, faster and faster, until the fire blazes in a ring. He twirls the burning circle over his head, between his legs, and back up again. Two others join this new fire dance, at once dangerous and mesmerizing.

I’m suddenly struck by a memory of the Exhibition at Finca del Mar, how the dancers’ delicate movements and bold leaps forced my heart to do the same. Their art was beautiful, smooth, sacred. This dance moves me too, though it is wild, playful, loud, and largely improvisational. Another contrast strikes me: how vastly different these Brutes are than those portrayed in the play —those enormous cloaked figures who snatched dancers without remorse.

What if we have them all wrong?

No —not all. We haven’t completely misrepresented them. Dáin’s reappearance underscores that. He doesn’t even care about his own people, let alone women, or Nedé, or anything but himself. He’ll hurt whoever gets in his way in order to destroy us. I can’t be blinded to their true nature, even if their kind does include a bit of . . . this.

When the dancers collapse, exhausted, into their seats, another group takes their place, mimicking much of the same movement, but adding jumps and flips. In time, still others try their hand at the complicated movements.

I wonder where they learned all of this. Did Torvus teach them? I glance behind me, hoping to catch something in his expression, but the large wood chair sits empty now, a soft spotted pelt lining the place where he had been presiding.

“Will Torvus come back?” I ask Jase.

“Naw, probably not. He gets tired of our antics after a while. Besides, I think you remind him too much of —” he catches himself, and uncharacteristically chooses different wording — “of someone.”

It’s difficult to hear him over the drums, so I don’t try further conversation.

A few minutes later, a cub approaches me with a shy smile, then boldly grabs my arm. He tugs at me, trying to pull me to my feet. I think I know where this is going. I plead silently with Jase, but he just laughs out loud, nodding to the little one.

“Fine,” I yell at Jase, grabbing his arm in turn. “If I’m going, you are too!”

I’ve never been one for dancing. I mean, all women in Nedé have opportunity to dance, through classes, at celebrations and such, but I have much better agility on a horse than on my own two feet. Still, something breaks my inhibition —maybe the dark, maybe the drums, maybe the drink —and I let them lead me to the edge of the ring. I try to mimic their movements, letting my uninjured arm swing in wide circles, stomping my feet and bouncing in time to the drums in rigid form, but eventually what comes more naturally seeps out of my pores, and I just let my body do what it wants to do.

The Brutes don’t seem embarrassed by my lack of skill. In fact, they laugh and cheer, urging me on until I’m too tired to dance another step. I half tumble back to the platform, laughing and teasing Jase, “Now that was ‘fun.’”

He grabs a green coconut from a pile as we return, and when we sit, he hacks the top of it open with a machete before offering it to me.

“Here.”

I gulp the bittersweet liquid as if I’ve never tasted it before, washing down the smoke and dryness, letting my heartbeat slow. My smile must match Jase’s. In fact, I can’t remember a time I felt happier, more free.

I take in all the strange and wonderful faces —dirty, angular, wide, narrow, young, large —and notice one staring back at me.

The dark brown of Rohan’s eyes dances with the reflection of the flames. Only the faintest smile plays on his lips, but he seems pleased. At least, I don’t think he’s unhappy. He watches me watch him, and for some reason, I can’t look away, even though my heart does cartwheels and my stomach flutters.

I should look away.

But I can’t seem to. The sight of him intrigues me —all angles and bulk, courage and deep complexity. I want to know what thoughts run through his mind. And as the seconds pass, that feeling of wanting him close —that ridiculous draw I experienced in the cave, within the sunset —returns and multiplies. He’s so . . .

Jase clears his throat, and I flush with embarrassment. My cheeks burn as if I just got caught doing something wrong, and I don’t even know what it was. Embarrassment douses the prickles of electricity until I’m left with a puddle of soggy embers.

“Come on,” he says. “You should get some rest. We’ll have to start out early tomorrow.”

Just when I believe I’ve caught it, sleep bounds away again, though I’ve forced myself to lie motionless on this stiff cot for hours. I blame my insomnia on the intrusive volume of nocturnal Jungle choruses and the shoulder that throbs from my reckless dancing. But sleeplessness is just as likely the result of the rhythmic breathing of two Brutes who sleep mere feet from me. Bright moonlight shifts through clouds and leaves, settling on their bodies in patchy luminosity. They sleep soundly —a happy, enviable state of being.

I was given Dáin’s cot, which unnerves me more than I let on. Knowing his body lay on the same woven surface now cradling my skin makes it crawl. But with the bulk of Rohan and the kindness of Jase here with me, I let my mind wander to less disturbing thoughts. That’s the idea, anyway, though it seems my mind has nowhere else to wander than troubling or inconclusive paths.

Knowledge is a funny thing: sometimes you learn information, only to realize you have more questions than answers to show for your trouble. The past thirty-or-so hours fall into that category. When I chased Dáin’s mob toward the Wilds, I learned two things: that against all probability Brutes presently exist, and not only that, they were indeed responsible for the attack on Jonalyn’s finca. What I have unlearned, though, outstrips that new information like a mudslide.

I am no longer certain whether Brutes are categorically self-serving, evil beasts. I don’t know where these particular Brutes —some as small as my saddlebag —come from. Or, if Rohan is right to believe Gentles aren’t born Gentle, how they’ve come to exist. I can’t imagine what the cub meant by asking if I was the “Rescuer,” or why Jase is more familiar with me than I with him. I can’t reconcile Dáin’s intent to kill me with Torvus’s honorable refusal to do so, even though, tactically speaking, it would have been wise. And I don’t know what I will do when I reach Bella Terra and then Finca del Mar. Will I keep this a secret —all of this wonderful, terrifying information? Will I keep my word to Torvus?

These questions feel important, I suspect with good reason. They demand answers, which will likely have enormous implications. But there’s one more question —seemingly simple compared with the others —that knots my insides more than the rest.

Rohan stirs, flipping deftly on his narrow bed. I wonder for a moment if his eyes will open —hope they’ll open —but within seconds his chest resumes rising and falling in deep, slumbering breaths. With him safely asleep, I study the curve of his lips, the thick line of eyelashes below his closed lids, the texture of his deep bronze skin. I wonder how it would feel if the hand under his cheek were replaced by my own. And that most difficult question of all gnaws at me afresh:

Which is better?

Brute? Or Gentle?

Though the comparison is too simplistic, I imagine Treowe reclining in the room with us anyway, and in my mind’s eye I abandon Rohan’s rugged bulk to consider Tre’s round face, his weathered hands and slight frame. Even in my imagination he offers me a one-dimpled smile and a red hibiscus flower, echoing how I perceive his nature, I suppose. Tre is always looking for ways to make me feel special. He has never once yelled at or threatened me. He tempers my spirit, and my crabbiness, with his consistent calm. Perhaps that’s why we enjoy each other so.

Tre embodies safety, and if I forget the Jungle and what I’ve discovered here, when I become Matriarch —yes, when —then I can help Tre. I could convince the Council to change our laws, and then he and I could always be friends. Now that I’ve been to the Brutes’ camp, surely I could lead the Alexia here to contain them. Not kill them, of course —except Dáin —but hide them, let them live out their lives in peace. No one else would have to know of their existence. Women would be safe from Dáin and any Brute who could become like him.

And yet . . . Some invisible hand turns my chin from my imaginary Treowe back to Rohan’s irresistible, slumbering form. A strange ache claws at my resolve.

This one —he can’t have my allegiance. I can’t let him have it. I don’t trust what he would do with it.

Then what of this urge to slip my hand under his cheek, to cradle his face in my palm? And when I think of Jase’s grin and the wildness of Tree Camp, why am I nearly sorry morning must come?