CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I’M THE LAST TO SLIP INTO MY SEAT around the table when I enter the lecture room downstairs. Dom Russo stops speaking when I enter, shooting me a particularly sour glare.

“As I was saying,” she resumes, “the surrey will take you from the Finca to the Arena directly after lunch tomorrow. Meet by the pond with . . .”

I try to listen, but my mind quickly drifts to the first day of the Succession, where we gathered in this very room. That first day I was tempted to like Jamara because she reminded me a little of Marsa, but I have no such illusions now. The tall, thick Candidate from Kekuatan will stop at nothing to win this Succession, even if it means beating my face to a pulp. I know she knows I’m watching her, but she doesn’t move a muscle, just keeps staring straight ahead. If she were to win the Apprenticeship, Nedé would be subject to an even more ruthless, vengeful Matriarch than the one we have now.

Next to Jamara, Nari runs a finger along her feather pen, a scrap of parchment proof that she’s taking this Succession seriously to the very end. Unlike Jamara, I’ve warmed to Nari over the past seven weeks. She’s kinder than Jamara, bolder than Yasmine, and not completely annoying like Bri.

The latter picks at her fingernails, not bothering to appear interested as Dom Russo drones on about proper ceremony etiquette. Her blond bangs curve over her forehead, framing her eyes and slight nose, and I suddenly realize she’s quite lovely. I haven’t noticed, I guess, because I’ve been too busy either gawking at her nerve or trying to refrain from punching that pretty face.

“After the Alexia demonstration, Matriarch Teera will rise and address . . .” Dom Russo’s voice floats into and back out of my attention.

How strange that after tomorrow, I may never see these women again. If I —when I win, Bri, Jamara, and Nari will return home to their respective Provinces and carry on the same destinies they left. Nari will keep repurposing materials into new innovations. Bri will continue her Politikós aspirations in Amal —maybe even try for Senator someday. And Jamara will go back to ensuring Nedé’s tens of thousands of Gentles serve the rest of us with meek obedience.

Given what Jamara’s capable of, the thought of her serving in Gentles Regimen unsettles me. Now that I know Gentles aren’t born Gentles, I’m doubly torn by the way they are treated at the Hive, how they languish at the Center. I can only imagine the conditions of the phase-out facilities.

The Gentles’ plight reminds me of Treowe, of course, and grief begins bleeding over my soul like spilled ink. I bite the tip of my thumb hard to keep it at bay.

“Dom Pierce?” The Jaguar presses, mercifully chasing the shadow back into the recesses of thought.

“Hmm?”

“I asked whether you can tell me what the Apprentice’s robe signifies.”

I search my mental catalog of lectures amassed from dozens of hours sitting in this room, with files covering everything from interprovince relations to sanitation systems, but come up short, and the silence lengthens into awkwardness. Thankfully, Nari comes through with a timely save.

“If I may, the robe represents the Matriarch’s hope of conferring her full title to her Apprentice in a year’s time. The pattern of the Apprentice’s robe matches the Matriarch’s to signify that she will follow in her mentor’s footsteps, while it is shorter and sleeveless to recognize that power has not yet been transferred.”

I blink at Nari in silent gratitude; she offers a slight, knowing smile in return.

I have got to get it together. I pinch my thigh to snap out of my head. I have to at least look like I know what I’m doing, even if I’m running at quarter speed today.

“Correct, Dom Kwan. And once the robe is conferred on the new Apprentice, the rest of you will graciously applaud Matriarch Teera’s choice. We will have no poor losers, understood?” She pinches her lips even tighter than normal, fixing Bri with an irritated stare. Bri blinks back innocently. “At the end of the ceremony, surreys will be waiting behind the Arena to escort you back to Finca del Mar. To preserve decorum, and to respect the new alliance between Matriarch and Apprentice, the Candidates not chosen will pack their belongings immediately and prepare to vacate the premises directly after the Matriarch’s private celebration in the great room. Please remember to inform your relatives that, while they are invited to attend the party with you, lodging is reserved for the Apprentice’s family and the Matriarch’s distinguished guests.”

Bri snorts. “No room for us, eh? Don’t want any ‘poor losers’ having access to the chicha?”

But having been assaulted by two of the Candidates in this room, I’m not opposed to the idea of clearing the villa after the big announcement. I don’t know who I can trust.

Visibly flustered, Dom Russo ignores Bri’s comment. “Are there any questions about the order of events tomorrow, or what is required of you?” When none of us respond, she concludes with uncharacteristic softness, “Best of luck to the four of you. It has been an honor to instruct you the past month and a half. Nedé will be in good hands, whichever of you Teera chooses.”

But I notice her gaze skips over Bri.

I can’t say I agree. I’m terrified of what Nedé could become if certain Candidates were chosen. Neechi is right, isn’t he? I am the Gentles’ only hope of turning the tide. And it’s probably time to tell him I understand.

I head down the hall and into the great room, then slip out a glass door that leads into the backyard garden.

At first I don’t notice Grandmother, peering over the artist’s shoulder, admiring her finished portrait. Domus stands by in his blue suit, holding a silky shade umbrella over the pair.

“Reina,” she calls, without taking her eyes from the painting, “tell me what you think.”

Startled, and wary of speaking to the woman I presently hate more than anyone in the world, I’m forced to join her vantage point. The large canvas teems with vivid colors, brushed smooth as silk threads. In the artist’s depiction, Grandmother’s mouth curves up into what could almost be called a smile, though I doubt it did any such thing during the entire session. Winifred’s white-ringed black eyes seem to look on her Domina with admiration, another artistic leap, and her long tail feathers drip from Teera’s arm like graceful red jewels. Green elephant ears, yellow cassia, and violet orchids encircle the pair, echoing the bright colors of Teera’s robe. The picture unfolds just as I imagined it would, portraying our eighth Matriarch as equal parts beauty, strength, and approachability, even with the true-to-life, sharply peaked eyebrows. Nedé’s motto scrolls across the top of the portrait in gold lettering: Protect the weak. Safety for all. Power without virtue is tyranny. And at the bottom, Teera Pierce, 8th Matriarch of Nedé, 2221–2267.

I swallow my dissent, playing the part of enamored Candidate rather than betray my bitterness. “It’s a work of art,” I say, because that’s true.

“Yes,” Teera says thoughtfully. After a moment, she addresses the artist. “Have it hung in the south entrance of the Arena tomorrow morning so we can show off your craftsmanship, Freja.” She hands Winifred to Domus, then turns down the path toward the sea, rather than back to the villa. I’m about to make a quick exit toward the stables when she addresses me again.

“Come, Reina. I wish to speak with you.”

Stuffing down reluctance, I obediently follow. It’s the first time I’ve been this near her since the Arena, and my stomach coils with loathing. We travel the geometric mosaic path to a more secluded section of the garden before she speaks again.

“I am a woman of firm conviction, Reina, but I’m not above reflection. The Gentle was a traitor, and justice begged to be done. Still, I have considered what I asked of you yesterday and wonder if it wasn’t unfair of me to require you to punish someone you . . . knew.”

Anger explodes in my chest like boulders falling in the Jabiru. How could she say Treowe —faithful Treowe —was a traitor? Guilty of what? Being my friend? He was more innocent than she’ll ever be. It takes every ounce of my resolve not to do something I’ll regret. But I force my mind away from the cliff and try to keep my wits about me. She’s apologizing, which means she either means it, or I need to figure out what card she’s trying to play.

She continues, “I believe your mother’s abominable neglect of the Articles created an unhealthy environment for you and your sisters that warped your perceptions of duty. I blame myself, really. If I had stifled Leda’s rebellion when I first suspected her weakness . . .” She pauses, likely mentally recounting the ways she could have “stifled” her daughter, then snaps, “Regardless, because of your poor upbringing, perhaps it was unfair to ask you to carry out that sentence in particular, without knowing the details of what has been happening in Nedé.”

First she discredits Treowe, now Mother? Does she despise everyone who embodies goodness? I muster all my nerve so I can stop and face her when I speak.

“You needed to know you could trust me when it counted. I hope you know now that you can.” I hold her gaze with more boldness than I’ve ever had with her before. “I won’t let you down, Matriarch.”

She studies my face a moment, and though she’s notoriously hard to read, I think I might have done it. I think I’ve convinced her I mean it.

“Good,” she says quietly, almost too pensively, and I’m reminded of that evening we shared dinner in this garden. The evening she announced she had selected me as a Candidate. She chose me for a reason, I remind myself now. She wants me to succeed. As long as it serves her purposes, anyway.

“I do want to count on you, Reina, which is why there mustn’t be any secrets between us.” Then, as if suddenly struck by some trifling matter, she adds, “Adoni mentioned you found a weapon during the incident on patrol. Do you still have it?”

Rohan’s bone dagger. I kick myself again for forgetting it on my weapons belt when I stopped to see Trin at the Arena. Of course she would tell Adoni. And why wouldn’t Adoni tell Teera?

“Yes, I . . . I meant to give it to Adoni,” I lie, “but she wasn’t at the Arena when I passed through. It’s in my room now, but I can take it to her tomorrow, at the ceremony, if you wish.”

Grandmother drums her fingers against her elbow, considering. “Reina, I believe it will take time for you to trust me completely, but perhaps it will help if I trust you with some information first.” She lowers her voice, for effect I gather, as no one is within earshot. “We’ve captured the one responsible for the attacks on Nedé soil, including, we suspect, the unspeakable raid on Jonalyn’s finca. I am interested in the weapon because it likely belongs to one of . . . them.”

I know this already, but I put on my best make-believe surprised face. I feign ignorance with my next question too: “Them? Who are they? Gentles?”

She seems about to answer but thinks better of sharing more than she needs to. “I will tell you . . . after tomorrow. Once the two hundredth anniversary celebration is out of the way, we’ll devote every resource to restoring complete peace in Nedé. The asset we’ve acquired will be of particular use in leading the way.”

She said “we’ll.” Surely that’s a good sign.

“Of course,” I say. “And . . . this ‘asset’ will cooperate?”

“My dear, anyone can be persuaded if the right tactics are employed.”

Perhaps the words aren’t directed at me, but they knock the wind from my lungs regardless. Yes, anyone can be persuaded to do anything. Anything at all. I hate her and her manipulative tactics. I would pity her next target if it wasn’t Dáin, the only being who could possibly tie with her for most loathsome human under the stars.

She tips her head and tries at a thin smile. “We will have much to discuss, but for now, you need to trust that what I asked of you was for the good of Nedé.”

It takes all the restraint I have to nod obediently, but I manage, garnering an awkward pat on my shoulder from Grandmother. When she turns back toward the villa, I resume step beside her, brooding in silence, unable to think of anything to say that won’t land me in a cell. So I mentally count the tiles underfoot until we reach the villa, where Grandmother excuses herself to her office.

As soon as she’s out of sight, I practically run toward the stables. This charade had better be worth it.

“How could you?”

I let the words hang, fierce and low, in the earthy air of the open-beam stable. A mottled gray horse stands crosstied in the breezeway, tail twitching, as a short Gentle in dirty linen trousers brushes her down. I know he’s heard me, but he doesn’t pause a stroke or offer so much as a grunt.

Taking long steps over the smooth-raked dirt, I come nearer and repeat my question. “How could you, Neechi? You knew it was Tre, you knew we were friends, and you let me walk into her trap completely blind!” Now I fight to keep my voice low, a flood of tears held barely at bay, knowing we’re not truly safe to talk openly anywhere at Finca del Mar. This is Grandmother’s turf.

“Not completely,” he finally says, with his soft voice, which usually soothes but now infuriates me. “I told you what we felt you needed to know.”

“And why did you get to decide what I needed to know? Huh? You’re a Gentle!”

I wish the words back as soon as they pass my lips. Insulting him is low, even for a girl awash in grief. If I was less prideful, or less hurt, I’d apologize.

His eyes trace the dirt for a moment before speaking, and I feel as small as an ant.

“What he wanted you to know,” he says finally, then returns to brushing loose hairs from the mare. “He made us promise not to tell you.”

How can I argue with the dead? Tre knew I would have refused if I’d had more time to think it through. Right or wrong, it’s not Neechi’s fault.

“Domus said he offered him a stinger. Why didn’t he take it and . . . die in peace?”

“Because he believed you’d be the best Matriarch Nedé’s ever seen. A Matriarch who cares about Gentles, that would change everything for us. Would that chance ever come again? He refused the stinger because he knew he’d die either way, so he figured it best to let you prove yourself to Matriarch Teera.” He stops brushing to meet my eyes. “I would have done the same.”

I see the tear tracks now, glistening down his round, caramel cheeks. How many tears has he cried over this?

Maybe I can’t judge what these Gentles did. I wasn’t taken from my mother to live in a Hive. I’ve never been forced to clean sewage, wait on fussy elites, or sleep in subpar housing. I’ll probably live to old age in perfect health and strength, never experiencing brittle bones or mystery ailments that kill me after three or four decades of life. I’ve not been altered, without my consent or even knowledge. Can I resent them for wanting hope?

I soften my voice with effort. “I don’t understand how the Matriarch . . . Why Treowe, Neechi? How did she know?”

“I can’t say what she knows, Dom Reina, but the Alexia can question us for any reason, and we usually have no reason to lie. She could know anything that has been seen by one of us.”

A memory flashes —the day Tre brought my leather bag to the finca from home. Behind a hedge, he told me about Jonalyn, thanked me for being his friend. If one of those gardeners had actually seen . . .

My eyes clench, recalling the shy smile my small kiss coaxed. My lack of restraint —is that how she knew? Of all the stupid, impulsive . . . and if Tre had known then what my gift would cost, would he have been so pleased?

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory. But the thought of other Gentles watching my every move is disconcerting, especially since my talking with Neechi is also a violation of Article II.

“And how did you know?” I ask.

Neechi lowers his voice to a hushed whisper so I have to lean in to hear him. “The Alexia’s farrier comes once a week from the Arena to tend to the Matriarch’s horses. He tells me things of interest —a Gentle who’s been hurt, a Senator caught with another woman, someone put in the cells —and I share with Domus what I think needs sharing. That’s how Domus knew the Matriarch had Treowe.”

Gentles permeate Nedé like silent fixtures, moving like gears and wires and knobs to make Nedé run. They’re passive people, which, according to Tristan’s journal, is also due to the vaccine. I’m ashamed to admit I’m surprised they have enough shrewdness to listen, or enough curiosity to gossip amongst themselves.

Neechi looks bashful. “Some of us wish things could be different for us, but what can we do? We don’t have much, but our mouths still work. We talk, and we hope that someday the information will prove useful. And we pray that someday, somebody will do something for us. We’re not fighters, Dom Reina. We don’t have it in us. And until Matriarch Teera, we were mostly content to live our short lives serving Nedé. We don’t want trouble. But for all the good she’s done in Nedé, our lives have gotten worse. She doesn’t treat us like past Matriarchs. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“And that’s why you need me? Because I’ll do something?”

He nods. “Do you see now?”

“Sure, I see. I see that I had to kill my best friend because I’m the only one crazy enough to care about him.” I bite my lip and stare at the wall studded with tack. “I’m sorry . . . I just need a ride, okay?” Neechi offers a conceding nod, and steps aside to let me pass. I make a break for Callisto’s stall before the tears come again.

My pinto mare’s head hangs over the wide-beam gate, eager at the sound of my voice. I run a hand down her neck and kiss her velvety nose.

“There’s my girl,” I whisper. “I haven’t forgotten about you.”

Callisto seems as alert as always —eyes clear, one ear twitching. No sign of anything abnormal, five days since I found the wound crusted with blood. I just wish I knew how long I have to wait before I can stop worrying about her getting “the crazies,” as Jase called it.

I slip a neck rope over her head and lead her out the gate. Since Neechi has a horse in the breezeway, and because I think we’ve said everything that needs to be said for now, I exit to the right, then circle back to catch the trail that leads to the shore.

In five minutes Callisto’s hooves are pressing into rough sand, and I can finally breathe. The Halcyon Sea laps the shoreline with small, gentle waves, its enormous liquid body stretching away from us clear to the horizon. There’s something freeing in feeling the weight of smallness, and nothing makes me feel small like the ocean.

I gulp down the salt air as Callisto breaks into a run. She loves this as much as I do. I curl my fingers into her windblown mane and close my eyes, letting the rhythm of her hoofbeats keep pace for my heart.

It’s not fair of them to expect me to save them. Who am I? What can I actually do?

Regardless of what I’m able to accomplish, of course I want to help them. “Protect the weak” took on new meaning after the Hive visit, where I saw how young Gentles live, and the Center, where I learned how they die: sick, too young, neglected, alone.

The wind whips the heat of regret from my skin, at least momentarily, uncovering a fresh resolve. Tre is dead, but I will honor him. I will, I will, I will.