In the briefing earlier, the Sindaco warned us that from tomorrow morning it’s nonstop prepping for the attack. But tonight? Tonight, I lie on the mat in my cave, staring up at the mural of the Sun and moon at war, the star, symbol of the Lunalette, joining them in the middle.
Candlelight flickers across the painting, gleaming and reflecting like fire, popping like tiny explosions and destruction and war. The five points of the star are pulled by shadow, stretched between the two sides but also sharp as blades, cutting the Sun down the middle and shaving the moon into a perfect crescent. Just barely, the star holds together, yet so close to slicing in two itself.
Herself.
Myself.
I sit straight up.
Stare at that crescent moon and muse over how I’d thought it was winking down at me for good luck just before my mission. Winking, indeed. Smirking, more like. As if it knew something … I didn’t …
With the memory, several things cinch together for me. Moments and conversations from the past twenty-four hours come barreling back.
I stand, pull the handkerchief the little girl gave me off the shelf. Open it up and study the embroidered phases of the moon: new, waxing crescent, first quarter, waxing gibbous, full, waning gibbous, last quarter.
Waxing. Crescent.
“Damn him,” I say under my breath. Back in the map room, the Sindaco had told me we attack in six days, yet in the briefing, the notes I took … I swear …
I dig into my pack, pull the folded scrap of paper out from the front pocket, and squint through the darkness. The words waxing crescent next to day of attack stare back at me.
He lied. Six days …
I was just up there, and the moon was nearly a perfect waxing crescent then. In six days it’ll be—I stare at the handkerchief again—at the first quarter or past.
He knew I’d try to fight, so he lied.
Of course he lied.
Which means Dorian lied too.
“I go to battle in six days … I’d say, a good distraction is in order…”
My chest fills with heat and my throat aches with anger and betrayal.
But, no.
Focus.
I have to get to the Upper ahead of the Night.
Warn Nico before we attack.
Then I’ll fight.
To hell with what the Sindaco or Dorian or anyone else thinks I should do.
Quickly, I throw what I think I’ll need together. Quiver with my atlatl and spears slung over my shoulder, blade in my belt, pack on my back, I’m ready.
But first, I have to be 100 percent sure.
Once I am, I’ll leave a little something behind for “my father.”
WHEN I ENTER the map room, all is dark save my single lamp.
No Sindaco.
I’d assumed he’d be gone, and thank the Sun I was right.
My plan is to leave the handkerchief of the phases of the moon on the table. I’ve no doubt he’ll put the pieces together.
Once I’m at the table, I start to dig. I’ve got to find something that has tomorrow’s date, something to assure me I’m not making a huge mistake.
Shuffling papers, moving stacks from one side of the table to the other, I can’t find one line of scribble that gives a date. I’d even settle for a doodle of the phases of the moon with the waxing crescent circled.
But there’s nothing.
From the table, I move to the desk farther back in the cave. There’s more maps, pen and ink, blank paper, a pile of crumbled mess-ups in the trash bin. There are two drawers in the desk. The first is empty and the second is stuck.
I pull with all I have, but the thing won’t budge, and the harder I try, the more convinced I am that exactly what I’m looking for must be inside this stubborn drawer and oh, how that crescent moon is smirking down on me now.
When I pull out my blade, shove it in the small space between the desk and drawer and give it one hard jerk, the thing breaks loose. The wooden drawer slips out of the desk with a crack, and knocks the metal trash bin over in the process.
Of course, the drawer is completely empty except for some blank paper, but I’ve already moved on. When the trash bin fell over, something underneath it knocked loose.
A key.
Moving quickly now, sure that the Sindaco or Dorian or some officer’s going to walk in and catch me digging through the map room, I scour every inch I can looking for a keyhole. But aside from the desk, a chair, and the table, maps hanging from the walls, a few thick books stacked on the floor, the cavern is barren. Starker even than our home back up on Bellona.
I stop, sit down in the middle of the room.
It’s got to be in here, because why would the key be in here, then? Of course, I’m thinking about how that’d probably be exactly what I’d do: keep the key and whatever it opens in different rooms, when my eyes settle on a paper map of Bellona hung on the far wall.
There’s a small red X marked over the Coliseum. That alone isn’t suspicious, but the fact that the map is bowing slightly, one corner a hair crooked, that part’s strange. Every other map in here is meticulously straight, almost in pristine condition, but this one’s been taken down and put back up, by the looks of it, many times.
I walk over to it, gently pull the top right corner off its nail. When the flap falls forward, I find there’s writing all over the back of it.
It’s small, lightly jotted with graphite, nearly invisible, especially in the dark, but it’s there.
And once I pull the whole thing down, look at it under the light of my lantern, there in the upper corner, next to tomorrow’s date, are the words: Mission Waxing Crescent.
Below are battle plans … Soldiers’ movements … Who’s leaving through which dens … Much of what he explained at the briefing, but to my ears, at least, he’d been vague. Did everyone else know he was lying to me?
How is it not one soldier mentioned attacking tomorrow?
Was there some predetermined code word? Appease the Lunalette … Make her think she’s being let in on the fight … Speak in code …
My mind spins with endless deceptive possibilities as my fingers clench the sides of the map. Marching to the table, I set the map facedown, place the handkerchief with the phases of the moon on top, then go to grab my blade to skewer it all together for the Sindaco to find, but … I can’t leave my blade behind.
I need a sharp shard of rock, a nail, anything …
Yet again, I’m searching the cave. Rushing, haphazardly checking behind maps and under papers, my palms beginning to sweat as more and more, I’m worried this is all a huge waste of time, that someone could walk in any minute. Still, I somehow rationalize it with the fiery anger welling in my chest. This is important. The Sindaco needs to know he didn’t win. He didn’t pull his lie over on me.
After a failed attempt to pull a nail from the rock wall, nearly slicing my fingertip on the jagged thing, I stall. My eyes scan hopelessly from one corner to the next.
As if he knew I’d need something, there’s nothing.
Knowing I’ve already been here too long, I settle on stacking a few books around the map so at least it doesn’t fall off the table.
The Sindaco will see it, that’s all I need.
I grab three of the thick volumes and set them on the table, but the last one gives an unexpected jingle.
There’s a small lock holding it shut.
Fishing the key from my pocket, I try inserting it, but it doesn’t fit. The stupid key’s too big and probably for the door, some other box of the Sindaco’s secrets.
Dropping the book onto the floor, I stomp on the lock with my boot, breaking the hinges off in one try.
I open it up.
And inside … Inside …
It’s not what I expect.
The book is hollowed out. Not a great shock, but I was sure I’d find coded plans, a top-secret battle agenda, signed statements by every member of the Night to keep the date of the attack a secret.
But what I do find is a thin, small copy of a child’s storybook.
The book is bound in red leather, and printed on the front is a golden eight-pointed star, the title: The Solvrana.
The story reads …
Once upon a time in a far-off land, there lived a girl of limited means. She was kind and generous, thoughtful and loyal, but very poor.
An orphan, the girl longed to one day have so much more than she possessed, which wasn’t much: a doll to hold, a single quilt to warm her, and the birthmark over her heart to remind her she was special.
You see, the girl knew of things no one else in this land knew. It was a secret and one that kept her going even in the darkest of days when hunger and war and death ravaged her once peaceful land.
For she was the only soul who knew of her birthmark.
However, everyone in lands far and wide, across the Great Sea and back, knew of the prophecy of the sun-child: the Solvrana.
Legend foretold that one day a girl with an eight-pointed star upon her heart would rise up and save their land. She would bring peace and hope and end the fighting. Restore joy.
Unfortunately, it was not so easy. On her tenth birthday—
The rest of the pages are torn out, the binding left unraveling, but I don’t need to read further.
On the back inside cover, bright as the Sun striking down at midday, is the word Lunalette and a jagged drawing of a five-pointed star. It’s unmistakably the same writing as the Sindaco’s notes. No doubt inscribed by him.
More lies? More deception?
My chest tightens and my scar tingles. I squeeze my hands into fists, planting my feet to the spot to keep from running to the Crag and busting through the Sindaco’s door.
It’s all just a story. Made up. Horseshit.
I stare down at the place where my scar sits jagged and shiny just below a few layers of clothing. Was it even a pantera fish? Or was it given to me some other way? By someone’s hand? All to fulfill a stolen child’s story.
A legend.
A revolution.
I have to remind myself to breathe despite the heat coming up from my chest like fire.
Glancing down, the word Lunalette stares up at me. Taunting me. The letters screaming of lies.
I slam the book shut. Set it atop the map, next to the handkerchief with the phases of the moon and the lie of a name Lunalette embroidered on it. Mocking me.
I take a deep breath.
So, I’m not heir. Maybe by blood, but not legitimately. That’s Nico’s role now. And he can have it.
But I’d come to rally behind the idea of the Lunalette.
And I’m not that either.
I’m not Lunalette.
I have to repeat it once more: I’m not Lunalette.
The corners of my eyes sting. My throat and jaw sting. And just below my jagged scar, which is simply that and nothing more, my heart stings.
Not only did the Sindaco lie to me, he lied to the people who trust him most. And for what? To rally them behind his revolution? Behind a false prophecy? The stinging turns to burning, and I realize I’m gripping the handle of my blade so tightly, my fingers itching to pierce a hole right through this book.
But no.
It’s not enough.
I walk behind the desk and remove the lone spear from my mother’s atlatl the Sindaco has on display. I march back to the table, and then slam the stake point first right into the book and through to the wood so it sticks straight up.
Unavoidable. Impossible to miss.
He wanted a symbol?
“There’s your symbol.”
MY STEPS ARE fast and hard, my feet racing to keep up with my mind, as I try my best to reverse the route Dorian and I took through the caves just yesterday.
I tighten the quiver more securely over my shoulder. Think of all the ways I’ll get to use my atlatl tomorrow. How completely shocked the Sindaco will be when he hears I showed up on the battlefield. To fight for the Night. With the Night.
I grip my atlatl, think of my mother, the warrior.
The Sindaco, my so-called father—the word sends hot nausea coursing through my stomach, up my throat—he’s no better than the High Regent. Because despite pretending they’re doing right by their people, they’re only working for themselves. Shoving everyone else beneath them to take the fall or fight the battle.
The sad part is I’ve no doubt they’d have rallied behind him without it. They’d have supported me regardless.
And Dorian …
I can’t begin to sort out where I’m at with Dorian, but if the stinging from my heart moving up into my chest is a clue, it’s not good. Because he lied too. He knew when the attack was, knew I’d been told differently.
Maybe he knew the truth about the Lunalette too.
The back of my throat is tight. On fire. The burning spreads to my ears and into my eyes, but I can’t.
I scrub my eyes with my fists.
I refuse to cry. I will not cry.
Because I can’t do anything about any of it now.
It’s done.
I’m not Lunalette.
I’m just a Basso girl from the south village who can fish and now kind of use an atlatl.
And I’m still going to lead this revolution.
But first I have to warn Nico.