Beware the Night, page 27
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.
CHAPTER 26
I climb out of the den door, quiet as possible, silently thanking the Sun that Dorian trusted me with a set of keys.
I’m now on the upper side of the earth, large boulders and overgrown plants hide my location from view. I didn’t come up the den I’d intended, but I’m not too far off. I’m in the woods that sprawl like jungle behind our house. Nico’s home is only a short walk away.
It’s dark, that crescent moon winking down at me again. Snow heavily blankets the ground so everything’s lit up like midday—both helpful and not.
I walk along the canal, boots crunching over ice, and round the corner where the canal turns from smooth rock around the edges to snowy dirt.
But something’s new.
A fence has been added.
The same kind Dorian and I encountered last time, but on the other side of the Basso village. I pick up a small mound of snow and toss it at the wire. It hisses and I swear back at it.
Up ahead, I see the faint outline of houses along the ridge above me. The lights from the gate separating Dogio villages from Basso villages shine bright.
I can either jump into the canal and swim around the fence or risk being seen by taking the main road and sneaking through the gate.
I look to the water. Parts of it are frozen, but not solid. I’d get wet like when Dorian and I had to swim it, but it’s much colder now. I’d freeze.
Sneak through the gate it is.
I step light as air, keeping low and behind the trees. When I near the top, I have a perfect line of sight to the entrance. Two Imperi soldiers sit to each side of the stone wall, a metal gate between them. One naps while the other watches the road. His eyes are heavy and it’s as if he too is asleep, just with his eyes open.
I move closer.
Closer.
I duck behind the last tree before there’s a small field and then the road. No change in the watching guard. Still lazy and bored. Half-asleep. A spot near the gate catches my eyes: Where the electric fence stops is a small section of stone wall. It’s low enough I should be able to jump it at the place before it snakes up, joining the pillars flanking the gate.
I consider throwing a rock to create a diversion, but the soldiers are so close and half-dead anyway. Instead of causing a commotion, it’s safer to sneak.
I take three steps.
One of the soldiers coughs.
I freeze.
If he turns his head to the left, I’m done for.
Adjusting himself on his stool, he leans back against the wall, assuming his position, lowering his eyelids.
I don’t dare breathe.
Two more tentative steps.
The wind blows, shuffling frozen leaves, nature’s diversion. I walk faster.
Three steps.
Almost there. Two more strides.
Step.
Step.
The guard might as well be a statue because he doesn’t so much as twitch.
I climb the stone.
Then, over the other side.
I breathe.
Almost too easy.
“What’s that?” a guard says from behind me.
I drop to the ground.
“What?” the other says, now clearly awake.
“On the ground, just there, do you see it? Something shiny.”
Shiny?
I pat my back pocket and immediately know what it is. The tin-wrapped dried fish I’d shoved in before I left.
Now it’s on the ground.
Damn it.
I crawl back down the ridge toward the canal and into the forest. They stomp toward the object, but that’s it because I’m out of earshot in seconds.
My pulse and breath do double time as I sprint as quietly as possible until I hit it. Our spot. The small pond, now encircled in an umbrella of snow-covered trees. To my left sits Nico’s home, one light shining through a solitary window, a beacon among the many darkened windows that make up the rear of his home.
I’m doing this.
I hike up the ridge, stopping at the back fence.
Eyes straining through the dark and distance, I can barely make out a pennant hanging on the wall: the Dogio school crest embroidered in gold against the charcoal background.
It has to be his room.
Hands shaking, I pick up a small pebble, and breathe … one … two …
It hits the glass with a plink.
“Oh!” I gasp. A tall figure stands in the window, but disappears before I get a good look.
It could be anyone.
Do I run? Do I wait?
There’s an unmistakable creak and click in the distance: the back door.
My heart thumps in my throat, beating so fast I’m out of breath. I slide down the fence and huddle into myself. Hidden. I hope.
Footsteps.
I start to fling my body down the hill, but …
Knife at my throat.
I pull mine from my belt and thrust it to their wrist. One move by either of us and we’ll both be spurting blood.
Breath wheezes in my ear. “What the hell are you—”
He drops the knife.
I drop mine.
“Veda?” It’s a pained, horrible whisper. “How the…? Where did you…?”
Exactly.
“I had to see you, warn you,” I say.
He nods. Scans the area. “It’s not safe here.”
He looks back at his window, nudging his head toward it.
“Inside?” I say.
“It’s the safest option. My parents sleep like the dead and in the opposite wing.”
He throws his arms around me. “I’m so sorry,” he says into my neck.
“I know.” My throat closes around the words. “Me too.”
He pulls back. “Come on.”
I follow him around the fence and to the other side. We enter through a gate he has to unlock.
In slow movements, Nico opens his back door, guides me in, then shuts it, locking several locks behind him. Something about it gives me the impression of being both secure and imprisoned.
The empty, nighttime version of Nico’s home is cold, lonely, such a stark contrast from the jubilation and splendor of the Ever-Sol Feast. How the place was packed at the seams and lit up like sunrise what seems like a lifetime ago.
But Nico’s bedroom is different.
There’s nothing lonely or cold or remotely sterile here. It’s home. Nico.
The room smells of the forest, a burning fire in the hearth against the outside wall, a small pile of clothes slung over a chair at his desk, a book left open on his unmade bed. I move toward his dresser. Several items line the top against the wall: a fishing hook, a rock, a button, a coil of metal, a scrap of fabric, an autumn leaf, a piece of tree bark, and several other trinkets, scraps of debris.
I glance over at him.
He stands at the door, watching me. “Just a few memories…” Memories? “The fishing hook is from the day we met when I caught you at our pond. The button fell off your sweater at some point. It was cracked”—I swear his face is the slightest bit flushed—“so I figured you wouldn’t want it back.” He peers at the dresser. “The metal is from your window—it was sitting on the outside ledge. I picked it up the last time I visited you there after Poppy…” He stops there and nods. “Just stuff like that. Memories. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to throw it all away.”
“And the fabric? Is that from my skirt?” I turn my head toward him. I know for a fact it is and exactly when it snagged and tore.
“Oh, that … Yeah. I think it caught the corner of the bench the night we kissed.” Nico inhales deeply, holding the breath in and shrugging his shoulders. “Feels like so long ago.”
“A lifetime ago.”
He nods, face pained, lines creasing his forehead. He exhales. “Veda—why are you here?”
“Two things, actually.” I look away, then back to him. “Well, maybe three.” Suddenly, I’m terrified about warning him of tomorrow’s attack, telling him about my father, who I am and who I thought I was. Because when I do, everything changes. Right now, if only for a moment, all I want is to be here with him. To simply be Veda and Nico instead of all the other things others expect us to be. “You’re not like them, Nico. You’re not an Imperi officer. Not like the ones we used to scoff at as kids. The ones I used to hide from for fear of punishment. Certainly not the next Raevald.”
