“We’re going to attack the Hill. It’s the perfect opportunity. They’ll never see it coming. When most of Bellona is on the Island of Sol, we’ll make our move and take control.”
“Will there be casualties?” Nico …
“Some. Likely many. It’s the cost of war. A war we’re waging, but a war that’s years in the making and long overdue. Once we get Raevald they’ll surrender. That’s the goal.”
“Who’s getting Raevald?” The strap of my pack slips off my shoulder, the atlatl falling from the quiver into my lap, then onto the floor with a light clunk. Instantly, I think of my mother, try my best to invoke her warrior spirit. The Sindaco’s eyes go to the weapon. Her weapon.
“Raevald’s mine,” he says. I follow his stare toward the atlatl before me, his tone taking on a severity I’ve yet to hear.
From my mother’s weapon, he glances up at me.
“I know you want to fight,” he says, quiet yet stern. Again, he focuses on the atlatl, then the quiver of spears. “You’re more like her than you’ll ever know. She’d be so proud.” His voice snags with the last word. “And she would insist you stay behind. Not fight. Be the symbol of the Lunalette.”
“Fighting would be easier…”
“I understand. Being Lunalette is a heavy role to take on. A huge responsibility. But don’t overthink it. You’ll know what to do when the time comes.” It’s sort of his version of “ad astra” or Poppy’s “wait, listen.”
Maybe I will know what to do. Or just be more confused than ever.
“I’ll try.”
“It’s all any of us can do, eh?” A smile plays at his lips as he looks down and surveys the piles of papers before him.
“I should get back,” I say.
“Me too.” He motions toward his work but pauses. “This is for the force briefing tonight.” He studies my reaction. “Would you like to attend?”
“Yes.” I say it too quickly, too enthusiastically.
He appears to hold back a smile.
“But only as Lunalette—to observe. To be less … in the dark.” His repeating my exact words doesn’t go unnoticed.
I nod.
“In one hour.”
Nod-nod. “Thanks. I’ll be there.” I pivot toward the door.
“Hey, Veda?” he says, and I turn back around and face him. “Tell me something about yourself? Something I wouldn’t know. Something outside of all this.”
I think for a second. “I love the snow, how it sparkles in the moonlight. I used to get on to Poppy for smoking his pipe, but now, beyond all reason, I miss the stink of it.” I pause. “I love to fish, but hate gutting the slimy things.”
I look over at him, see he’s smiling.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Hmm…” He looks toward the ceiling. After a short stall, he answers. “I collect maps … old … new … fantasy … nautical … sometimes I create my own. I’ll admit, I’ve been known to have a celebratory pipe from time to time. And … I can’t catch a fish to save my life. Never could.”
“Did my mother fish?”
“Not one bit.”
“So that I get from Poppy, eh?”
He nods, eyes crinkled at the edges under a wide smile.
I return the smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. Not nearly. There’s still this distance between us. I’m not sure whether it’s seventeen years’ worth of absence or the weight of everything hanging over us or something I’ll never know, but it’s there. It might always be there.
Again, I turn to leave.
“You forgot something.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I see that he’s holding one of my spears. It must have fallen out when I set my pack down.
I walk back to get it and reach out for the smooth, sharp wood. Under the firelight, it holds the faintest sheen of gold.
“Thank you.” I grin, but it’s a sad smile.
The Sindaco stares up at me, expression somber, and nods once.
Walking across the room, watching the lamplight reflect and flicker across the door, distorting it as I exit, something hits me. How under the intense candlelight of the map room, the spear had morphed from wood to gold. Then, in a blink, right back again.
Maybe there’s something to that. Maybe I’ve been looking at this whole Lunalette thing the wrong way. Under the wrong light. I’ve been shining all the rays of the Sun over it, putting so much pressure on myself, been caught under the spotlight of it all, when I should have gone dimmer. Like the candlelight in the map room.
Even though these spears, this weapon is probably made of the finest wood, well taken care of and preserved for so many years until it reached my hands, there are visible blemishes, snags, the corners worn. It’s not perfect, and I imagine neither was my mother.
She wasn’t heir to anything. There was no Lunalette star staining her chest.
She was a fighter.
A soldier.
She held her head high and her atlatl even higher. She fought for what was right.
And isn’t that enough?
Shouldn’t it be enough?
“Yes,” I say.
CHAPTER 24
That night, the Sindaco gives the entire force a briefing that includes charts, graphs, and maps marking team movements and high-value targets.
When the Sindaco invited me here only an hour ago, he was clear it was only as Lunalette, symbol of hope and revolution. Not to get any grand ideas. That my presence is purely for morale and to appease my desire to be “less in the dark.”
Regardless, I’m taking it all in. Every detail is being committed to memory. And I’m secretly jotting down notes. Just in case.
Every thread is gone over point by point. The specific phase of the moon the night we attack. Which dens will be open and closed. Officers speak. Movements and alternative plans, if-all-else-fails scenarios are sketched in charcoal and paint on the cave wall.
By the time the briefing’s through—hours later—and everyone is dismissed, I’m ready to scale the dens, storm the Hill, and take out the Imperi even if on my own.
But based on the Sindaco’s last word on the matter, it won’t happen.
When I turn to leave, there’s a tap on my shoulder.
Dorian stands before me, holding out a folded piece of paper. “You dropped this.”
When I look down, I see it is indeed mine. I’d been using it to hide my notes, folded it around the smaller scrap of brown paper where I wrote down dates and times and circled which den exits to use. This paper, thankfully, is only marked with a small sketch of the Bellonian coast. I figured I should have something to show for all my scribbling if someone walked by and glanced down.
I’m about to tell him I don’t need it—when I catch a bit of writing that isn’t mine along the edge. “Oh, thanks.” I take it from him.
His eyes linger on mine for a beat before he’s called away. But when I sneak a glimpse over my shoulder as I leave the room, I catch him looking at me.
I hurry out of there before he sees how my face has gone flush.
* * *
DORIAN’S MESSAGE ALONG the corner of the paper reads, “V—after dinner, meet me outside the door to the garden.”