The Defiance (Brilliant Darkness) (25 page)

We spend the next few hours showing our people around, reassuring them and answering their questions with Kadee and Konol's help. Being knocked out and finding themselves somewhere other than the last place they remember wasn't exactly the best way to start off, but most people seem more preoccupied with their immediate needs.

Where will they live? What will they eat? This person needs new shoes, that one Nerang's healing attentions. It's not easy to meet everyone's demands, but we do the best we can. I welcome the distraction. Staying busy keeps my mind out of the past. I dread when I have to slow down long enough to try to sleep.

There aren't enough homes to go around yet, so some of the
anuna
offer to take people in, like Kadee did when I was a
lorinya
. Petrel and Moon will have one of the new homes, and I'm happy to hear that Arika and Derain invited Bear to stay with them until his home is ready.

The
anuna
stop us often to say hello, usually calling Peree by his nickname. One of the first to speak to us is a girl I worked with in the gardens when I was here before. She calls me
merry
again, and I ask her why.

She giggles. "Not merry,
Mirii."

Peree elbows me. "Fenn has a nickname, too? What does it mean?"

"Star," the girl answers. "Wherever she goes, people follow."

"Like you, Myall," Konol teases.

"I'm not ashamed to admit it.” Peree slips his arm around my waist.

I don't feel much like a guiding light. From what I know about stars, they seem very sure of their role and position in the night sky, while I question every decision I make. Then again, maybe that's what stars do at first, too, and the confidence comes later.

"What do you think of your new name?" Peree asks me.

"I hope I can live up to it," I say.

"You already have. You got us here."

Not all of us,
I can't help thinking. Anyway, he's being generous.
He
got us here, while I was mostly comatose in the caves. Some star.

A little later we help Moon, Petrel, Thrush, and the baby settle into their home. It's in the trees. They thought about a home on the ground, but decided they were still more comfortable up in the air.

The choice was set in stone, so to speak, when Thrush discovered the ropes-and-rock way down that sends you heedlessly crashing to the ground. He rides it down at least ten times. Moon's convinced he's going to be crushed by the counterweights, the heavy boulders, but Petrel and Peree insist it's all in good fun. I'm inclined to agree with Moon.

Their new shelter isn't as large or elaborate as their old home, and they only have a few pallets on the floor for furniture so far, but they don't seem to mind. Arika lent them a cradle for the hatchling that Kora and Darel outgrew years ago. I sit and rock her as we talk, leaning in every so often to inhale her scent: a blend of Moon's bouquet and her own fresh aroma, like spring grass.

Petrel and Peree finish arranging the pallets where Moon wants them, between the two windows so they catch the evening breezes. We can hear Thrush hollering and pelting up and down the walkway outside with another boy. How is it that children make friends with strangers so easily? If only adults did, too.

"I wasn't so sure when we woke up with a tea hangover this morning," Petrel jokes, "but I think we made the right decision in coming."

“Thank you, cousins," Moon says. "I'm so grateful to you both, and to Ivy, for delivering our hatchling.” I can tell she's exhausted—she's actually speaking at a normal rate—but she also sounds supremely happy. "Oh! Did Petrel tell you? We decided on a name for her."

Peree pounds Petrel on the back. "Good news. What did you go with?"

I plaster a smile on my face and brace myself, preparing to gush over the Lofty name no matter how preposterous it sounds to my Groundling ears.

"Yani," Moon says.

"Yani? That's . . . beautiful." And I actually mean it. They laugh, probably at the surprised tone in my voice. "Is it a . . . type of cloud or something?" Lofty women are usually named for something in their environment.

Petrel answers. "We figured we're starting a new life here, so maybe it's time for a new tradition. We asked the locals what the word for
hope
is in their language. Turns out it's
yani
."

"We thought it was perfect," Moon says.

I nuzzle little Yani, who sleeps contentedly in her cradle.
Hope
. "It
is
perfect. I love it."

"Now, can you tell me something?” Moon says. “What does
lorinya
mean? Everyone keeps calling us that."

And it's my turn to laugh.

Peree and I leave soon after, agreeing to take the new family to the water hole the next day for a swim. The cooling air is crisp as apples. We stroll along the walkway to the descending platform, stopping to chat with people along the way. I refuse to use the ropes-and-rocks method unless I absolutely have to.

"Care to come home with me?" Peree asks, a teasing note in his voice. It's been a while since we've been alone together.

"Shouldn't we do a little more to help people get settled in?" I ask, waving my hand around.

"It can wait. We promised to get them here. Mission accomplished. We can sneak away for an evening, don't you think?"

I don't answer right away; the silence grows between us. He unexpectedly pulls me off course, leading me across a wide platform. My stomach rolls in protest at the abrupt movement.

"There's a nice view from here; let's sit for a while."

He guides me to the edge and seats us with our backs against a supporting tree. I hear people above and below us, laughing and talking, but for the moment we're alone. The diving sun offers us a soft blanket of warmth, and birds serenade us from the surrounding branches. It's peaceful, exactly what Koolkuna is supposed to be.

But the moment I consider letting myself relax, thoughts of Eland steal in. It's impossible to sweep away the burning embers of regret in my chest. I didn't think I could miss someone more than Aloe, but I do.

I can tell Peree's going to ask me how I'm doing, and the last thing I want to do is break down again. So I preemptively change the subject.

"I have something to tell you," I say. "Something I learned right before we left." He waits. I take his hand, stroking his rough fingers. "Your natural mother—was Marjoram."

"Your herbalist?" he asks.

"She told me she hated that she had to give you up, that it was the biggest regret of her life." After being with Moon as she gave birth, and losing Eland, I have a better understanding of exactly how awful the Exchange really was.

"I'm glad to know," Peree says. "I never put much thought into who my natural parents were, but of course I was curious."

"She was a good person," I say. "And she obviously loved you."

He winds his fingers around mine. "I'm glad we won't have to go through that, if we have children."

I nod.

"Fenn . . . you said before, during our first trip through the caves, that you didn't want children because of the Exchange. Do you still feel that way?" He sounds cautious.

I shrug. I haven't had time to process everything that's happened, much less to think about the future. We don't speak for a few minutes, listening to the drifting chatter of the
anuna
around us. Thrush runs down the walkway behind us every so often, howling excitedly. It pierces me through each time I hear him.

Peree speaks again, sounding hesitant. "Have you ever heard the story of the coyote?"

A story would be nice. Maybe it will put off thoughts of Eland for a few minutes. "What kind of animal is a coyote?"

"Kind of like a dog. Do you know what that is?"

I do. Kora told me a story about dogs. They were animal companions for humans before the Fall. I'm not quite sure I believe that. It seems like an incredible luxury to live with a good-sized animal and not eventually have to eat it.

"Coyotes used to roam all over," Peree continues. "They ate small animals, like rabbits, and were very adaptable."

"What's a rabbit?" It's my weak attempt at a joke. If any animal thrived after the Fall, it's the rabbits. They're everywhere.

"Ha, ha. Coyotes were solitary animals. They only came together to make little coyotes."

He slides his hands around my waist. I drop my head back against his chest, bone tired, and allow his words to take me away from my misery for a little while.

"In the time before time," Peree says, "Coyote and his mate lived together, raising their family. They lived in the low mountains, hunting across the hills and through the wide-open spaces under the blue sky and bright sun. They never separated. When they had litters of young, they both tended them, taking turns to hunt. In the summer, food was plentiful. In the winter, they shared what they had to survive. They relied on one another, happy to be together.

"One winter the snows came early. Storm after storm fell over the coyotes' mountain home, and the sun never came to melt the snow. The small animals burrowed and hid from the weather, so the coyotes began to starve. Worse than that, their young starved, too. The pair watched their children waste away, one small life at a time, taken by the unforgiving frost and snow. When spring peeked through the smothering blanket of winter again, their young were all gone.”

I stiffen and Peree kisses the top of my head in apology.

"Coyote was terribly sad. His mate was inconsolable. She had wasted to the point of death, refusing to eat when he brought her food. Coyote didn't know what to do. One day, the warmest yet after the harsh winter, he found her sitting in a high place, looking out over the valley below. The mountains were still shedding the whites and grays of winter and wrapping themselves in the soft colors of spring.

"Coyote watched his mate, hoping the hint of light he saw in her golden eyes meant she was starting to recover from their loss. Maybe she was ready to begin again, start a new family, he thought. But his hopes were crushed when she spoke.

"'I'm leaving,' she said, her voice as desolate and broken as the higher ground above them, still clutched in winter's deadly grip. 'Then I will go with you,' Coyote said. His mate shook her beautiful, dappled grey head. 'No. I will go alone.' He realized then that the light he'd seen in her eyes had been the last bit of hope going out. It burned bright, but only for a moment, before extinguishing. He wanted to plead with her not to go, but he could see it would do no good. She would not recover from losing their young. Her heart was broken, the remnants washed away by her tears, never to be whole again. And he understood. For the last untouched part of his heart—the part that held and protected his love for his mate—was breaking, too."

My eyes are dry; dry as the deserts Peree once told me about. I have no more tears. Peree clears his throat before going on.

"The next morning she was gone, and from that day on Coyote lived alone. He still hunted under the blue sky and the bright sun, but he was never again happy. He rarely saw his mate. Yet sometimes, in the lonely darkness of night, they called to each other across the wind-swept mountains, sharing plaintive howls of grief and loss. And all that heard them prayed to be spared from such sorrow themselves."

Peree falls silent. I can't speak at all.

"I love you with all that I am," he finally says. "If I could, I would give my heart to you. But I'm afraid that even giving you my whole heart won't be enough to heal the damage done to yours."

I feel the compassion in his words, and the fear. I'm afraid, too. So afraid of losing someone else I love. I've been wondering if loving people is really worth it.

Because I know now—with painful, absolute certainty—that to truly love someone means risking everything: safety, security, contentment. Maybe forever.

"You’re all I want." His arms tighten around me. "If it were up to me, I would partner with you as soon as possible. Tomorrow. Today. Right now. But I can wait until you're ready. I can wait until your heart is healed."

That's the problem. I don't know if my heart will
ever
heal. If I'll ever be truly carefree and happy again. I love Peree with every fiber of my body, but why do I deserve to be happy when Eland and so many others will never have that chance? What would they think of my selfishness?

Peree's arms stay frozen around me, like time has stopped, as he waits for my response. How can I tell him I won't partner with him, after everything he's done for me, for us? He's lost at least as much as I have. He
does
deserve to be happy.

And that's when it hits me. My broken heart is irrelevant. How Eland or Aloe would feel doesn't matter much, either. It's far too late to worry about that. But I can make Peree happy. I can do that.

Isn't that what love really is, after all? Setting aside your own problems to be there for the other person when they need you? It's what Peree's always done for me.

I put my hand in my pocket and pull out the bird carving, holding it up. "Do me a favor? Make a new cord for my necklace. I want to wear it for the ceremony. That's part of the Lofty tradition, right?"

He traps the bird tightly with his hand, as if he's worried it might fly away like the cassowary woman did in the story he told me not so long ago. His voice is tight with emotion when he speaks. "Are you sure? I don't want you to agree only for me."

"For who then? After the Feast of Deliverance you asked me to be your future. That's what I want, too. A future with you. Today, tomorrow . . . and every day after.”

Peree's whispered words of love and devotion help curb the bleeding of my heart. In return, I kiss him desperately, passionately, giving him what reassurance I can.

My heart may never be hardy and whole again, but I don't want to be like Coyote's mate, living alone with my grief. Instead I will pour myself into Peree, and accept him in return, hoping that by sharing our sadness, somehow it might be easier to bear.