Page 22 of Romancing Rem'eb

Is that not what you are doing? a tiny voice inside me asks.

I ignore it.

Eventually, So’ran straightens. He drops his gaze and then kicks one of the loose rocks into the water. “If you say it is nothing, then I have no choice but to believe you.”

“It is nothing,” I reassure, relaxing my stance. “Why does it bother you?”

“Because this place is stagnant,” he says, and his expression changes to one of entreaty. “Can you not feel it? Our days are full of the same patterns, the same duties, as dictated by the chief. We eat and sleep and work to a schedule he decrees. We see the same faces day in and day out. The females are kept behind a wall and never seen and fewer children are born. When was the last time someone resonated?” He spreads his hands. “We are rotting in place. Of course I am interested when you act strangely. Change is interesting. All change interests me.”

“There is no change,” I tell him easily, even as my tail prickles. So’ran is more alert than I have given him credit for. I must be even more careful than I thought. “A bad bite of food has lingered in my gut. That is all.”

He continues to study my face, his gaze seeking, as if he can see through my lies. Then he nods, and to my surprise, reaches out and clasps my arm. “You must keep yourself well, Rem’eb the Fist. You are the last hope of our people.”

A strange thing to say, especially from one that is my bitter enemy. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that there are many of us that hate your father’s rules. That think he is wrong. He will not listen to reason, though. We have tried and tried to speak to him, all in vain. Now we simply hope that he will pass and you will take the chief’s seat and be prepared to listen. Your father is stubborn, but you have a good heart. Just…do not let your father whisper in your ears for too long.”

So’ran the Bitter stalks away to return to his fishing, and I wonder at his words. Is it true that everyone wants my father dead because they do not like his rule? Or simply more furious talk from the rebels?

It worries me, all of it. My people seem to be falling apart right in front of my eyes, and I do not know what to do about it. I can follow my father’s wishes and hold Tia captive until she resonates with me…and then what? Do I continue to hold her captive until she has my child? Do I then move her behind the wall with the other females?

Do I trap her into my life and my people’s village simply because I want her? And if So’ran finds out she exists, will the rebels rise up against my father?

The only solution seems to be to sneak her out of the Village of Those Who Remain, yet with every moment that passes, the thought of doing so pains me. The thought of never seeing her again fills me with a physical ache that threatens to consume me.

Which one do I choose?

Lost in thought, I cast my line over and over again and nothing bites. I leave at tide-fall and instead of joining the others in the village at the communal meal, I head to my father’s again. I can feel more eyes on me this time, and I force myself to move slowly as I walk past the wall. For the first time in my existence, I hold my breath as I pass for a different reason.

I do not want to resonate to someone that waits there on the other side.

I want Tia.

When I head into the kitchens, Cas’zor the Worthy is there, preparing a tray for my father. He pours a bowl of mushroom soup and then eyes me. He holds the bowl out to me instead of placing it on the tray. “When was the last time you ate, chief’s son?”

Searching my thoughts, I shrug. I do not remember. Perhaps when Tia offered me a slice of fruit? I have been too lost in my swirling thoughts to sit down and enjoy a meal. “I am not hungry.”

“Eat anyhow. Your face is pale.” He nudges the bowl toward me. “Is it resonance?”

If it was, would that make everything simpler? In some ways…and would complicate others. I shake my head. “Nothing yet.”

“A shame.”

“Is it?”

“It is if your father’s schemes come to nothing.” He pours a second bowl and sets it on the tray.

I watch him silently, holding my soup. Does he believe in my father’s plans? Does he think that our village is safe with the females all tucked away behind a wall? Or does he follow the beliefs of the rebels? Is he simply waiting for me to claim the chief’s seat? Cas’zor is loyal, but is he loyal to my father, or to the chiefdom?

“I will eat with my father,” I tell him, setting my bowl on the tray and taking it before he can. “I must speak with him in private.”

“Of course.” Cas’zor nods politely and steps away.

Taking the tray across the house, I find my father in his thinking room. He sits near a small fire, the scent of charred mushroom stems in the air. He is wrapped in a blanket, his expression distant.

He looks…frail. Tired. The opposite of his name, Mighty. I am told he was once a strong and powerful warrior, and battled many a metlak and gorger to keep our tunnels safe. But ever since the sickness, he has been a shadow of himself. Tonight, he seems more fragile than ever. His color bleeds to match the shade of his blankets, as if he cannot be bothered to keep his camouflage in check.

“Are you cold?” I ask, setting the tray down next to his seat by the fire.

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