The Defiant (The Valiant #2)(69)

“Just . . . here comes my clever plan.”

Sorcha turned to look as Kallista and more than a dozen of her sister warriors appeared—girls who, as Kallista had told me the night before, had voiced their own doubts about the rightness of the Amazon way. Together, the group of young women climbed up the steep path from the clusters of huts beneath the pines. They all wore traveling cloaks over their ragged tunics and had packs slung across shoulders and torsos. All of them carried their weapons, and a few had even painted their cheeks and foreheads with symbols, not unlike the war paint my sisters and I had arrived wearing. They strode toward us, walking as tall as they could, as brave and as fearless, in the face of what they were about to do.

I waited.

Kallista stepped up and cleared her throat.

None of the Amazon matrons turned their attention toward her. At first.

“I will go with this gladiatrix on her journey,” she said, just a little too loud.

That got their attention.

I wondered if it was the journey itself or the act of announcing her intentions to the Amazon matrons that had put the hint of a quaver in Kallista’s voice. Whatever the case, I silently cheered her bravery.

“What’s this, young one?” Areto said over her shoulder—but only after a sufficiently intimidating pause.

“I will go and I will help her win back her home,” Kallista continued, thrusting her chin forward. “We all will.”

Areto regarded her with a stone-hard gaze. “Will you now.”

She nodded gravely.

“This is not our war to fight.”

“But it is ours.” Kallista took another step forward. “Because we choose to make it so.”

“Kallista—”

“I’m tired of hiding on this island, Areto!” She flung her arm out to the girls with her. “We all are! I’m so tired of telling myself every night I am descended from greatness, only to wake every morning to practice my spear throwing at nothing but the fish in the lagoon. The fish are tired of it!”

One of the Amazon matrons—the one with the long, puckered scar that ran from her hairline, down the side of her face, and past the collar of her tunic—crossed her arms and pegged Kallista with a pointed stare. “What if we don’t wish to let you leave, young ones?”

The other girls standing shoulder to shoulder behind Kallista bristled with silent rebellion, defiance in their eyes, but not one of them opened her mouth in protest. That seemed to settle it for the warrior matron. She sniffed and turned away.

“No,” she said. “Return to your houses.”

“We don’t have houses!” Kallista’s voice cracked with protest. “We have huts. Leaky ones. With dirt floors and hard beds.”

“You crave leisure?” Areto asked. Her tone was harsh, but for a flashing instant, I thought I saw something in her gaze that might have been approval. Or veiled pride.

“I crave something beyond the stones and trees of this island and talking to myself just to hear something other than birdsong and wind,” Kallista pleaded with a desperation I could feel in my soul.

“Ah.” The older of the women remained unmoved. “You crave adventure. You know nothing of the world of men. They will make vile sport of you in the moments before they send you to your deaths.”

“Only if you’ve trained us to be weaker than them,” Kallista snapped, seemingly no longer caring whether or not she would be punished for speaking out. “Lesser. Is that what you’re telling me? That everything you’ve taught us has only served to render me—to render us—incapable of living and fighting in a world that isn’t just other girls with swords?”

The older woman’s fists clenched white at her sides, and for a moment I thought she might actually strike Kallista for her impudence. But then Arviragus suddenly stepped forward into the tense space between the Amazons.

It was a brave thing for him to do.

“What if . . .” he began in a conciliatory tone as the Amazon leaders turned their flinty glares on him. “What if I were to suggest a compromise? A means of solution to this impasse? These young ones are the future of this tribe. It is understandable that you do not wish to simply give them over into the keeping of outsiders when you gain nothing in return. What if we were to make a bargain with you, instead? An exchange, as it were.”

Sorcha and I shared a confused glance, and I made a grab for his arm. This was not part of my plan. “My lord, what—”

He held up a hand to silence me.

“Honored Warrior Mother,” he said, directing his words to the scar-faced Amazon, “my name is Arviragus of the Arverni. I was once known in the world of men as Vercingetorix. But even here, in this place, I think you will have heard of me.”

She had. They all had. That much was obvious from their expressions—mostly surprise and wary respect—as they watched with unblinking stares while Arviragus reached over his shoulder for the shield he carried on his back and tossed it to the ground in front of Areto’s feet. He unbuckled his sword belt and threw it after the shield.

My breath caught in my throat.

“I’ve only ever done that once before,” he said.

“Why, then, do you do it now?” Areto asked. “Your side won this time.”

Arviragus grinned wanly in response to the jab. “I do it as a sign of respect,” he said, “and as a plea for parley on my companions’ behalf . . . and refuge on mine.”