The strategy is progressing and this time he must work. My back doesn’t hit the ground until thirty.

Mak comes to my side, smiling.

“Horrible?” I ask out of breath.

“No,” Mak says as he pulls me to my feet. “You did well. You don’t have the strength you used to, but that’s because Remy worked on this nearly every day.”

“To be fair Mak,” Arek’s resonant voice carries, “you aren’t a fighter.”

Something in Mak’s eyes change and he stands up straight. He and Arek stare at each other for long enough to make everyone shift uncomfortably. “Then why don’t you show her if I don’t have what it takes?”

Maybe it is Arek’s discomfort that makes me suddenly curious. “Yeah,” I say.

He looks at me with irritation. “I didn’t want to do this to begin with.”

“But you saw how she got better. Make sure she knows what she’s truly up against,” Mak goads.

Arek walks away.

“Please?” I call out. He stops. “My imagination is worse; I promise you that.”

For the first time since this all began, Kenichi’s accent sweeps silence over the men. “Peace means far more than the opposite of war.” Everyone looks at him, yet he stands confidently disconnected as though what he says is enough.

In seconds, Arek stands in front of me. “Ready?”

With Mak, there had been a stance that seemed to work against him and so I assume it again.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“How does anyone answer this question when a mountain stands in front of them?” I make the others laugh. Yet I had watched Beckah destroy the men she fought despite her size. How? “Ready,” I agree.

There is nothing to see, it happens so fast. None of it hurts, but before my hand can reach out, he catches me and twists me into a pretzel. It is hard to tell if it is one move or seventeen. He leans down over my trapped body with a raised eyebrow. “Every member of the Velieri force is like me and there are many of us.”

“All the more reason to teach me to fight,” I whisper from the ground.

After a few moments of silence, he helps me to my feet. “Not today. Let’s head back. Your father and I have work to do.”

Kenichi pats my back as he walks with me to the house. “It will come.”

“Where did you hear that quote? ‘Peace means far more than the opposite of war.’ It sounds familiar,” I ask as he hands me a flower that he picks up from the brick path.

“Mr. Rogers.” He smiles with a sly wink. “Let’s go drink.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

After several days at Kenichi’s, I have dreams of a life I don’t remember instead of Japha—the man who used to steal my nights. They don’t come in order, but when they do it’s as though the memories are mine again . . . no longer someone else’s.

Briston stands in a massive room that appears to be a court, yet larger. An audience extends to “standing room only” in the nearly five thousand square foot space. It is shaped like a pentagon where the two adjacent walls make a point and within that hangs a large statue of the letter V.

On one of these walls, opposite the audience, are box rooms extending out two feet, like those in an opera house. Forty women and men, including Japha, fill twenty box rooms.Three men and two women in white robes sit in a row of thick, dark wood tables just below these boxes.

Stone statues line the opposite side, five sculptures of angels hang from insets, and heavy purple material drapes tall windows in every corner of the room. Behind the audience is a massive bookcase, yet it isn’t filled with books—just old parchment scrolls.

Briston stands, facing the boxes and white robed men and women, with a baby in his arms.

One of the five in white robes stands. “We dedicate her to God and to the court. Under the laws of our ancestors, we shall protect her with all our power and see that she fulfills her path.”

“Thank you,” Briston says. “I have your word?”

“You have our word that it will be written and when the time comes, people will know of the revelation. But until then, Remona has our protection,” an old man assures Briston.

Whether it is the fact that my feet are strangled by the crumpled blanket at the end of the bed or the dream, either way, sweat stings my eyes. The humid air presses against me like a wet blanket making it difficult to breathe.

The Prophets in my dream are in charge, but somehow the men and women in the boxes behind them are also—that I know. Japha appears calm and quiet, a different man than the one who has been a part of my life.

It takes more than an hour to fall back asleep, but only a moment to dream.

Briston climbs on to a three-foot-high stone wall to walk the narrow surface. His eyes roam the large and empty land. Just ahead of him, the Swiss Alps reach into the clouds to hide. As he stares at them, he seems so lost in thought that the blonde-haired child sneaks behind him without notice. I am no older than eight as I tiptoe on the rock wall until he is only an arm’s length away. At first, I am watching the scene take place through the eyes of a watcher, until Remy’s sight becomes mine—as does her excitement and laughter that escapes from my throat.

With a tiny hand, I reach out, but a large roar fills the air as Briston grabs me in his arms. Together we laugh.

“What are you doing here?” he asks in a heavy Swiss accent.

“I want to be with you.” I, too, have this same accent.

“Then, come on. We have things to do.”

This is the first time I walk the streets of the villages with my father. In only moments, he has given many in need money, food, and his attention. For the first time I truly understand why Briston Landolin is a loved and revered man. His hand embraces many shoulders, and his lips smile to any, no matter their position. Each person clearly understands this is not normal behavior for an Electi.

“You see, Remy, it doesn’t matter what anyone says, if you can help one person, then you can eventually help them all.”

We walk hand in hand as my eyes follow a playful sparrow feeding off the community. It flies back and forth from one side to the next until it glides between two buildings off the path and lands on the cover of a black, fancy carriage. A woman in a black cloak, hood pulled over her eyes, turns just enough to reveal herself. The happiness consumes me when I see my mother, Lyneva. She is one of the most beautiful women in the world. It doesn’t matter that a nanny has taken her place for the eight years since my birth except for a few moments every morning. My eagerness wells within me and I shoot forward.

“Remy, stop!” Briston calls from behind.

My mother’s petite shoes tap the steps as she climbs into the carriage; she looks left and right, keeping a surveillance of everyone and everything. No one has seen her there, deep in the recesses.

“Momma!” I call out, but my voice is too small. The servant closes the door to the carriage as she sits down.

There is a man next to her in the shadows. When she sits back, it illuminates his face. The salt and pepper hair, the deep-set eyes, and the arthritic hands—just a bit younger. Japha grins at whatever my mother says.

“Momma?” I call out.

My voice carries with a small breeze and she turns. It is as though she has seen the dead.

“Go!” she motions to the driver.

My father kneels at my side. “Remy, you can’t run away from me here.” He is out of breath after the chase.