“Lunah, what are you doing?” Benaiah pulled his wife into his hut and bustled her away from windows and possible prying eyes. “If you get caught—”
“What?” Lunah cut in, “They’ll drown me?” She put her basket down and took her husband’s face between her calloused palms. “I will not be dictated to, Ben. I will go to my death on my own terms.” With a tenderness weighted by inevitability, she kissed him. “Millah, T’omah and Kanuah lie sleeping with one of Hazeah’s draughts, as does the King’s Prosecutor. On the morn, all will rise none the wiser.” Lunah took Ben’s hand and led him to the fireplace.
Benaiah couldn’t speak. Grief not only stole his voice, it crushed his will and numbed his wits. As Bastion’s clan chief, he’d bucked tradition and only ever accepted one wife. Keeping with clan law, just as his mother had been traded from Barbican, his father had traded a wife for him from Buttress. Lunah—first-daughter of Clan Chief—arrived on her eighteenth birthday. In this way, the clans of the three outer archipelagos continued their unity and power as the first line of defence for the mighty island kingdom of Felong. Benaiah and Lunah’s teen pairing had grown to a partnership of love that had endured for decades. Through them, the fierce warrior blood of generations had met, mingled and produced seven more fierce warriors: six cherished sons and their jewel, Millah.
Lunah whispered, “She is worthy.” Knowing Benaiah’s thoughts had gone to their youngest child and only daughter, she continued, “I have no regrets, Ben. I would do the same again. I would trade my life for hers.” Spreading her mat before the fire, Lunah handed Benaiah a cup from her basket and together they went through the ritual of their union meal.
Finally, Benaiah found voice and growled, “An injustice has been sanctioned either way.” With the memory of the night he and his clan had rescued the shipwrecked men and offered them hospitality, he spat, “I should have let them drown.”
Not wanting to spend this night giving energy and time to those she’d killed, Lunah attempted to calm her husband. Shushing him, she ran her hand down his braids then clung to him. Within his embrace, she allowed herself a moment of vulnerability and wept for the abundance of life and its treasures she was leaving behind. And yet, as he held his wife, Benaiah couldn’t help but remember that night. First, their guests had been foolish enough to offer him trinkets for the use of his soulmate. This affront alone should have guaranteed their death, but their position as emissaries for the King stayed his hand.
Lunah was first to suspect. She’d tracked the scum and discovered their crime. In every way they’d disrespected tribal culture and the laws of hospitality: the height of which had been abduction with intent to defile their eleven year-old daughter. The only boon of the night was that his three youngest, who still slept in his wife’s hut, had all been dosed with Hazeah’s broth. Ironically, to keep them safe and out of sight of the capital’s men, whose habits were offensive to the tribes. To this day, his youngest were ignorant of the night he and his men found Lunah standing over the slaughtered bodies of those who’d planned to disgrace and dispose of his unconscious daughter.
Ben had hoped the fourth, who’d escaped Lunah’s wrath, had died before reaching Rayna. But alas, in time, the challenge arrived from the capital. Benaiah confessed to his wife’s crime, for, as the spearhead of Felong’s defence, his punishment would be a mere warning. But Lunah would receive a death sentence: she was guilty of being a woman and taking a life. And yet, the warriors of the outer islands valued their women’s ferocity. Life’s harshness and the daily struggle to survive was a reality woven through the very fabric of their being. The pride Ben held for his wife’s fierceness only intensified his love for her, and his utter wretchedness at losing her. He vowed he would not sleep this night: he’d guard his wife, for he knew her rebellious spirit well. When he rose, he would force the King’s Prosecutor to accept his guilty plea.
Lunah watched her husband’s deep sleep. He would be furious when he awoke from Hazeah’s broth, but she knew her man’s protective heart well. Only when predawn’s silver blush tinted night’s velvet ebony, did she make her escape. Taking the well-trodden mountain track to Bastion’s famed cliffs, Lunah prayed the Great Spirit would watch over her family. On the topmost ledge, she was distracted by a puffy’r shrub whipped in the buffeting wind. She smiled remembering her husband’s love of the berries. Thinking of Ben weakened her resolve and a sob forced itself from her shredded heart. Toes over the ledge, battered by the wind roaring from the ocean below, Lunah plucked some berries and pressed them to her breast. Then, launching herself into the horizon, she trusted the savage wind to carry her spirit into eternity.
Draynor’s good mood from a fabulous sleep plummeted at the murderous murmur passing through the crowd. Silently he confessed relief at being surrounded by the King’s men. He’d been sent to uncover lies, allow Benaiah to save face, and convict and drown his wife. A married man himself, Draynor understood how irrational women could be. What he didn’t understand was why this man—a chief no less—would stand in his wife’s place. If only he could have kept his woman on a leash none of this would have happened, and he, Draynor, would not be stranded leagues from the Capital, in the sun, on the sand, decidedly ill at ease.
He gulped and paled as he considered Benaiah and attempted to address the crowd. His throat was parched, and his heart was galloping away with his resolve. Trapped between the will of the King—who held his life—and the might of this warrior—who could make him, and all the King’s men, disappear—he had nowhere to run. He looked for the woman on trial. “Where is the condemned?”
Benaiah, flanked by his clan, growled, “Gone.”
“Gone? Gone where? For goodness’ sake, she was supposed to be under guard.”
Draynor stumbled as Benaiah snarled, “She chose to sky-dance rather than death-swim by your hand.”
“Oh? What a relief.” The burden bending Draynor’s back took flight. “Right. I accept this testimony and bid you farewell.” And not a moment too soon, Draynor thought, considering the increasing aggression of the clan. At least the woman had the decency to do something right. Trying to keep his retreat to a speed-walk, Draynor called out, “After suitable mourning, the King will send a replacement wife. He feels, under the circumstances, better suited to pick an appropriate pairing for his greatest warrior chief. You may expect your replacement within the week.”
