Suddenly, she met him. Her lips were soft on his. She smelled like dew and campfire smoke. Wisps of her hair tickled the sides of his face.
He never wanted it to end. Energy pulsed through him. It was like riding the bicycle down the mountainside without wrecking once.
When she drew away, he let her, not wanting to push his luck. She giggled.
Her eyes darted around, afraid to meet his. He was smiling so wide that his lips had stuck to his teeth. He ducked his head away awkwardly. She gently pulled her hand away from his.
“Well, um, I have to go,” she said and gave him a look over her shoulder as she walked away that made it seem like there was a joke that only they knew. His head whirled. His spirits soared, far removed from the crushing guilt that had laid over him for days.
He had kissed Sabelle! The realization of it struck him a bit belatedly. His stomach fluttered, and his smile stretched from ear to ear. For a few moments, he was someone else. Someone who had not led his village to starvation with a stupid scheme.
But to go from despair to soaring so high only made the fall back down to Earth worse than ever when it came.
Soon, she would find out about the mold, and she would hate him. After that, he would die, and she would starve along with everyone else.
Illya found Conna sitting beside the Enforcers’ fire with Aaro that evening. He had spent the entire day searching through the book one more time for a cure for the mold, but there still was nothing to be found. His adviser had always been able to come up with ideas before now. As much as Illya didn’t want to involve anyone else, he was quickly running out of options.
Shockingly, Conna smirked when Illya asked to speak to him alone.
“Sabelle?” he asked with a knowing voice once Illya had shut his door.
“What?” It was the last thing Illya had expected to hear.
“Everyone is talking about it. Word gets around.”
“But no one else was there,” Illya protested. It bothered him to think of everyone talking about him and Sabelle. It had felt like their secret. A sweet thing he could keep to redeem a little of the devastation of the past few days.
“She probably told her friends. She’s a girl. That’s what they do,” Conna said.
Illya scowled. “Humph.” He hesitated before saying more, wondering again if it was right to say anything to Conna. He sighed, and his shoulders fell. There was no other way.
“We have a problem,” he said, keeping his voice low. “The plants are diseased.”
Conna wrinkled his forehead as if he didn’t understand.
“I went to look at the original ones. They’re grown over with mold. They are all dead,” he said. Conna’s eyebrows pulled together so tight that a chasm of skin appeared between them.
“It showed up on our plants yesterday.” Illya paused, chewing on the inside of his lip. “They are going to die.”
Conna’s eyebrows flew up. “You have got to be kidding!” he whispered.
Illya shook his head, wishing with a profound desperation that he was.
“No,” Conna said, shaking his head and backing up several steps. The color drained from his face.
“Unless we can think of another plan, there’s going to be nothing at harvest time,” Illya said.
“This is bad,” Conna said. He ran his hands through his hair. “Really bad.”
“We have to tell them about it,” Illya said.
Conna’s eyes widened. He shook his head with vehemence. “We can’t say anything!” he whispered.
“They are going to find out soon. It’s small, but it’s going to spread,” Illya said.
Conna glared at him and shook his head again as if he refused to believe it. “You know what they’ll do to us.”
“I know.” Illya sighed. “I heard some of them talking last night. They are trying to get support to take the leadership from us. But if we can think of a way to fix things, they might be willing to listen… I thought about planting again.”
Conna frowned and crossed his arms. “There isn’t time. At the rate that those plants have grown so far, new ones wouldn’t be big enough before the frost,” he said.
“So, we think of something else,” Illya answered.
Conna let out his breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll think of something, but you have to give me some time.”
“We don’t have much time. Soon the white will spread enough that someone will notice it,” Illya said.
Conna looked at his feet and paused before continuing.
“I’m just… fuzzy headed tonight,” he said, sounding ashamed. “A little too much of that brew, my head isn’t working right.”
“Fine,” Illya said. “Tomorrow, when it wears off, we’ll talk again. We have to think of something.” Conna was staring the ground in anger, or perhaps it was shame.
Illya put his hand on Conna’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said. “No matter what happens, it’s me they’re going to be mad at anyway.” He tried to laugh and failed. Things could be worse, he thought. At least there was one friend left who still considered himself that.
“Go get some sleep,” Illya said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ILLYA HAD NEVER really been asleep, but at a certain point his eyes opened, and he knew. There could be no more waiting.
He had already waited for three days, doing nothing while the disease had advanced. Three fruitless days where he had done nothing but ignore the catastrophe that could kill them all. He sat up, wide awake in the dim light, with a conviction that he could not go a step further if the steps were leading his people in this way.
His people. He had never thought of them quite in that way. In his mind, they had been something like adversaries all along; people to influence, to bring along, to push and pull and change. The thought filled him with shame. His people! They were the people he led, who he was responsible for, and who he was letting down.
Sabelle’s soot-streaked face swam in his thoughts; then the thought of Benja sitting in his cell; Charlie’s humble pride over the plants that were doomed; the people meeting in the dark, plotting against him, but only wanting him to see, to listen to them. Samuel was right, and his mother too, and Benja.
All of them were right. He had made a terrible mistake. It didn’t matter what the villagers did to him when they found out. He couldn’t leave it for another moment.
He tried to get up and found his muscles would not obey him. They could do anything at alclass="underline" death, dismemberment, little things like that. The fear of it was real enough to evoke a physical response in a direct argument with his convictions.
But there was no other choice. Illya did not have a magical plan to save them all, and he knew now that they would not find one. He was not a prophet, and the book was just a book, the random thoughts of a people long gone. All he could do was tell the truth and hope that they had enough time left to figure something out. With everyone working together, they could still have a chance; maybe Conna would find a way for them after all, but they couldn’t afford to lose another day.
Sweating and shaking, Illya swung his feet over the edge of his furs and wiped his hands off on his thigh, adding minuscule wear to the hand-shaped tracks already on his pants. As if getting all the sweat off could solve the problem.
After that, all that remained were the small, practical actions that would bring him to the end. They were ordinary things that he didn’t usually think about, but he now found himself focusing on each moment with peculiar intensity.
Out of bed.
One foot in front of the other. Ignore the dread. Wipe your hands. Force yourself forward, keep walking, splash water on your face. Swallow the lump in your throat, keep walking, smooth your hair. Wipe your hands again. Sweat is your only enemy now. Keep going.