Skye shifts her death stare to Tristan. “You shoulda thought of that ’fore you murdered our people, ’fore you declared war on the Tri-Tribes.”
Murder? War? The Glassies. “The Glassies murdered your people,” I say.
“Don’t play wooloo,” Skye says. “You were probably there with the rest of ’em.”
“We don’t even know who the Glassies are,” Tristan says. “I swear it.”
“Swear on the sun goddess,” Siena says. She pulls another arrow out of the pouch strapped to her back. Doesn’t nock it, just holds it. Like a warning. Lie and die.
“I don’t know who the sun goddess is,” I say, “but I’ll swear on her and my life and the life of my mother and sister, too, if that’s what it takes for you people to listen.”
Skye suddenly stabs her sword into the ground. Chews on her lip. Sighs, as if exhausted. “If yer not Glassies, who the scorch are you? Yer as white as the snow-capped mountains of ice country, but yer not Icers—not dressed like that. And yer not Soakers, ’cause yer not freckly and don’t smell like the big waters. With yer pale skin, you can only be Glassies. And what in the big-balled Tug are you wearin’ over yer eyes and on yer heads? Looks like somethin’ them Glassies would wear, ain’t no mistaking.”
“Dammit!” I say, shoving my own sword into the ground. I’m angry and the sun isn’t helping—it’s hotter than I ever could’ve imagined, drawing sweat out of my skin like I’ve been running laps around the girls in front of us, rather than just standing here across from them. “We’re not freaking Glassies!” I rip my sunglasses off, but the light is so bright I have to shut my eyes, so I put them right back on. The brim of my hat casts a shadow down to my chin. Amidst the confrontation, I’d forgotten we were wearing them until Skye pointed it out.
“Adele, stay cool,” Tristan says, sliding his sword into his belt. Turning to our adversaries, he says, “Forgive us, we’re not used to the heat, the sun. We just came up here to have a look around. We don’t know who the Glassies ar—” He stops suddenly, like he’s been slapped. “The Glassies…” he murmurs, almost under his breath, trailing off.
“Tristan,” I say. “What is it?”
“Adele and Tristan,” Skye mutters, “what kinds of names are those?”
I ignore her, my attention fixed on Tristan, whose eyebrow is raised to the red sky. “Oh no,” he breathes.
“What?” I ask again.
“I think the Glassies are the earth dwellers,” he says.
Chapter Two
Siena
I don’t know what it is, but I like something about this girl, Adele. She doesn’t look like us, certainly doesn’t talk like us, but the way she didn’t back down from Skye, never so much as looked away, reminds me so much of my older sister I can’t help but like her. If there’s one thing I learned from all my ’xperiences, it’s that you can’t judge people until you get to know them. The Icers, who I thought were the baggards of the earth, turned out to be mostly okay, ’cept for mad King Goff who was leading them. And the Stormers, who at first I had hated hated hated, were really the ones trying to do the right thing. Even the Soakers—despite their roughness and somewhat creepy lust for war ’n blood—weren’t so bad once the devil-reincarnate Admiral Jones was dead. Scorch, my sister, Jade, even has a thing for one of them, and she was a slave for six years, so she would know the good from the bad.
Now Adele is staring at the guy, Tristan she called him, with such intensity I almost wanna laugh. But I also wanna know what they’re talking ’bout. “What’s an earth dweller?” I say, thinking of Perry right away. My prickly friend is most definitely stuck in the earth, so I suppose you could call him an earth dweller.
But Tristan doesn’t seem to hear me, or if he does he ignores me, ’cause he and Adele are staring at each other. Adele says, “President Lecter is slaughtering their people?” like it’s a question, but the look on her face tells me she’s not looking for an answer. She’s gone even paler, her cheeks a white sheen even under the shadow of the ridiculous piece of stiff cloth on her head.
“Who the scorch is President Lecter?” Skye asks.
Adele and Tristan both turn sharply toward us, like they’re only just remembering we’re here. Tristan’s hands are tightened into fists, which are turning slightly pink under the hot sun, like he wants to punch someone. If he tries anything, I’ll feather him with arrows quicker’n he can say sunburn.
“He’s a person, like us,” Tristan starts, but then stops suddenly, shaking his head. “Not like us, not really. I mean…” He’s having trouble explaining, which isn’t helping the tension in the air. I see Skye pull her sword outta the ground slowly. Just in case.
“Let me,” Adele says gently, placing a hand on Tristan’s arm, which is now trembling slightly. A simple touch, but it speaks so much to me. It’s the way I would touch Circ—the way he would touch me. More’n a touch—a feeling. These two mean a great deal to each other, that much is as clear as the cloudless sky above us.
Fingers brushing Tristan’s skin, Adele says, “Do you know of the people living underground?”
Wilde looks at Skye. Skye looks at me. I shake my head, say, “All we know is that one day the Glassies popped from the ground. Only they weren’t the Glassies, not yet. They were just white-skinned people, like you, trying to build shelters. It was a long time ago. They didn’t last very long. They weren’t used to the air. It’s…not good air.”
The guy, Tristan, takes a step back out of the sun, removes his eye coverings. Adele mimics his movements. Her eyes are huge, as big as a full moon, but his are even bigger. “What happened next?” he asks.
I shrug. They came back. Not the same ones, of course, they were dead, but others. More prepared. Wearing funny suits. Protected somehow. I wasn’t even born, but we all know the history. Over many years they built huge structures, constructed a glass dome over everything. Only once the dome was finished did they stop wearing their funny suits. We don’t know for sure, but we think the dome protects them from the bad air. They live longer’n we do.”
“Why did they attack you?” Adele bursts out, like the question’s been pushing against her lips for a while now.
Wilde responds ’fore I can even begin to think of what to say. “They’re scared of us. Because we’re different than them.”
“They searin’ killed a bunch of us,” Skye adds, “but not all. They underestimated us. Now we’re gonna kill ’em. Startin’ with you.”
I watch as Adele’s fingers tighten ’round her sword handle. Her face hardens. It’s like watching Skye look at her reflection in the watering hole.
“Skye,” Wilde says, “we should listen to what they have to say.”
Skye doesn’t look convinced, but she relaxes her body a little, as if she’s not looking for a fight. But I know better. She’s still standing on the balls of her feet, still strung as tight as a bowstring, ready to spring into action if she doesn’t like what she hears. My fingers dance along the shaft of the pointer I’m holding, too, just in case I need to use it.
Turning back to our visitors, Wilde says, “Tell us again who you are, how you fit in with the Glassies. You said you’re sun dwellers?”
“Yes.” Tristan nods vehemently. Says “Yes,” one more time. “Well, I’m a sun dweller. We live underground. There are three layers, Sun, Moon, and Star. Adele is a moon dweller, from the middle layer. The deepest are the star dwellers. There’s been a massive rebellion; our people have been fighting, because my father was…not a good man…a tyrant.” Don’t I know the feeling. Our father was a bad man, too, selling my younger sister, Jade, to the Soakers in exchange for what he thought was a Cure for the airborne disease killing my people. Only he didn’t want it for my people. Just for himself and a select group of leaders. Not a good man. I don’t cry when I remember his death. Killing him is ’bout the only good thing the Glassies have done.