The Pledge E-Book

Kimberly Derting

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: The Pledge Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 391

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Words are the most dangerous weapon of all...Seventeen-year-old Charlaina knows she has exceptional but perilous powers. In the far future, in a land controlled by an aged and ruthless queen, the classes are strictly divided by the language they speak. Even acknowledging a member of the ruling class while they are speaking their native tongue is punishable by death. Charlie can understand all languages, a secret she must protect to stay alive. When she meets the alluringly handsome Max, who speaks in a language she hasn't heard before, she is intensely attracted to him. Max believes that Charlie is the key to something bigger and he pledges to protect her. But as war descends, can she trust him?

Leseprobe

The PLEDGE

KIMBERLY DERTING

To Abby, Connor, and Amanda.

You know why.

Contents

Title PageDedicationPART IPROLOGUEITHE QUEENIIIIIMAXIVVXANDERMAXVIVIIVIIIIXXXIPART IIXIITHE QUEENMAXXIIITHE QUEENMAXXIVXANDERXVXVIXVIIXVIIIXIXTHE QUEENXXTHE QUEENXXIXXIIXXIIIXXIVTHE QUEENXXVMAXXXVIEPILOGUEACKNOWLEDGMENTSAbout the AuthorCopyright

PART I

PROLOGUE

142 YEARS AFTER THE REVOLUTION OF SOVEREIGNS

The air crackled like a gathering thunderstorm the moment the girl entered the chamber. She was just a child, but her presence changed everything.

With effort, the queen turned her head on her pillow as she watched the little girl pad into the chamber on slippered feet. The child kept her chin tucked tightly against her chest as her fingers clutched the sides of her nightgown, clenching and unclenching nervously.

Maybe the queen’s guards weren’t even aware of the charge in the air, but she was suddenly conscious of the blood coursing through her veins, the quickening of her pulse, and the sound of each breath that she took – no longer ragged and wheezing.

She turned her attention to the men who’d escorted the child. ‘Leave us,’ she declared in a voice that had once been filled with authority but now came out hoarse and papery.

They had no reason to question the command; certainly the girl would be safe with her own mother.

The child jumped at the sound of the door closing behind her, her eyes widening, but she still refused to meet her mother’s stare.

‘Princess Sabara,’ the queen said softly, in her quietest voice, trying to gain the young girl’s trust. In her daughter’s six short years, the queen had spent little time with her, leaving her in the care of governesses, nurses, and tutors. ‘Come closer, my darling.’

The girl’s feet shuffled forward, but her eyes remained fastened on the floor – a trait reserved for the lower classes, her mother noted bitterly. Six was young, maybe too young, but she’d delayed for as long as she could. The queen was young too; her body should have had many good years remaining, but now she lay sick and dying, and she could no longer afford to wait. Besides, she’d been grooming the girl for this day.

When the girl reached her bedside, the queen held out her hand, tipping the child’s small chin upward and forcing the young princess to meet her eyes. ‘You’re the eldest girl child born to me,’ she explained – a story she’d told the child dozens of times already, reminding her of just how special she was. How important. ‘But we’ve talked about this, haven’t we? You’re not afraid, are you?’

The little girl shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears as they darted nervously one way and then the other.

‘I need you to be brave, Sabara. Can you be brave for me? Are you ready?’

And then the girl’s shoulders stiffened as she steadied herself, finding her queen’s eyes at last. ‘Yes, Mamma, I’m ready.’

The queen smiled. The girl was ready; young but ready.

She will be a beauty in her time, the queen thought, studying the girl’s smooth porcelain skin and her soft, shining eyes. She will be strong and powerful and feared, a force to be reckoned with. Men will fall at her feet …

… and she will crush them.

She will be a great queen.

She took a shaky breath. It was time.

She reached for the girl, clutching the child’s tiny fingers in hers, the smile evaporating from her lips as she concentrated on the task at hand.

She ushered forth her soul, that part deep inside of her that made her who she was. Her Essence. She could feel it coiling tightly inside of her, still full of life in ways that her body no longer was.

‘I need you to say the words, Sabara.’ It was nearly a plea, and she hoped the girl didn’t realize how badly she needed her, how desperate she was for this to work.

The little girl’s gaze remained fastened to the queen, and her chin inched up a notch as she spoke the words they’d rehearsed. ‘Take me, Mamma. Take me instead.’

The queen inhaled sharply, the muscles of her hand seizing around the girl’s as she closed her eyes. It wasn’t pain she felt. In fact, it was closer to pleasure as her Essence unfurled, misting and swirling like a dense fog as it spread through her, breaking free from its constraints at last.

She heard the child gasp, and then felt her struggle, trying to free her fingers from her mother’s grip. But it didn’t matter now; it was too late. She’d already said the words.

The overwhelming sense of ecstasy nearly shattered her, and then dulled, fading again as her Essence settled into a new space, curling into itself once more. Finding peace at long last.

She kept her eyes squeezed tight, not ready yet to open them, not ready to know whether the transfer had worked or not. And then she heard the faintest of sounds, a soft gurgling. Followed by nothing.

A deafening silence.

Slowly – so very slowly – she opened her eyes to see what it was …

… and found herself standing at the side of the bed, staring into the empty eyes of the dead queen. Eyes that had once belonged to her.

I

81 YEARS LATER 223 YEARS AFTER THE REVOLUTION OF SOVEREIGNS

I gritted my teeth as Mr Grayson’s voice grew louder and louder, until there was no mistaking that he meant for the people in the congested street to hear him, despite the fact that he knew full well they couldn’t understand a single word he spoke.

It was the same thing every day. I was forced to listen to his shameless bigotry simply because his shop stood across the crowded marketplace from my parents’ restaurant. He didn’t bother disguising his contempt for the refugees that flooded our city, bringing with them their ‘poverty and disease’.

And he did it right in front of them, smiling falsely to their faces while they filed past his shop, displaying wares he hoped to sell them. Of course, they had no real way of knowing – other than his scornful tone – that the shopkeeper mocked and ridiculed them since he spoke in Parshon, and they were obviously not vendors. They were the impoverished, sharing the downcast gazes of the Serving class. Yet even as the merchant called them names they couldn’t understand, they never glanced up. It wasn’t permitted.

Only when he finally addressed them in the universal language of Englaise did their eyes lift to meet his. ‘I have many fine fabrics,’ he boasted in an effort to draw their attention, and hopefully their wallets. ‘Silks and wools of the finest quality.’ And beneath his breath, but still loud enough to be heard, ‘And remnants and dirty scrap pieces as well.’

I glanced across the swell of tired faces crowding the market at this hour and saw Aron looking back at me. I narrowed my eyes to a glare, a wicked smile touching the corners of my lips. Your father’s an ass, I mouthed.

Even though he couldn’t hear what I said, he understood my meaning and grinned back at me, shocks of sand-colored hair standing up all over his head. I know, he mouthed back, a deep dimple digging its way through his left cheek. His warm golden eyes sparkled.

My mother poked her elbow into my ribs. ‘I saw that, young lady. Watch your language.’

I sighed, turning away from Aron. ‘Don’t worry, I always watch my language.’

‘You know what I mean. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk from you, especially in front of your sister. You’re better than that.’

I stalked inside, taking shelter from the glare of the morning sun. My little sister sat at one of the empty tables, her legs swinging back and forth as she bobbed her head and pretended to feed the threadbare doll perched on the table in front of her.

‘First of all, she didn’t hear it,’ I protested. ‘No one did. And, apparently, I’m not better than that.’ I raised my eyebrows as my mom went back to wiping down the tables. ‘Besides, he is an ass.’

‘Charlaina Hart!’ My mom’s voice – and her words – shifted to the throaty mutterings of Parshon, just as they always did when she lost her patience with me. She reached out and snapped me on the leg with her towel. ‘She’s four; she’s not hard of hearing!’ She threw a glance toward my sister, whose silver-blond hair gleamed in the sunlight pouring in through the windows.

My little sister never even looked up; she was accustomed to my mouth.

‘Maybe when Angelina’s old enough for school, she’ll learn better manners than you have.’

I bristled against my mother’s words. I hated when she said things like that; we both knew Angelina wouldn’t be going to school. Unless she found her voice soon, she wouldn’t be permitted to attend.

But instead of arguing, I shrugged stiffly. ‘Like you said, she’s only four,’ I answered in Englaise.

‘Just get out of here before you’re late. And don’t forget: we need you to work after school, so don’t go home.’ She said this as if it were unusual. I worked every day after school. ‘Oh, and make sure Aron walks with you; there are a lot of new people in the city, and I’d feel better if the two of you stayed together.’

I stuffed my schoolbooks into my worn satchel before dropping down in front of Angelina as she silently played with her dolly. I kissed her on her cheek, secretly slipping a piece of candy into her already sticky palm. ‘Don’t tell Mommy,’ I whispered close to her ear, wisps of her hair tickling my nose, ‘or I won’t be able to sneak you any more. Okay?’

My sister nodded at me, her blue eyes clear and wide and trusting, but she didn’t say anything.

My mother stopped me before I could go. ‘Charlaina, you have your Passport, don’t you?’ It was an unnecessary question, but one she asked daily, every time I left her sight.

I tugged at the leather strap around my neck, revealing the ID card tucked within my shirt. The plastic coating was as warm and familiar to me as my own skin.

Then I winked at Angelina, reminding her one last time that we had a secret to keep, before I hurried out the door and into the congested streets.

I raised my hand above my head, waving to Aron as I passed his father’s shop, signaling that he should meet me in our usual spot: the plaza on the other side of the marketplace.

I pressed my way through the bodies, remembering a time – before the threat of a new revolution – when the streets were not so crowded, when the marketplace was simply a place for commerce, filled with the smells of smoked meats and leather and soaps and oils. Those smells were still here, but now they were mingled with the scent of unwashed bodies and desperation, as the market became a refuge for the country’s unwanted, those poor souls of the Serving class who’d been forced from their homes when trade lines had been cut off by the rebel forces. When those they served could no longer afford to keep them.

They flocked to our city for the promise of food and water and medical care.

Yet we could scarcely house them.

The monotone voice coming from the loudspeakers above our heads was so familiar I might not have noticed it if the timing weren’t so uncanny: ‘ALL UNREGISTERED IMMIGRANTS MUST REPORT TO CAPITOL HALL.’

I clutched the strap of my bag and kept my head low as I pushed ahead.

When I finally emerged from the stream of bodies, I saw Aron already standing in front of the fountain in the plaza, waiting for me. For him it was always a race.

‘Whatever,’ I muttered, unable to keep the grin from my lips as I handed him my book bag. ‘I refuse to say it.’

He took my heavy load without complaint, beaming back at me. ‘Fine, Charlie, I’ll say it: I win.’ Then he reached into his own bag, which was slung across his shoulder. Behind us, the water from the fountain trickled musically. ‘Here,’ he said, handing me a fold of soft black fabric. ‘I brought you something. It’s silk.’

As my fingers closed around the smooth material, I gasped. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. Silk, I repeated in my head. I knew the word but had never actually touched the fabric before. I squeezed it in my hand, rubbing it with my fingertips, admiring the way it was almost sheer and the way the sun reflected back from it. Then I turned to Aron, my voice barely a whisper. ‘It’s too much.’ I tried to give it back to him.

He shoved my hand away, scoffing, ‘Please. My dad was going to throw it in the scrap bin. You’re small enough; you can use the pieces to make a new dress or something.’

I glanced down at my scuffed black boots and the dull gray cotton dress I wore, plain and loose-fitting like a sack. I tried to imagine what this fabric would feel like pressed against my skin: like water, I thought, cool and slippery.

When Brooklynn arrived, she dropped her bag at Aron’s feet. As usual, she didn’t say ‘Good morning’ or ‘Would you please?’ but Aron reached for her bag anyway.

Unlike his father, there wasn’t an unkind bone in Aron’s body. Or maybe ‘stupid’ was the word I sought to describe the elder Grayson. Or rude. Or lazy. It didn’t matter; any of those unflattering traits that his father possessed had apparently bypassed his son.

‘What? You didn’t bring me anything?’ She jutted her full lower lip in a pout, and her dark eyes flashed enviously as she eyed the silk in my hands.

‘Sorry, Brook, my dad would notice if I snagged too much at once. Maybe next time.’

‘Yeah, right, Midget. You say that now, but next time it’ll be for Charlie too.’

I smiled at Brook’s nickname for Aron. He was taller than Brooklynn now, taller than both of us, yet she still insisted on calling him Midget.

I slipped the delicate fabric into my bag with great care, wondering what, exactly, I would make from it, already anxious to put needle and thread to it.

Brook led the way as we moved around the perimeter of the plaza, where the crowds were already gathering. As always, we took the long way, avoiding the central square. I’d like to think that it was Brook’s or even Aron’s idea – or that either of them was as disturbed by the things that happened in the square as I was – but I doubted that was true. I knew it bothered me more.

From somewhere overhead, another message crackled: ‘ALL SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY MUST BE REPORTED TO YOUR NEAREST PATROL STATION.’

‘Passports,’ Aron announced solemnly as we approached a new checkpoint at the base of the giant archway that led to the city streets. He reached beneath his shirt, just as Brook and I did, pulling out our IDs.

There were more and more of the checkpoints lately, with new ones appearing overnight. This one was no different from most: four armed soldiers, two for each line – one for the men and one for the women and children. After the photo on each Passport was visually matched to the person wearing it, the identification card was scanned through a portable electronic device.

The checkpoints didn’t matter, really; they weren’t meant for us. We weren’t the revolutionaries they sought to keep from moving freely about the city. To Brook and Aron and me, they were simply another security measure, one of the consequences of the war brewing within the borders of our own country.

And if you asked Brooklynn, the checkpoints were a bonus, new opportunities to practice her flirting techniques.

Brook and I stood in our line, remaining silent as we awaited our turn. While our Passports were being scanned into the system and we waited to be cleared, I stood back and watched as Brook batted her thick black lashes at the young soldier holding her card.

He glanced down at the scanner, and then back to her again, and the corner of his mouth rose subtly, almost unnoticeably. Brook stepped closer than she needed to when the light on the portable computer flashed green, clearing her.

‘Thank you,’ she purred as she held his gaze, her voice low and husky. She slipped the Passport down the front of her shirt, making sure he watched it fall.

The IDs weren’t anything new to us. They’d been issued for as far back as anyone could remember. But it was only in the last few years that we’d been forced to start wearing them in order to be ‘tracked’, so that the queen and her officials knew where we were at all times. Just another reminder that the revolutionaries were tightening their stranglehold on the crown.

I’d once seen someone taken into custody at one of the checkpoints, a woman who had tried to slip through using another person’s Passport. She’d passed the visual inspection, but when the card was scanned, the little light on the machine flashed red instead of green. The Passport had been reported stolen.

The queen had no tolerance for crime. Theft was

treated just as severely as treason or murder would be: All were punishable by death.

‘Charlie!’ Aron’s voice dragged me out of my own thoughts. I hurried after them, not wanting to be late for school, as I tucked my Passport back inside the front of my dress and ran to catch up. As I reached them, a loud cheer went up behind us – coming from the crowded square we’d just left behind.

None of us flinched or even faltered in our steps. Not one of us so much as blinked to acknowledge that we’d even heard the sound, not when we were so near the guards at the checkpoint who were always watching.

I thought briefly of the woman I’d seen that day, the one with the stolen Passport, and I wondered what it had been like for her, standing on the gallows in the square surrounded by a crowd of onlookers. People who jeered at her for the crime she’d committed. I wondered if her family had come to watch, if they’d seen the trapdoor drop open beneath her feet. If they’d closed their eyes when the rope had snapped her neck, if they’d wept while her feet swayed lifelessly beneath her.

Then the voice from the loudspeaker reminded us: ‘A DILIGENT CITIZEN IS A HAPPY CITIZEN.’

Inside, my heart ached.

‘Did you hear that the villages along the southern borders are all under siege?’ Brooklynn asked once we were past the soldiers at the checkpoint and on the less-crowded city streets, away from the marketplace.

I rolled my eyes at Aron. We already knew that towns along the border were under attack; they’d been under attack for months. Everyone knew. That was part of the reason our city was suddenly so overpopulated by refugees. Almost everyone had taken in stray family members and their servants.

As far as I knew, mine was one of the few families unaffected by the migration, but only because we didn’t have any relatives in the outlying areas of the country.

‘I wonder how long until the violence reaches the Capitol,’ Brook continued dramatically.

‘Queen Sabara will never let them reach us. She’ll send her own army before they get too close,’ I argued.

It was laughable calling our city ‘the Capitol’, since its concrete walls housed no one who held any real sway. The term implied authority and influence, when in reality we were simply the closest city to the palace. The queen was still the only person who held any true power.

But at least our city had a name.

Most of the cities of Ludania had long ago been stripped of that privilege, having been renamed simply by the quadrant of the country in which they were located and then ranked by size. 1West, 4South, 2East.

Children were often named in remembrance of the old cities. Once, it had been a form of rebellion to name a new baby Carlton or Lewis or Lincoln, a way of expressing dissatisfaction with the crown’s decision to reclassify cities into statistics. But now it was merely tradition, and babies were named after cities from countries across the globe.

People often assumed that my real name was Charlotte, after a faraway, long-ago city. But my parents claimed that they refused to partake in anything that would be considered rebellious, even a long-accepted custom like naming.

They preferred not to draw attention.

Brooklynn, on the other hand, liked to brag about her name’s roots. A great borough, in an even greater city that no longer existed.

She leaned in, her eyes feverishly bright. ‘Well, I heard …’ She let those three words hang in the air, assuring us that she had information we didn’t. ‘… that the queen’s army is gathering in the east. Rumor has it that Queen Elena plans to join forces with the rebels.’

‘Who told you that? One of your soldiers?’ I whispered, so close now that my forehead practically touched hers as I searched her eyes probingly. I didn’t actually doubt her. Brook’s intelligence was rarely wrong. ‘How do you know they’re telling you the truth?’

Brook grinned, a slow, shameless grin. ‘Look at me, Charlie. Why would they lie to me?’ And then she added, more seriously, ‘They say the queen’s getting tired. That she’ll be too old to fight back much longer.’

‘That’s a bunch of crap, Brook. Old or not, Queen Sabara will never give up her country.’ It was one thing to share real news from the front; it was another entirely to spread lies about our queen.

‘What choice does she have?’ Brook shrugged, continuing. ‘There’s no princess to take her place, and she certainly won’t allow a male heir to inherit the throne. It hasn’t been done in almost four hundred years; she’s not about to let it happen now. She’ll renounce the royal line before she allows the country to have a reigning king again.’

As we approached the Academy, I could feel my stomach tightening into angry knots. ‘That’s true, I suppose,’ I said distractedly, no longer interested in a political debate. ‘She probably won’t allow herself to die until she finds a suitable female heir.’

I wished I could remain calm in the presence of the imposing school, impervious and unaffected. Above all, I desperately didn’t want the Counsel kids to see my discomfort.

Everything about the upscale school, including the students’ immaculately matched uniforms, screamed, We’re better than you. Even the white marble steps that led to the grand entrance of the Academy were polished to a high shine, making them look as if they’d be treacherous to maneuver.

I hated myself for wishing I knew the sound my shoes would make walking up them.

I tried not to look in the direction of the Academy students who loitered near the top of those steps. For some reason these particular girls bothered me most of all; these two who watched us more closely than the others, who enjoyed taunting us when we walked by.

Today was no different. The skirts of their identical uniforms were creased, and their snowy white shirts were starched and pristine. These girls most definitely knew the feeling of silk.

I tried not to notice as one of the girls moved purposefully down the last steps, her eyes targeting us. She flipped her golden-blond hair over her shoulder; her cheeks were flushed and rosy; her eyes glittered with malice.

She stopped on the sidewalk in front of us, holding up her hand, signaling that we should stay where we were. ‘Where are you three off to in such a hurry?’ she intentionally asked in Termani, aware that we weren’t permitted to understand her.

Her words made the air vibrate around me, making it hard for me to breathe. I knew what I was supposed to do. Everyone knew. Beside me, Aron’s gaze shot to his feet, and Brooklynn’s did the same. A part of me wanted to ignore logic – to ignore the law – and my jaw clenched in response to her caustic words. But I knew that I wouldn’t. It wasn’t just my fate that I tempted if I broke the law – Brook and Aron might be held responsible as well.

I dropped my head and tried to ignore the prickling on my arms as I felt the girl’s eyes drilling into me.

Her friend stood beside her now, the two of them forming a wall in front of us. ‘I don’t know why they even let vendors go to school at all, do you, Sydney?’

And, again, the air shivered in hot waves.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Veronica, they have to go to school. How else are they going to learn to count our change when they work for us? I mean, just look at their hands. They’re already working somewhere, and they probably have no idea how to count or read or even how to write.’

I hated them both for thinking we were ignorant, and my teeth ached from biting back my retorts. But my cheeks burned as I stole a quick glance at Sydney’s perfectly manicured hands. She was right about that part; my nails were short and my skin raw from washing dishes in my parents’ restaurant. I wanted desperately to hide them behind my back, but I couldn’t risk letting her know I’d understood her insults.

Keeping my gaze averted, I tried to sidestep her, but she matched my stride, moving with me and keeping herself in my path. Blood pulsed in my ears.

‘Don’t go yet,’ she cooed. ‘We’re just starting to havefun. Aren’t you having fun, Veronica?’

There was a wooden pause, and then her friend answered, her voice apathetic. ‘Not really, Syd. I’m going back inside. They’re not really worth it.’

Sydney waited only a few seconds longer, still blocking our way, before she finally grew bored and left us standing there so she could follow her friend back up the polished marble steps. I didn’t lift my head until I heard the doors of the Academy close behind them.

And then I exhaled loudly.

‘Why do they do that?’ Brook asked, once we were away from the gleaming school. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She reached over, her fingers closing around my hand. ‘What did we ever do to them?’

Aron seemed just as shaken. ‘I wonder what it is that they’re saying about us, when they do that.’ His voice was ragged, and he shook his head wearily.

I just shrugged. It was all I could do. I could never tell them the truth of what Sydney and her friend had said.

We reached our school, which was far less grand and polished than the Academy. The building was old brick, not the eye-catching kind of brick found on historical buildings with charm, but rather the crumbling kind that looked like it might cave in on itself at any moment. We didn’t have fancy uniforms or even a name, like the Academy; we were merely known as School 33.

But it was hard to complain. It was a school, and we were allowed to attend. And it was still open, despite the fighting going on within our country. These were all things to be grateful for. There were worse things in life than attending a Vendor’s school.

Like attending no school at all.

The morning bell sounded, and everyone in the classroom stood, as did every other student at every other school throughout the country. In unison, we raised our right hands, our elbows bent, our fists raised skyward, and for the only time during school hours, we spoke in Englaise.

It was the Queen’s Pledge:

My breath is my pledge to worship my queen above all others.

My breath is my pledge to obey the laws of my country.

My breath is my pledge to respect my superiors.

My breath is my pledge to contribute to the progress of my class.

My breath is my pledge to report all who would do harm to my queen and country.

As I breathe, I pledge.

I didn’t often listen to the words of the Pledge. I just spoke them, letting them fall negligently from my lips. After years of repetition, they’d become second nature, almost exactly like breathing.

But today, maybe for the first time ever, I heard them. I noted the words we emphasized: worship, obey, respect, contribute, report. I listed the order of importance in my head: queen, then country, then class. The Pledge was a command as much as it was a promise, yet another way that the queen demanded that we protect her and our way of life.

I looked at the kids around me, my classmates. I saw clothing in shades of grays, blues, browns, and blacks. Working-class colors. Practical colors. The fabrics and textures were sensible – cottons, wools, even canvas – durable and hard to soil. I didn’t even have to look to know that every student in the classroom stood erect, chins high. That was something our parents and teachers instilled in us each and every day, to be proud of who we were.

I wondered why we had been born of the Vendor class. Why we were better than some, yet not as good as others. But I knew the answer: It had nothing to do with us. It was simple fate.

Had we been born to parents of the Serving class, we would not be attending classes today. And had our parents been Counsel folk, we would have climbed the gleaming steps to the Academy.

The instructor cleared his throat and I jumped, realizing that the Pledge was over, and that my fist – and mine alone – was still raised.

My face burned hot beneath the stares of the forty-five merchant-born children who shared this hour with me as I dropped my fist to my side, clenching it tightly as I took my seat. Beside me, I saw Brooklynn grinning.

I glared at her, but she knew it wasn’t a real glare, and it only made her smile grow.

‘You heard, didn’t you?’ Aron spoke in a low whisper when I joined him in the courtyard for the lunch hour. Other than during the Pledge, Parshon was the only language we were permitted to speak in our school.

Aron didn’t need to elaborate. Of course I’d already heard the latest gossip. I dropped my voice too, as I scooted closer to him on the stone bench. ‘Do you know if they got her whole family? Did they take her parents and her brothers and sisters?’

Brook joined us then and immediately recognized the hushed tone and the way our eyes darted nervously, watching everyone and trusting no one. ‘Cheyenne?’ she asked in a half whisper.

I reached into my book bag and handed Brook the lunch my mother had prepared for her, just as she had every day since Brook’s own mother had died.

She sat down on the other side of Aron, our three heads ducking close.

Aron nodded, his eyes meeting first mine and then hers. ‘I heard they came in during the night and took only her. She’s being held at the palace for questioning, but it doesn’t look good. Word is, there was real evidence this time.’

We stopped speaking, sitting straighter as the young boy made his way across the grass, gathering garbage along the way. He didn’t talk to anyone, just moved slowly, methodically, minding his step. As a member of the Serving class he had only one language, Englaise. So within the walls of our school – except during the Pledge – he wasn’t permitted to speak. He simply stared downward as he gathered refuse.

He was scarcely older than Angelina – six, maybe seven – with unruly black hair and calluses on his dirty bare feet. With his head down, I couldn’t see the color of his eyes.

He paused beside us, waiting to see if we had any trash he could collect. Instead, I reached into my own lunch and palmed a cookie my mother had baked. I held it out to him, making certain that no one else could see it in my hand. I raised my eyes, hoping he might lift his, but he never did.

When he was within reach, I slipped him the cookie, in the same way I would have given him garbage from my lunch. Anyone watching would’ve thought nothing of it.

The boy took the cookie, just as he did every day, and while I’d hoped to see eagerness or gratitude from him, I got neither. His expression remained blank, his eyes averted. He was careful … and smart. Smarter than me, it seemed.

As he padded away, I saw him slip the cookie into his pocket, and I smiled to myself.

Brooklynn’s voice drew my attention. ‘What kind of evidence did they find?’ she asked Aron, her voice tight. News of Cheyenne’s imprisonment was making everyone edgy.

Unfortunately, however, Cheyenne wasn’t alone. Whispers of disloyalty to the crown had begun to take root, starting like a virus and spreading like a plague. It infected and corrupted ordinary citizens, as rewards were being offered to those willing to report anyone they suspected of subversion. People turned against one another, seeking information against friends, neighbors, even family members, in order to gain favor with the queen. Trust had become a commodity that few could afford.

And real evidence – the kind that could be substantiated beyond petty gossip – was deadly.

‘They found maps in her possession. Maps belonging to the resistance.’

Brook’s lips tightened, and her head dropped. ‘Damn.’

But I wasn’t convinced. ‘How can they be certain they’re rebel maps? Who told you this?’

He looked up, and his sorrowful gold-flecked eyes stared back at me. ‘Her brother told me. It was her father who turned her in.’

I spent the rest of the day thinking about Cheyenne Goodwin.

What did it mean when father turned on daughter? When parent turned on child?

I wasn’t worried for me, of course. My parents were as solid as they came, as trustworthy and loyal as any parents could be.

I knew because they’d been keeping my secret for my entire life.

But what of everyone else? What if the rebellion continued to gain momentum, if the queen continued to feel threatened?

How many more families would cannibalize their young?

THE QUEEN

Queen Sabara drew the wool throw over her lap and smoothed it with her crooked fingers. She was too old for the chill, her skin too thin now – nearly paperlike – and her lean flesh clung to her tired bones.

Two servant girls entered the room, crouching low and speaking quietly to each other so as not to startle her where she sat.

It was ridiculous, she thought. She was aged, not skittish.

One of them – the newer of the two – foolishly reached for the switch on the wall that would turn on the electric lights overhead. The other girl stopped her just in time, clamping her fingers around the girl’s wrist before she could make that mistake. Clearly, she hadn’t been there long enough to know that her queen detested the glare of an electric bulb, that she much preferred candlelight.

Sabara watched the pair cautiously – her eyes sharp as ever – as they added more wood to the hearth and stoked the flames. After a moment, she turned to gaze through the wall of windows overlooking the verdant lawns of her estate.

She had much to think about and her heart was heavy, bearing the burden of a country in turmoil … her country. She couldn’t help wondering what would become of her throne if the rebel forces were not soon stopped. Already they were doing too much damage, and her body ached in sympathy from the injuries they’d done to her lands, and to her subjects.

She wondered how much more an old woman could bear.

But she once again reminded herself that she had no choice. If there had been another to take her place, she would gladly have stepped aside. The bitter truth was, there was no one.

This body had failed her, and she cursed it for providing her with just one heir, and a son at that. One lowly male child.

Then she silently cursed her only son, whose seed was more plentiful than her own, yet not one of them female.

Fools, all of them. Weak and lacking the skills required to rule a country … unable to provide her with what she needed.

If only the whispers from the past could be proved true. If only she could find the One, a survivor to the old throne, the lost heir who could succeed her. But even if such a girl did exist, the queen would have to find her first. Before her enemies could get to her.

Until then, or until another suitable child was born, she must remain in power. She must stay alive.

She scrutinized the servants as they went about their work, never casting a single glance in their queen’s direction. They understood their place in this world. When her chief adviser crashed through the doors, he barely drew their attention.

Sabara watched as he rushed forward and bowed low before her, waiting impatiently until she gave him permission to rise again.

She stared at the top of his head, drawing out the time longer than was necessary, knowing that it made him uncomfortable, knowing that age made his back ache.

Finally she cleared her throat. ‘What is it, Baxter?’ she intoned, giving him the signal to stand upright at last.

He cast a suspicious glance toward the servants in the room, and two pairs of eyes stared back at him. But the moment his words slipped into the cadence of the Royal language, both sets of eyes shot downward, anchoring to the floor beneath their feet.

‘General Arnoff has gathered his troops along the eastern border. If Queen Elena insists on siding with the rebels, then she’ll have a fight on her hands. And blood on her conscience.’ He paused, just long enough to take a steadying breath, before continuing. ‘But I fear we have a bigger problem.’

Anger simmered below the queen’s cool exterior. She shouldn’t be dealing with such matters. She shouldn’t be listening to war reports, or deciding which troops to sacrifice next, or wondering how long until the rebel factions would have her palace under siege. These should be the problems of a new ruler, not a decrepit old woman.

She watched the girl servant – the new one – and she willed the girl to raise her eyes, daring her to break not only etiquette, but law, by casting her gaze upward in the presence of a language above her own.

The girl had been in the queen’s service for only a couple of weeks, but that was long enough to be noticed, and long enough to understand that her queen was not a forgiving one. She knew better than to look up at this moment, and she kept her eyes focused on her feet.

‘Well, what is it? Say what you’ve come to say,’ Sabara insisted, knowing he wouldn’t have disturbed her if he didn’t have news. Her eyes remained trained on the girl.

‘Your Majesty,’ Baxter groveled, bobbing his head respectfully. He was unaware that he did not have his queen’s full attention. ‘The rebellion grows stronger. Webelieve their numbers have doubled, possibly tripled. Last night they took out the train tracks between 3South and 5North. It was the last remaining trade line between the north and south, which means that even more villagers will be moving into the cities seeking food and supplies. It’ll take weeks to—’

Before Baxter could finish his sentence, Sabara was on her feet atop the dais, staring down at him. ‘These rebels are simple outcasts! Peasants! Are you telling me that an army of soldiers is incapable of shutting them down?’

And it was at that moment that the servant girl made her fatal error. Her head moved, only millimeters. The shift was barely perceptible, but her eyes …

… her eyes glanced upward in the presence of the queen’s words. Words she was unable to comprehend, and forbidden to acknowledge.

And the queen had been watching her.

Sabara’s lips tightened into a hard line, her breath becoming erratic. She quivered with excitement that she could barely contain. She’d been waiting for it.

Baxter must have realized something was happening, for he remained where he was, frozen in time as he watched his queen lift her hand slowly, regally, into the air, signaling for the guards who stood beside the door.

The girl appeared too stunned to do anything but stare, like an animal caught in the sights of a hunter. Sabara had her cornered.

She thought about dealing with the girl herself, and her fingertips tingled in anticipation as her hand began to curl into its telltale fist. Were she a younger woman – stronger – it would have been effortless, a simple clenching of her fingers. The girl would be dead in seconds.

But as it was, she knew she couldn’t afford the energy it would cost her, so instead she uncurled her hand and made a quick, flicking gesture toward the condemned serving girl instead. ‘Send her to the gallows,’ she commanded, switching to Englaise so that everyone in the room could understand. Her shoulders were stiff, her head high.

The guards strode toward the girl, who didn’t bother to fight them, or even to beg for mercy. She understood her breach. She knew the penalty.

The queen watched as the men escorted the girl from the room. It was the most alive she’d felt in ages.

She’d just discovered a new sport.

II

I bent to retrieve the fork, which made a tinny racket as it clattered onto the floor, and smiled sheepishly at the man sitting alone at the table. ‘I’ll be right back with a clean one,’ I said, plucking it up for him.

His answering grin reached all the way to his eyes, which was surprising. Sincerity was a rarity when dealing with someone of the Counsel class.

I was glad, I supposed. At least I wouldn’t have to lick his fork, I thought, smirking at Brooklynn as I passed her on my way to the serving station.

Brook carried a basket filled with freshly baked bread out of the kitchen. ‘Did you see the guys at table six?’ She winked at me. ‘Hopefully I’ll make some decent money tonight.’

Brooklynn told everyone that the reason she worked for my parents at our restaurant, rather than at her father’s butcher shop, was for the tips, but I knew better. Since her mother’s death, she’d used every excuse she could to stay away from her home – and from the family business – whenever possible. Working for the extra money was just a convenient way to avoid painful memories and a father who no longer acknowledged her existence.

Whatever her reasons, I liked having her around.

I glanced over my shoulder to the three men crowded into the corner booth. Two of them – looking far too large for the table they sat at – watched Brooklynn with hungry eyes. It was the way most men looked at her.

I raised my eyebrows. ‘I don’t think getting tips from them is going to be a problem for you, Brook.’

She frowned back at me. ‘Except I can’t seem to get the cutest one to notice me.’ I saw who she meant. The third man, younger than the others and only somewhat smaller, appeared to be bored by his companions, and by his surroundings in general. Brook didn’t like to be ignored, but she also didn’t give up easily. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. ‘I guess I’ll have to turn up the charm.’

I shook my head, grabbing a new fork for the man at my own table. I had no doubt that Brooklynn’s pockets would be full by the end of her shift.

When I returned with the utensil, I felt my heart beating a little faster, and my cheeks flushing hotly.

The Counsel man wasn’t dining alone after all, and in my absence, his family had joined him.

I immediately recognized the girl sitting with him – his daughter, I assumed. A girl I passed nearly every morning at the Academy. The one girl who took perverse pleasure in mocking me and my friends as we walked by: Sydney. And here she was, still in her uniform, reminding me that hers was a life of privilege, and not about rushing to her parents’ restaurant after school so she could work the rest of the evening.

Suddenly I wished that I had spit on all the forks. I had an overwhelming urge to turn around and excuse myself from work for the night, to tell my father that I was ill so I could go home.

Instead I forced my best false smile – one that most certainly did not reach my eyes – and concentrated on not tripping over my own two feet as I walked the rest of the way to their table.

I replaced the fork and glanced around at the perfect Counsel family before me: the mother, looking poised and professional; the doting father; and the overindulged daughter. I tried not to pause for too long on any one of them. I wouldn’t give Sydney the satisfaction of knowing that I’d recognized her, even though I was certain she recognized me. ‘Can I bring you anything to drink?’ I asked, relieved that the quiver I felt didn’t make it to my voice. It was a good sign.