Faya is taken aback by the harshness in my voice, and I regret saying those words the moment they leave my mouth. Tact was never my strong suit, and now more than ever, I need to practice it.
Faya chews her lower lip just a little, just a slight nibble as she gathers her thoughts and considers her next move. “I just don’t want anything happening to you. You’re the only friend I have.”
My face softens as I rethink my previous words to her and change direction. I do not want the call to end on bad terms, and I cannot blame her for being worried about how my actions might reflect upon her and Joel. “Thank you,” I say, in a humble voice, “for backing me up when questioned about what had happened.”
“I never collaborated your story.”
My eyes widen when Faya says this. When I was released from detainment, I was told that someone had confirmed my version of events, and I just assumed that Faya had been the one person who had done so. If it wasn’t her, then who did?
“What do you mean?” I ask her.
A single curl from Faya’s wiry hair falls in front of her face, as though to help her next words punch me in the gut. “When questioned about your actions, I told them the truth: that you had run from the table and attacked another arbiter unprovoked, and that I never saw him strike anyone.”
Words leave me when she says this, and I do not know what to think. Faya had been my friend since we were in our fourth year at the training facility. All recruits had been gathered into a room and were expected to not speak, to not move, to do nothing but sit still in such a way that it put a statue to shame. Any who failed were carried away kicking and screaming and were never seen again. Faya had trouble not fidgeting, like most toddlers, but obedience is demanded of us since the day of our birth. She kept shifting her feet just a little, and at one point, her foot got caught in the cracks between the mosaic (a geometrical pattern formed from the Arelian insignia: gray upon black) tiles of the floor and she tripped, almost falling over, but I caught her. Even at four years of age, I prevented her from going to the crematorium. From that day forward, we have been friends, but now, I question whether she knows me at all, since she chose to believe the worse about me.
“I have to go,” she says and switches her monitor off, thus ending the call, and leaving me in my room, surrounded by shadows and floating bits of dust, as the morning sun focuses its yellow rays upon me and my sudden solitude.
Faya left me to my fate in the detention center.
Numb, I step to my closet and pull out a clean jacket that had been pressed the day before, allowing my automatic movements to take over as I put it on and smooth out any creases, while my mind dwells upon my conversation with Faya and the ambivalence, laced with anger, she displayed toward me. Still trapped in a mental fog, I leave my room, allowing my feet to lead me down the stairs and to the main floor, since they know the way, still not believing that Faya had treated me in such a cold manner, but before I could dwell on it further, a man in an arbiter uniform, but with white stripes stretching from the cuffs of his sleeves up to his shoulders, stands in the hallway, staring right at me, as though he expected me to appear at this exact moment.
“Arbiter Noni?” he says to me in a brusque manner.
“Yes,” I reply, trying to sound unconcerned and not as though my mind had been somewhere else.
The man hands me an ivory envelope with gold ribbon pressed into its edges. No writing stains it, piquing my curiosity. I open it with care, not wanting to tear the flawless envelope, and pull out a card with the Arelian emblem forming slight indentions in it as fancy script stretches across it.
Arbiter Noni is hereby requested to appear at the presidential palace.
Signed,
President Tapiwa
I have been invited to the presidential palace?
The man stretches his right arm out, pointing at the entrance. No other arbiters are around, having made themselves scarce, no doubt the moment this man arrived. A quick glance around proves that even Commander Vye is nowhere to be found. Perhaps she is under strict orders to not interfere in this matter.
“Shall we?” the man says, though I have the feeling that his politeness is more courtesy than anything else.
Knowing that I have little choice, and apprehensive about why Tapiwa has summoned me, I hand the invitation back to the man and head for the door, well aware that refusing a presidential summons can be fatal. I nod my head and walk outside into the bright sunlight, squinting just a little as my eyes adjust, and head for the presidential transport with its flags on full display, exhibiting pride in its function. A plebian holds a door open for me as his burgundy shirt moves in the breeze, held in place by the white pants, with embroidered burgundy and gold circles stretching from the hem to the waistband, he wears. There is nothing for me to do, except to get in the transport, but the desire to run away fills me as the fear of what awaits me settles in, considering that there is no logical reason for Tapiwa to summon someone who has been to detainment, unless this is another test. I crawl inside the transport, without bothering to acknowledge the plebeian’s presence, as is expected of me, and scoot over to the far left seat, almost stopping when I notice Kaleb next to a tinted window that allows one to see out, but no passerby to see in, as the man in uniform climbs inside next to me.
Within moments we are off, with the vehicle bouncing down the uneven roads of the eastern sector, only to level out the moment we enter the northern sector, and once again I am struck with awe at how smooth the road is compared to the sector I am assigned to, and I wonder as to why it is always left to suffer neglect and ambivalence. It can’t just be because the eastern sector experiences the brunt of the barbarian attacks. Maybe it is because those who do not live there give it no thought because they never had to. Their pristine buildings are never touched by the world’s cruelty. Spires stretch up my window as we worm our way to the executive district, each building morphing into a more resplendent one than the last as colored, tempered glass reflect more colored, tempered glass, forming a sea of vibrant pastels mixed with earthy tones radiating their splendor and importance on any passing by underneath, and managing to break through the dark tint of the glass, forming a bold display of art on the white leather seats, causing me to notice, for the first time, that the emerald and gold embroidery has been replaced with a lavender and silver forming a cylindrical pattern, instead of the horseshoe from before. My boots bunch up the edges of the maroon shag run on the floor. What happened to the purple one?
“Hungry?” asks Kaleb as he holds out a plate with cherry tarts, and candied cucumbers while the mirrored interior makes it look as though six of him are urging me to indulge in a treat.
My mouth waters as I glance at the plate, wanting to eat everything on it, since I had no chance to eat breakfast, but the feeling that this is another test prevents me from reaching for it.
“Arbiters are not allowed to eat such things,” I say in a robotic tone, doing my best to not give away my desire to snatch the tray out of his hands. “Proper nutrition and physical fitness must be maintained at all times.”
“It’s just us here,” urges Kaleb, pretending that the uniformed man is not with us.
I glance at the mirrors and the divider between the front and the back, knowing that the driver and plebeian are up there, before looking at the man in uniform, knowing full well that it is not just the two of us. Whatever I do and say he will report back to his masters; there is no doubt of that.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I reply. “If you have some water, that would be much appreciated.”
Smiling, Kaleb puts the tray of treats away, much to the dismay of my mouth and stomach, and opens a door underneath the seat, revealing a refrigerated compartment, and pulls out a golden cup with a copper lid and hands it to me. The cool exterior chills my hand as I take it, removing the lid and taking a sip, to the relief of my parched throat.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to remain polite, knowing that every word I utte
r, every move I make, will be reported back to his superiors.
“Perhaps an apple,” Kaleb holds out a green apple, its shiny exterior reflects my face back at me, and grins, even though he should not be aware that I have not had a chance to eat, despite the fact that my grumbling stomach does a good job of giving me away.
Apples are allowed for arbiters, as they are nutritious, so, I take it, and sink my teeth into it, doing my best not to allow the juices to slide down my chin and onto my uniform, and chew with dignity, not wanting to show him just how hungry I am.
The transport stops at the copper gates with the Arelian insignia in its center, signifying that we have reached the executive district. Kaleb rolls down a window as two guards approach, pointing their weapons at us.
“State your business,” demands one, reminding me of my previous times here.
Kaleb bows his head, allowing the tattoo on the back of his neck to be scanned. “I am Kaleb and I am here with Arbiter Noni, by president Tapiwa’s invitation.”
Invitation. He means orders, of course, but we never speak of such things as being orders. The illusion of choice is pervasive in Arel. As the guard looks in my direction, his shiny helmet allowing me to see my face with perfection, I bow my head to allow my tattoo to be scanned, before remembering that they never search those with personal invites by the presidents.
“You may pass,” the guard says, waving us through, and the giant, copper gates open up before us, allowing us entrance as the presidential transport eases its way up the driveway and to the immaculate building before us with its marble steps drawing all eyes to its 20 foot high, copper-lined steel doors, and the silver Arelian insignia in is center, as hexagonal columns form a circle around us, surrounding us in their pristine glory. Even though I have been here twice before, the scene still takes my breath away. The transport stops in front of the marble steps, and before I can move, the plebeian jumps out and opens the door for Kaleb and me, while the man in uniform remains seated. As I get out, I continue to marvel at the palace exterior and place the apple core and empty water container in the plebeian’s hand, as is expected, since there is no obvious place to dispose of them.
“Come. Come,” says Kaleb, trotting up the steps and motioning me to follow him, afraid of being tardy; I’m sure that Tapiwa gave him a timetable of when she wanted me here.
I follow him up the marble steps, admiring the way the brown swirls within the ivory curl around it, accentuating its pristineness, until we reach the top and pass beneath the copper-lined archway and into the domed area. Just like before, I arch my head backwards so that I can admire the paintings of the dome itself—it is a remarkable piece of construction—and notice something I had missed before: engravings of maple leaves fill the underside of the archway, brought to life by the reflection of the sunlight bouncing off the marble steps and hitting it just right. After several moments of silence, with me standing poised beneath the dome, looking straight up, my neck starts to ache from the sudden strain, and I bring my head down so that I am looking straight ahead once again and find Kaleb watching me with an amused grin, pleased that I still admire one of Arel’s finest pieces of artwork and construction.
“It is magnificent, isn’t it?” he says.
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
If he had expected me to say anything more, he doesn’t show it, but I’m sure he’s used to arbiters being people of few words. We are not expected to talk, but to enforce the law. “We mustn’t keep President Tapiwa waiting.”
He shuffles through the domed area to the main foyer, his feet making quick, little steps, while my long strides have little difficulty keeping up. He pauses in front of a grand, marble staircase, and being unable to contain myself, I reach up to touch the cool railing, admiring its smooth exterior and how if feels like velvet in my hands. Lala palm, that is what Kaleb had told me when I first found myself enamored with its exquisiteness, and again, he smiles at me, amused by my reaction at being in such an immaculate place.
“Kaleb,” says a voice, and it sends soft echoes around the room, before fading into the distance, “there you are.”
President Tapiwa stands at the top of the stairs with her brother, Kumi. She descends the staircase, while Kumi stays behind her, in an elegant fashion as her wavy skirt and sleeves make her appear to be floating toward me as though she is some being from the heavens who has deigned to visit a mere mortal. “Hello, Noni,” she greets me. “I’m glad that you accepted my invitation.”
“You honor me by sending it,” I say, going along with the niceties; we all know that refusing a presidential summons is never acceptable, and what the consequences are for doing so.
Her rouged lips curl upwards, showcasing her pearly teeth. “I would have asked you here sooner, but there has been so much going on.”
I remain silent, knowing that speaking will add nothing, nor am I expected to speak, since no question was asked.
“Wouldn’t you agree?” asks Kumi, forcing my hand.
“Such is the nature of your service,” I reply, keeping my words neutral, to which he seems pleased.
Tapiwa holds her hand out, and the silver ring on her finger gleams in the ambient light of the room, adding an elegant flare to the purple stone recessed within its metal coil, and a plebeian appears from nowhere—I should have seen him, and am certain my failure to do so has not gone unnoticed—holding a tray with two crystalline glasses filled with a rosy liquid. She takes one and holds it to the plebeian who takes a sip, before bringing it to her plump lips and ingesting a third of the glass’ contents, her flared sleeves swaying from side to side as she does so, allowing me to get a better glimpse of the embroidered, swirling pattern of chaotic lines in a lighter shade of green than the color of the material itself. Its shine must be either silk or satin, two things I have never worn, nor will I ever wear them: they are reserved for the most privileged in Arel. Just as she starts to replace the glass on the tray, a glint of steel flashes for just a moment as the plebeian reveals a knife. I pounce on him, relying on instinct, and shove him away from both presidents,—Tapiwa’s glass falls to the ground with a plink, dumping rosy liquid all over the amber-colored tile—until he slams into the wall, grunting in pain, but before he can make his next move, I grip the knife by its hilt and rip it away from his grasp, and plunge its blade into the man’s chest. His eyes widen in horror, causing me to release the knife and take a step back. This isn’t the look of a man bent on assassinating either of the presidents, and accepting his inevitable demise in return. This is the look of a man who never thought he would die like this, as though….
This entire incident was a setup, another test to prove my loyalty.
Shaking just a little, I pull my hands away from the plebeian, allowing his body to crumple to the floor as red blood oozes from the mortal blow I have dealt him, and pools on the mirror-like floor, coating the diamond embedded within each tile with its crimson color. I glance at my fingers and the blood that stains them, blending in with my skin tone, while my own blood boils from the knowledge that I have been used.
Both Tapiwa and Kumi stand erect in the room, pretending to be shocked by the incident, but their eyes give them away; they had planned this, of that I have no doubt.
“Arel owes you a debt of gratitude,” says Tapiwa, “for saving our lives.”
“At the risk of sounding bold,” I say, trying to keep my rage under control and my voice calm, “neither of you were in any real danger.”
I glance around, realizing for the first time, that no guards are present, like they should be, confirming that the entire incident with the plebeian had been planned for their benefit. The only other person in the room is Kaleb who now stands with his back pressed into a wall, hoping that no one sees him, and the way he has made himself scarce the moment danger presented itself. I should have noticed this oddity, but I allowed myself to be distracted by the grandeur of the palace.
“Where are your guards?” I demand. “Why are they no
t here. Such a dereliction in duty should be punished.”
“And it shall,” says Kumi in a nonchalant voice, confirming for a third time that my suspicions are correct. The guards are absent because they were told to be somewhere else.
I glance at the body on the floor and the horror-struck eyes staring back at me, fighting the urge to close them, to show some semblance of decency, knowing what will happen if I display any ounce of mercy for a plebeian, and one who appeared to have tried to commit murder, even if it was a ruse. I can do nothing for him now, except pity him.
“Kaleb,” says Kumi, breaking the silence surrounding us, “we have matters to attend.”
“Yes, yes,” says Kaleb as he rushes after Kumi and they disappear down the corridor and into another room, leaving me alone with Tapiwa.
“Please,” she says to me, “walk with me.”
Tapiwa struts down the hall in the opposite direction Kumi and Kaleb had gone in, and I take my place by her side, as asked, knowing that I cannot change what has happened, and that I must stay in control of my reeling emotions as I wipe the innocent man’s blood on my pants in a vain attempt to clean my fingers. We move from the foyer and it’s bright interior as sunlight pours in through skylights, illuminating the most intricate detail of the wallpaper—the pattern of raised fists coating the walls is unmistakable, even if it is pale silver on white—as it tucks itself underneath the Lala palm molding that marks the beginning of the ceiling and the pinpricks of lights nestle in it, forming stars, and I imagine what it will be like to look at such a sight when it is nighttime. Her coral shoes clack on the tiles with each step she takes as we move further away from the entrance and into a long corridor that looks more like a tunnel to an unending cave as the light fades behind us and long shadows consume us, but before we are overtaken, lights appear on the floor, forming a pale, bluish line where Tapiwa’s feet touch the tiles, illuminating our path, letting us know that we are not alone but as each light appears, a chill grips me, growing stronger the deeper we go into the tunnel.
Ensnared (Enchained Trilogy Book 2) Page 40