The Legend Trilogy Collection

by Lu, Marie

  Where am I? What am I doing here?

  As if on cue, the instant I ask myself these questions is the instant I finally see her. Somehow, in the midst of these aristocrats who blend into one blurry portrait, my eyes catch her silhouette and pause. June. The noise around me fades into a dull hum, quiet and uninteresting, and all of my attention turns helplessly to the girl I thought I’d be able to face.

  She’s dressed in a floor-length gown of deep scarlet, and her thick, shining hair is piled high on her head in dark waves, pinned into place with red, gem-studded combs that catch the light. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, easily the most breathtaking girl in the room. She’s grown taller in the eight months since I’ve seen her, and the way she holds herself—poised and graceful, with her slender, swanlike neck and her deep, dark eyes—is the image of perfection.

  Almost perfection. At closer look, I notice something that makes me frown. There’s an air of restraint about her, something uncertain and unconfident. Not like the June I know. As if powerless against the sight, I find myself guiding both Faline and me toward her. I only stop when the people around her move apart, revealing the man standing at her side.

  It’s Anden. Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised. Off to the side, several well-dressed girls are trying in vain to catch his attention, but he seems focused only on June. I watch as he leans in to whisper something in her ear, then continues his relaxed conversation with her and several others.

  When I turn silently away, Faline frowns at my sudden shift. “Are you okay?” she asks.

  I attempt a reassuring smile. “Oh, absolutely. Don’t worry.” I feel so out of place among these aristocrats, with their bank accounts and posh manners. No matter how much money the Republic throws at me, I will forever be the boy from the streets.

  And I’d forgotten that a boy from the streets is no match for the future Princeps.

  1935 HOURS.

  COLBURN HALL, MAIN BALLROOM.

  68°F.

  I THINK I SEE DAY IN THE CROWD. A FLASH OF WHITE-GOLD HAIR, of bright blue eyes. My attention suddenly breaks from my conversation with Anden and the other Princeps-Elects, and I crane my neck, hoping to get a better look—but he’s gone again, if he was ever there. Disappointed, I return my gaze to the others and give them my well-rehearsed smile. Will Day show up tonight? Surely Anden’s men would have alerted us if Day had refused to get on the private jet sent for him this morning. But he’d sounded so distant and awkward over the mike that night, perhaps he just decided it wasn’t worth coming out here after all. Maybe he hates me, now that we’ve had enough time apart for him to think clearly about our friendship. I scan the crowd again when the other Princeps-Elects are laughing at Anden’s jokes.

  A feeling in my stomach tells me Day will be here. But I am hardly a person who relies on gut instinct. I absently touch the jewels in my hair, making sure they’re all still in the right places. They’re not the most comfortable things I’ve ever worn, but the hairdresser had gasped at how the rubies stood out against my dark locks, and that reaction was enough for me to think they’re worth the trouble. I’m not sure why I bothered to look so nice for tonight. It is Independence Day, I suppose, and the occasion is a large one.

  “Miss Iparis is as precocious as we all assumed she would be,” Anden’s saying to the Senators now, turning his smile on me. His apparent happiness is all for show, of course. I’ve shadowed Anden for long enough now to know when he is tense, and tonight the nervousness reflects off every gesture he makes. I’m nervous too. A month from now, the Republic might have Colonies flags flying over her cities. “Her tutors say they’ve never seen a student progress so rapidly through her political texts.”

  “Thank you, Elector,” I reply automatically to his compliment. The Senators both chuckle, but underneath their jolly expressions lies the lingering resentment they have against me, this child who has been tapped by the Elector to potentially become their leader one day. Mariana gives me a diplomatic, albeit stern, nod, but Serge doesn’t look too pleased with the way Anden singles me out. I ignore the dark scowl that the Senator casts in my direction. His scowls used to bother me—now I’m just tired of them.

  “Ah, well.” Senator Tanaka of California tugs on the collar of his military jacket and exchanges a look with his wife. “That’s wonderful news, Elector. Of course, I’m sure the tutors also know how much of a Senator’s job is learned outside of texts and from years of experience in the Senate chamber. Like our dear Senator Carmichael here.” He pauses to nod graciously at Serge, who puffs up.

  Anden waves off his concern. “Of course,” he echoes. “All in good time, Senator.”

  Beside me, Mariana sighs, leans over, and tilts her chin at Serge. “If you stare at his head long enough, it might sprout wings and take flight,” she mutters.

  I smile at that.

  They steer off the topic of me and onto the topic of how to better sort students into high schools now that the Trials are discontinued. The political chatter grates on my nerves. I start scanning the crowd again for Day. After more futile searching, I finally put a hand on Anden’s arm and lean over to whisper, “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” He nods in return. When I turn away and start blending in with the crowd, I can feel his stare lingering on me.

  I spend several minutes walking the ballroom in vain, greeting various Senators and their families as I go. Where is Day? I try to hear snatches of conversations, or notice where clusters of people might be gathering. Day is a celebrity. He must be attracting attention if he already arrived. I’m about to make my way across the other half of the ballroom when I’m interrupted by the loudspeakers. The pledge. I sigh, then turn back to where Anden has already taken his place on the front stage, flanked on both sides by soldiers holding up Republic flags.

  “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the Republic of America . . .”

  Day. There he is.

  He’s standing about fifty feet away, his back partially turned to me so that I can only see a tiny sliver of his profile, his hair loose and thick and perfectly straight, and on his arm is a girl in a shining gold dress. When I observe him more closely, I notice that his mouth isn’t moving at all. He stays silent throughout the entire pledge. I turn my attention back to the front as applause fills the chamber and Anden begins his prepared speech. From the corner of my eye, I see Day turn to look over his shoulder. My hands tremble at this momentary glimpse of his face—have I really forgotten how beautiful he is, how his eyes reflect something wild and untamed, free even in the midst of all this order and elegance?

  When the speech ends, I head straight in Day’s direction. He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored black military jacket and suit. Is he also thinner? He looks to have lost a good ten pounds since the last time I saw him. He’s been ill recently. As I get closer, Day catches sight of me and pauses in his conversation with his date. His eyes widen a little. I can feel the heat rising on my cheeks, but force it down. This will be our first face-to-face meeting in months, and I refuse to make a fool of myself.

  I stop a few feet away. My eyes wander to his date, a girl whom I recognize as Faline, the eighteen-year-old daughter of Senator Fedelma.

  Faline and I exchange a quick nod. She grins. “Hi, June,” she says. “You look gorgeous tonight.”

  She makes a genuine smile escape from me, a relief after all the practiced smiles I’ve been giving the other Princeps-Elects. “So do you,” I reply.

  Faline doesn’t waste a single awkward second—she catches the slight blush on my cheeks and curtsies to both of us. Then she heads back into the crowd, leaving Day and me alone in the sea of people.

  For a second, we just stare at each other. I break the silence before it stretches on for too long. “Hi,” I say. I take in his face, refreshing my memory with every little detail. “It’s good to see you.”

  Day smiles back and bows, but his ey
es never leave me. The way he stares sends rivers of heat racing through my chest. “Thanks for the invite.” Hearing his voice in person again . . . I take a deep breath, reminding myself of why I invited him here. His eyes dance across my face and to my dress—he seems ready to comment on it, but then decides against it and waves his hand at the room. “Nice little party you have here.”

  “It’s never quite as fun as it looks,” I reply in a hushed voice, so that the others can’t hear me. “I think some of these Senators might burst from being forced to talk to people they don’t like.”

  My teasing brings a small smile of relief to Day’s lips. “Glad I’m not the only unhappy one.”

  Anden has already left the stage, and Day’s comment reminds me that I should be escorting him to the banquet soon. The thought sobers me. “It’s almost time,” I say, motioning for Day to follow me. “The banquet is very private. You, me, the other Princeps-Elects, and the Elector.”

  “What’s going on?” Day asks as he falls into step beside me. His arm brushes once against mine, sending shivers dancing across my skin. I struggle to catch my breath. Focus, June. “You weren’t exactly specific in our last conversation. I hope I’m putting up with all of these snobby Congress trots for a good reason.”

  I can’t help my amusement at the way Day refers to the Senators. “You’ll find out when we get there. And keep your insults to a minimum.” I look away from him and toward the small corridor we’re heading for, Jasper Chamber, a discreet hall branching away from the main ballroom.

  “I’m not going to like this, am I?” Day mutters close to my ear.

  Guilt rises in me. “Probably not.”

  We settle down in the private banquet room (a small, rectangular cherrywood table with seven seats), and after a while, Serge and Mariana filter in. They each take a seat on either side of Anden’s reserved chair. I stay next to Day, as Anden had wished. Two servers go around the table, placing dainty plates of watermelon and pork salad before each seat. Serge and Mariana make polite small talk, but neither Day nor I says another word. Now and then, I manage to steal a glance at him. He’s eyeing the lines of forks, spoons, and knives at his place setting with an uncomfortable frown, trying to figure them out without asking for help. Oh, Day. I don’t know why this gives me a painful, fluttering feeling in my stomach, or why it pulls my heart to him. I’d forgotten how his long lashes catch the light.

  “What’s this?” he whispers to me, holding up one of his utensils.

  “A butter knife.”

  Day scowls at it, running a finger along its blunt, rounded edge. “This,” he mutters, “is not a knife.”

  Beside him, Serge notices his hesitation too. “I take it you’re not accustomed to forks and knives where you’re from?” he says coolly to him.

  Day stiffens, but he doesn’t miss a beat. He grabs a larger carving knife, purposely disturbing his place’s careful setup, and gestures casually with it. Both Serge and Mariana edge away from the table. “Where I come from, we’re more about efficiency,” he replies. “A knife like this’ll skewer food, smear butter, and slit throats all at the same time.”

  Of course Day’s never slit a throat in his life—but Serge doesn’t know that. He sniffs in disdain at the reply, but the blood drains from his face. I have to pretend to cough so that I don’t laugh at Day’s mock-serious expression. For those who don’t know him well, his words actually sound intimidating.

  I also notice something I hadn’t earlier—Day looks pale. Much paler than I remember. My amusement wavers. Is his recent illness something more serious than I’d first assumed?

  Anden arrives in the room a minute later, causing the usual stir as we all rise for him, and gestures for all of us to take our seats. He’s accompanied by four soldiers, one of whom closes the door behind him and finally seals us in to our private meal.

  “Day,” Anden greets. He pauses to nod courteously in Day’s direction. Day looks unhappy with the attention, but manages to return the gesture. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, if under unfortunate circumstances.”

  “Very unfortunate,” Day says in return. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, trying to imagine a more awkward scenario than this dinner setup.

  Anden lets the stiff reply slide. “Let me catch you up on the current situation.” He puts his fork down. “The peace treaty we’ve been working on with the Colonies is now shelved. A virus has hit the Colonies’ southern warfront cities hard.”

  Beside me, Day crosses his arms and regards the crowd with a suspicious expression on his face, but Anden goes on. “They believe this virus was caused by us, and they are demanding that we send them a cure if we want to continue peace talks.” Serge clears his throat and starts to say something, but Anden holds up a hand for silence. He then goes on to spill all the details—how the Colonies first sent a harsh message to the Republic, demanding info on the virus wreaking havoc amongst their troops, hastily withdrawing their affected soldiers, and then broadcasting their ultimatum to the warfront generals, warning of dire consequences if a cure was not delivered immediately.

  Day listens to all of it without moving a muscle or uttering a word. One of his hands grips the edge of the table tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. I wonder whether he’s guessed where this is going and what all this has to do with him, but he just waits until Anden has finished.

  Serge leans back in his chair and frowns. “If the Colonies want to play games with our peace offer,” he scoffs, “then let them. We’ve been at war long enough—we can handle some more.”

  “No, we can’t,” Mariana interjects. “Do you honestly think the United Nations will accept the news that our peace treaty fell apart?”

  “Do the Colonies have any evidence that we caused it? Or are these empty accusations?”

  “Exactly. If they think we’re going to—”

  Day suddenly speaks up, his face turned toward Anden. “Let’s stop dragging our feet,” he says. “Tell me why I’m here.” He’s not loud, but the ominous tone of his voice hushes the conversation in the room. Anden returns his look with an equally grave one. He takes a deep breath.

  “Day, I believe this is the result of one of my father’s bioweapons—and that the virus came from your brother Eden’s blood.”

  Day’s eyes narrow. “And?”

  Anden seems reluctant to continue. “There’s more than one reason why I didn’t want all my Senators in here with us.” He leans forward, lowers his voice, and gives Day a humbled look. “I don’t want to hear anyone else right now. I want to hear you. You are the heart of the people, Day—you always have been. You’ve given everything you have in order to protect them.” Day stiffens beside me, but Anden goes on. “I fear for the people. I worry about their safety, that we’ll be handing them over to the enemy just as we’re starting to put the pieces together.” He grows quieter. “I need to make some difficult decisions.”

  Day raises an eyebrow. “What kind of decisions?”

  “The Colonies are desperate for a cure. They will destroy us to get it, everything both you and I care about. The only chance we have of finding one is to take Eden into temporary—”

  Day pushes his chair from the table and rises. “No,” he says. His voice is flat and icy, but I remember my old, heated argument with Day well enough to recognize the deep fury beneath his calmness. Without another word, he turns from the group and walks away.

  Serge starts to get up, no doubt to shout at Day about his rudeness, but Anden shoots him a warning stare and motions for him to sit. Then Anden turns to me with a look that says, Talk to him. Please.

  I watch Day’s retreating figure. He has every right to refuse, every right to hate us for asking this of him. But I still find myself rising from my own chair, stepping away from the banquet table, and hurrying in his direction.

  “Day, wait,” I call out. My words send me a painful reminder of
the last time we’d been in the same room together, when we had said our good-byes.

  We head into the smaller corridor that leads out to the main ballroom. Day doesn’t turn around, but he seems to slow his steps down in an attempt to let me catch up. When I finally reach him, I take a deep breath. “Look, I know—”

  Day presses a finger to his lips, silencing me, and then grabs my hand. His skin is warm through the fabric of his glove. The feel of his fingers around mine is such a shock after all these months that I can’t remember the rest of my sentence—everything about him, his touch, his closeness, feels right. “Let’s talk in private,” he whispers.

  We head inside one of the doors lining the corridor, then close it behind us and turn the lock. My eyes do a categorical sweep of the room (private dining chamber, no lights on, one round table and twelve chairs all covered in white cloths, and a single large, arched window at the back wall that lets in a stream of moonlight). Day’s hair transforms in here to a silver sheet. He turns his gaze back to me now.

  Is it my imagination, or does he look as flustered as I am about our brief handhold? I feel the sudden tightness of the dress’s waist, the air hitting my exposed shoulders and collarbone, the heaviness of the fabric and the jewels in my hair. Day’s eyes linger on the ruby necklace sitting at the small of my throat. His parting gift to me. His cheeks turn a little pink in the darkness. “So,” he says, “is this seriously why I’m here?”

  Despite the anger in his voice, his directness is like a cool, sweet breeze after all these months of calculated political talk. I want to breathe it in. “The Colonies refuse to accept any other terms,” I reply. “They’re convinced that we have a cure for the virus, and the only one who might carry the cure is Eden. The Republic’s already running tests on other former . . . experiments . . . to see whether they can find anything.”