Dawn played into the narrative, defending me at every turn. “Grace did everything she could to bring peace to this world,” she told the news cameras, as she valiantly argued her innocence. It was surreal, to see her describing me as someone she admired. And I was moved, realizing it wasn’t just an act . . . my mentor actually believed in me that much. As the case played out, the public seemed swayed to Dawn’s side.
They did not, however, seem convinced of my innocence. Pundits tore apart my speeches, looking for every possible ulterior motive. Why had I really done all this? I was Esther’s daughter, after all . . . I couldn’t be as blameless as I claimed. I tried to hold on to hope. The truth was the only thing that could set me free.
The continued wary looks from my fellow prisoners slowly drained that hope. If they weren’t swayed to my side, how would I ever convince strangers? The news continued its unrelenting, damning coverage of my actions, blaming me not only for the world my mother had created, but also the one that had followed.
And that world, I was horrified to discover, was nothing like the one I’d expected to create. Without Punishments to keep people in line, crime was higher than ever before. All those years, being restrained from behaving badly, had taken away people’s self-discipline. Now they were resentful at being deceived, and they were lashing out—at property, at their neighbors, at themselves.
Where once walls had come down, they were being built again. Where once there had been peace, armies were readying for war. Where once people had shared their wealth without a second thought, now they began to hoard. Famines sprung up. Violence against the “other,” whomever the other happened to be today.
As I witnessed calamity after calamity through my tiny little screen, I was reminded of my mother’s spreadsheets, of the lives she’d claimed to have saved. Though I would never agree with her methods, I finally saw the rationale behind what she’d been trying to do. This globe we lived on was big and violent and out of control, and trying to find a way to rein that in, on a larger scale . . . The monstrous society she’d created had been genius, in its own sick way. I’d always understood my mother’s impulse to fight for a better world, but this was the first time I truly understood the brutality she’d been struggling against all along.
More than anything, I wanted to go back out there and try again. Say something to apologize for the violent world I’d brought back. Say something that might ease that violence. My words had once inspired people; I was certain they must still have some small value, to someone. But within these prison walls, I was helpless. Voiceless.
I was starting to lose hope; maybe I would be here forever. Until finally, a guard appeared at my cell door with a message. I had a visitor. She led me to meet an unfamiliar woman in a suit: my lawyer. “You’re being extradited,” she told me.
“Where? Why?” I asked.
“To America. Because that’s where you’re from. You’re going to be tried there, with the rest of the American prophets and gurus.”
“No, I’m not working with them,” I protested. “I was working against them.”
She shrugged. “That’s for an American court to decide.”
The reality finally sunk in. I wasn’t being hailed as a hero, and I never would be. I was being put on trial.
12
That’s how I found myself in Arlington Federal Prison, surrounded by a horde of newly minted criminals who’d taken advantage of their newfound freedoms to commit all kinds of unspeakable crimes. Jude visited me on my first day. “What’s happening?” I asked him. “Where have you guys been?”
“We’ve been dealing with legal issues of our own,” he admitted. “Dawn finally got cleared, which is a good sign for the rest of us.”
“I’m so confused,” I said. “They know everything now. Why doesn’t anyone believe me?”
“They do,” he said carefully. “The prosecutors aren’t trying you for anything you didn’t do.”
My hopes dripped into a puddle at my feet. The truth wasn’t going to set me free. Everyone knew the truth, and they hated me anyway. All those crimes I’d been worried Great Spirit would Punish me for . . . that wasn’t the Punishment I was going to get. I was going to stand trial, by a jury of my peers, and they’d decide whether I’d acted righteously.
I knew then, long before the opening arguments, the testimony, the deliberation, exactly what verdict that jury was going to give. I’d watched hours upon hours of those television pundits, and it was clear. People weren’t mad at me for my crimes as prophet. They were mad about being deceived. And they were mad that I’d had the gall to stop deceiving them, to thrust them back into a world of war and crime and hatred. That not only had I made them fools, I’d told them they were foolish.
Two months later, a jury of my peers would find me guilty and sentence me to fifteen years in prison.
13
I know it’s been a while since you heard from me. It’s been longer since you wanted to. Why did I emerge after all this time, to tell you my story? Why bother, when the verdict on Grace Luther was handed down so long ago?
It turns out, I was looking for your forgiveness, your understanding. I wanted you to see why I made the choices I made. Why I hurt you, when I was only trying to help. Fifteen years is a long time to sit and think about what you’ve done, about the mistakes you’ve made. I’ve thought of a hundred things I could have done differently, ways I could have been better. Everything is easier in hindsight. Everyone is wiser once they’ve made their mistakes.
There’s plenty I regret, but I don’t regret telling you the truth. I’ve thought a lot about what my mother said—about how much simpler the world she created was. The one where gods were real, and morality was law, and goodness was rewarded. Where the hard decisions were taken out of most people’s hands. Where living your life every day was a little easier. As much as some people hate me for it, I don’t regret taking that away from you.
I don’t regret giving you a world where you’re free to make mistakes—the same kinds of mistakes I made. To be human, to be complicated. Free to doubt, free to sin and blaspheme, free to worship whatever the heck you want to. And yes, perhaps the prophets’ world felt safer; but it wasn’t true safety, because none of it was true. The world I gave you might be sad and uncertain, but at least it’s real. And I don’t regret giving you something real.
What I regret is not finding a way to be out there with you now. Helping to rebuild. I’ve hated watching from inside a cell, not being able to change things. Especially as someone who managed to change so much, so young. But a long time ago, I declared my willingness to give up my freedom, in order to grant freedom to the rest of the world. I think as trades go, that one was worth it.
These past fifteen years, though things have slowly been getting better, they haven’t moved as quickly as I’d hoped. I thought we would remember the good we’d once found in ourselves, back when we were forced to be good. I thought we’d remember the cruelty of judging one another based on appearances. I thought we’d find ways to love people who were different from us. I thought we would learn from our mistakes, remember how to work together. I thought we’d all agreed that imposing our beliefs on others was how we’d gotten into this mess. I thought we’d had our fill of false prophets, hypocritical leaders. I thought we’d all learned empathy, and forgiveness.
I’ve looked long and hard at my faults. But now, I’m asking you to look at yours. That’s my one last request: I’m asking you to do what I never could and find a way to be wise but also good, merciful but strong. Take it from someone who’s learned the hard way: that’s the only way we’re going to rebuild this world. And it pains me, every day, that I can’t be the one to lead that charge.
I need one of you to lead. I need one of you to be brave, to be the voice I tried to be and failed. I wanted to save the world, and despite everything I accomplished, I fell short. But this story doesn’t have to be over yet. I might be in here, but the rest of you still have the power to
change things. Make this right.
Make this world as peaceful as my mother hoped it would be. As just as Zack did. Fun, for Macy. Kind, for Layla. Meaningful, for my father. Loving, for Jude.
I know it’s a hard ask. If no one else has been able to do it, why should I expect you to do anything? I tried my hardest, succeeded beyond my wildest expectations, and yet there is still so much pain and injustice in our world. We’re free, yes, but as my mother said, free to make mistakes.
My prayer to you is the same one I once gave to Great Spirit. Please take care of this world, since I can’t anymore.
I’ve finally found my religion, and it’s you. Your compassion, your drive, your kindness. I believe in your power to make the world better. I no longer believe in Great Spirit, but I believe in you.
Epilogue
The gates of the prison creaked open, and I stepped out into the sunlight. Fifteen years, it had been a long time. Everything looked different than I remembered. The buildings in the distance a little bigger. The sky a little darker. The birds a little quieter. I breathed in, and the smell was familiar. Smoke and pollen—springtime.
I’d expected cameras, but the warden had kept the press at bay. Their absence was lonely, in a way. I thought this moment deserved a little more fanfare, wanted someone else to mark with me how meaningful it felt. But the air outside hung silent, save for the rumble of the nearby highway.
I thought of my friends, how their lives had gone on without me. Dawn and Irene, still married, with a couple kids . . . they must be in middle school by now. The last time Dawn had visited me in prison, she’d remarked how simple and easy things felt. Too easy. “After all those years fighting, grieving, how can I just accept this? While you’re in here, when there are people who didn’t make it?”
“You earned it,” I’d told her. If anyone deserved happiness, I knew it was our fearless leader, who’d sacrificed so much for so many others.
Zack, too, I’d heard, had moved on. Embraced his fame as a hero of the resistance, an inside man who took down the prophets. I resented that the public looked at him so fondly, when they still hated me, but I was happy he’d found his place. Also married, with a baby on the way.
Layla, they told me, had ended up in Paris. Macy was in Philadelphia. Dr. Marko with his family in Berlin. All living normal lives, rarely talking about their histories with the resistance. Life always goes on, with or without you. And for fifteen years, the world had continued without me. It ached a bit; there was a part of me that wanted everything to stop in my absence. More than that though, I wanted the people I loved to enjoy the freedom we’d worked so hard to achieve.
But still, I was alone. Or I thought was, until I heard a familiar, deep voice. “Grace!” I turned to see a face I recognized. One that had visited me every week, for all these years. Grin hidden by a thin layer of scruff, eyes still bright and shining. His company had kept me sane all these years, and yet, he’d been so far away, through that glass. As he walked toward me, I felt that same old feeling resurging inside. Like no matter how long we stayed apart, something inside of us would always be connected. He was a different person, once again, and yet the same Jude I’d always loved. The same one I always would love.
“You came,” I said, and as I hugged him, relief washed over me. I’d never felt freer than in that moment.
“Always,” he said. And I forgot all the years we’d lost, those Nova Scotia summers we might have shared. All I saw was the man standing in front of me, miraculously, taking my hand. Together, we’d survived a thousand deaths, a thousand rebirths, and now, we had a whole future to explore. A new, unfamiliar world, where I’d lost everything. But still, something good, somehow, remained.
“So where are we going?” I asked, opening the passenger door of his car.
“No idea,” he said. And as the engine roared to life, we drove ahead.
Acknowledgments
First off, to Eva: I’ve known Eva since she was nine years old, but even then she was wise beyond her years. We used to tell each other stories back and forth, and her creativity blew me away. I told her we should start writing down some of her ideas, and since my typing skills were faster at the time, I became her stenographer. Before we knew it, over the course of several sessions, she had more than forty pages of content. “You’re writing a novel,” I told her, and she seemed surprised, but undeterred. We kept going.
I’ll admit—it was her bravery, facing down that blank page, that inspired me to write my own novel. Books were something I’d wanted to tackle for years, but writing one had always seemed too hard. Watching this young girl breathlessly crafting an epic fantasy, I thought—if she can do this, I, the professional writer, should certainly be able to. Thanks to Eva, I faced my fears. Though technically I was supposed to be her mentor, I always tell people that the mentorship really went in the other direction. It’s been a privilege to watch her grow up into such a fearless, inspiring young woman, and I know she’ll excel at whatever she chooses to pursue in her future.
Many, many thank-yous to all my friends and family who read and gave feedback on this book, especially in the midst of the difficult period in which I was writing it: Ann Acacia Kim, Laura Herb, Sarah Hawley, Derek Leben. And last but not least, my amazing mother, Becky Ridgeway, for reading this manuscript at its roughest and convincing me I had what it took to finish. I’m so lucky to have had you as my cheerleader for all these years, and I’m going to miss you so much. Thank you all for your ideas and encouragement and general fabulousness.
I’m forever indebted to both my incredible editor, Tessa Woodward, and my wonderful agent, Peter Steinberg, for being so understanding throughout this editorial process. Tessa, thank you for your deft and incisive notes, which helped me solve so many issues I’d been banging my head against the wall over. Peter, your kindness and support over the past year went above and beyond, and I am so grateful.
Thank you as well to Elle Keck, Laurie McGee, Christina Joell, and everyone else at Harper Voyager for all of your help bringing this book out into the world! And of course, those who helped get this world off the ground: Claire Abramowitz, Randy Kiyan, Ari Levinson, Priyanka Krishnan, Rebecca Lucash, and David Pomerico.
Dad, thanks for buying up most of the stock of my last two books! And as always, my family, my friends, my colleagues, my teachers and mentors, and everyone else who has read and promoted this series: thank you from the bottom of my heart for all of your support!
About the Author
Sarah Tarkoff is the author of Sinless and Fearless, the first two novels in the Eye of the Beholder trilogy, and wrote for the CW series Arrow. Her other television writing credits include ABC’s Mistresses and Lifetime’s Witches of East End. She graduated from the University of Southern California with a degree in screenwriting and currently lives in Los Angeles.
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By Sarah Tarkoff
Sinless
Fearless
Ruthless
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ruthless. Copyright © 2020 by Sarah Tarkoff. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Harper Voyager and design are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers LLC.
Cover design by Yeon Ki
m
Cover photograph © Rubberball/Mark Andersen/Getty Images
first edition
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition MARCH 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-245643-4
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-245642-7
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