Princess of Lies and Legends (The Evolved Book 2)

by Veronica Sommers

  "My father was so sweet to order a skull-port device for me!" I give her a charming smile. "I already thanked him for it. But I've found that I like life without a skull-port—at least for now. So I'm going to stay port-free. I discussed it with him this morning, and he's in full favor of it. Anything I need to feel safe, he said." I broaden my smile, sitting straighter, willing her to respect my wishes. "Thank you. I appreciate your understanding."

  "Of—of course." She nods, motioning to the tech who is holding the new implant. "Put it back," she says. "We'll hold this one on reserve for you, Miss Remay, in case you change your mind."

  "Thank you."

  "Prep for a filling and closure," the doctor says to her team, replacing her visor and mask. "The filling is semi-permanent, so you'll need to set up an official surgery date if you decide you want a re-install after all."

  "I understand."

  When I walk out of the medical wing, the skull-port hole is filled with alt-tissue and the opening covered with an alpha-grade nano-patch. The nanites in the patch will craft synthetic skin, a permanent, natural-looking seal for the wound.

  I take a deep breath of rain-washed air. The sun is high overhead, and I'm starving. I'm about to suggest a stop at one of the cafes that border the research complex when I see a cloud of tiny black drones approaching, vid lights blinking. They dip and hover nearby, moving when I move. I give one of the drones a mock salute and climb back into my hoverpod.

  "Newsfeed vultures," I say. "Tram, why don't you run into a cafe and grab us lunch to go? I have to be at the psych evaluation in an hour."

  "We'll have to eat on the way," says Ridley. "Your appointment is at the Institute of Mental Health."

  "Why? That's all the way across the city. Couldn't the psychiatrist have come here?"

  "Yes, but your father wanted you to have the full panel of exams. Brain scans, behavioral checks, viewing tests, everything. The best equipment for that is at IMH."

  I grimace. "What fun."

  Now that I know what lies in store for me this afternoon, the salad Tram brings me tastes like dry grass. I try to chew and swallow, staring out the windows of the hoverpod as we enter the traffic streams of the city.

  On the southern side of Caliston, the Institute of Mental Health dominates the skyline. It's a skyscraping cluster of peaks, with enclosed walkways crisscrossing from tower to tower like cobwebs of glass and steel. Generations ago my people constructed it as a temple—but when we decided to stop worshipping anything but ourselves, we turned it into a monument to all that is broken inside us.

  Here, teams of scientists, researchers, and technicians design the skull-ports and their attachments. Here also, mental health professionals tend to the care and comfort of those our society has deemed mentally unfit to walk around freely. My mother has stayed here before—for short stints, always in strict secrecy so as not to embarrass the Magnate and the Reigning Family.

  As the Institute's far-reaching shadow drops over the transport pod, fear shoves a cold claw up my throat. I swallow it down and grit my teeth. This is by far the most dangerous test—convincing the psychiatrist that I'm completely mentally healthy, sharing some emotions and withholding others—like my anger about the suppressor my father put in me. Like my fascination with my new powers. Like my feelings for Rak.

  The chemical tests come first—fluids withdrawn and analyzed while I wait, tapping my fingers on the arm of the chair. I glance over at Tram and Ridley, standing stone-still against the lab wall. How boring this must be for them.

  Next I'm taken to a gloomy room and shown a series of vids and images—innocuous scenes at first, like flowers in a field, water running through a rock chasm, a man playing with a child.

  Then.

  A flower in time-lapse, wilting, withering, turning to ash that blows away in the wind.

  A wall of water smashing houses along a coastline.

  A man slapping a sobbing child.

  A girl tied to a chair, screaming as a dark figure bends over her.

  My breath stops.

  Calm down. Breathe. In and out, slowly, deeply. This isn't real.

  When the vids end, the techs show me blobs and lines and splashes of color, and I have to record my feelings and impressions about each one on a nearby holo-screen. After the tenth image I want to give up and type "screw you" or "rutting dung-pig" for each one, but I resist, because that might reflect poorly on my sanity.

  Next come the brain scans. Again, I'm stripped naked, covered with paper, strapped down so tightly I can't move my head even a fraction, and inserted into a tube that flashes with whirling lights and roars like a waterfall.

  Stay calm. Breathe. I focus on keeping my heart rate slow and steady.

  "I think we've got what we need!" says the tech brightly, pulling me out of the tube again. "You can get dressed, and then head up to Tower 3, Level 35 for your evaluation."

  I pull on my clothes, irritation flooding me. "Come on," I snap at my guards, and then I immediately feel bad for taking out my annoyance on them.

  A gliding walkway speeds our trek to Tower 3, and an elevator lifts us smoothly and swiftly to Level 35. From the enormous windows in the elevator, I look out over Caliston—a city bristling with buildings, windows shining painfully bright in the afternoon sun, hoverpods darting along prescribed pathways, lev-trains zooming so fast I barely glimpse them before they're gone. Far, far below are the streets where a few wheeled vehicles still travel like archaic tortoises, and people scurry along sidewalks in hectic hordes, like busy ants.

  I can't remember the last time I walked the actual streets of the city. I'm always in a lev-train or a hoverpod, too busy to take the time for a stroll.

  Somewhere in Caliston, or in its outlying suburbs, is Rak. And Safi, and Alik. To the north, at the university, live my loyal friends Vissa and Reya. I promise myself that I will see them soon.

  The elevator door slides open. Level 35.

  4

  A woman waits to greet us, bowing slightly as we exit the elevator. "Welcome, Zilara." A wide smile, prominent cheekbones, blue eyes, short blond hair. Her white suit hangs loosely on a her narrow frame. "I'm Doctor Elma Drae. If you'll come this way, please."

  We pass through frosted glass doors—at least, Doctor Elma Drae and I do. She turns, placing a hand on Tram's chest. "You'll wait outside, please," she says, with the same wide smile.

  My bodyguards back up as the doors close.

  Everything in the office is white. Thick white carpet over creamy tiles. Glossy white tables and chairs. A pearly desk with a translucent holo-screen. Frosty artificial plants towering in the corners.

  The doctor seats herself in an egg-shaped chair and indicates a corresponding chair opposite her, a few steps away. "Make yourself comfortable, Zilara."

  She links a vid attachment to her skull-port. "I'll be recording a vid of our session, for my files. You don't mind?"

  "No."

  "Why should you?" she says smoothly. "You have nothing to hide."

  I stare back at her without answering.

  "Hm." She pauses, her eyes unfocused for a second as she taps her skull-port device again. "I'll also be taking notes via thought-stream, so if you notice a pause before I speak, it's only that I'm finishing the note."

  I nod.

  "Now Zilara, I'm going to ask you to do some hard things during our sessions, to relive some memories. It might be painful, but I need you to press through it. Can you do that?"

  "Do I have a choice?"

  Her gaze sharpens, and I mentally berate myself for the slip. I need to be compliant, and careful.

  "Sorry," I say. "Of course, I'll be happy to tell you everything."

  "Very well. Let's begin with the moments before your capture."

  For the next hour, I tell the story of my time in Emsalis. The doctor prompts me every time I fall silent. I'm giving her the cold, clinical version of events, as free of emotion as I can make it; but as I speak, some of the memories gleam brigh
t and vivid in my mind—long brown fingers snapping me into bio-cuffs, the glint of a knife flicking a scourgeling from my arm. A deep male voice curving around the syllables of my name. Bone-cracking cold in the dark desert, and a muscled arm draped over me, offering warmth. Sometimes, in spite of my resolve, I have to stop and steady my voice—fight down the waves of emotion.

  I gloss over the bits when Rak and I used our powers, and I leave out the heated moments we shared. But I have to tell her about his choice to help me escape, his excision from his tribe, and his refusal to kill me at Therin's command.

  The therapist watches me, her blue eyes keen. "How do you feel about this Fray rebel, the one who helped you?"

  I shrug. "He was useful."

  "In a hostage situation, like yours, it's completely normal for a victim to attach herself to someone strong, someone who can protect her and help her survive. Emotions are heightened in times of peril, and some temporary dependencies and romantic feelings can develop. Perfectly normal."

  "Not relevant in my case."

  "Excellent. Because feelings like those aren't real," she says, smiling sympathetically. "They are useful for a time, but unless they are released after the trauma is over, they can cause psychological harm."

  "Good to know."

  She pauses for so long that I squirm under her gaze. "Zilara, you did what you needed to do to survive. There's no shame in that."

  "I never slept with him!" The words jerk out of me.

  "I didn't say you did. Was there sexual violence from the other men there?"

  "Other than some groping, no. The doctors already asked me that at my medical examination."

  "And I would be remiss if I didn't explore all possible avenues of trauma," she says. "Are you having trouble sleeping? Nightmares?"

  "No nightmares. I sleep well."

  She tilts her head. "Zilara, I have a feeling that you're not telling me everything. You can, you know. Anything said between us is kept private."

  Except it isn't. I know, because I've overhead my mother's psychiatrist telling my father private details of their sessions. The Magnate's power overrules all rights to privacy.

  "Of course." I smile at her. "If I think of anything else, may I schedule another session?"

  "Certainly." She seems flattered by the request. "As far as I can tell, Zilara, you are in excellent mental health. One might even think you've handled this chain of events a little too well."

  Babes' blood! Alik's favorite curse springs to my mind. I may have overdone the calmness and control. Now she's going to think I'm a sociopath without feelings.

  "It was definitely traumatic." I let my voice waver. "But I think I've grown stronger through it all. And I've learned a lot, about Emsalis and its people. And about myself."

  After a few more questions, she lets me go. I force myself to leave the room slowly, to turn and wave and smile, to walk serenely to the elevator—when in reality, all I want to do is run, run, far away from here.

  ***

  The briefing with my father and his council is easier than the session with the doctor. They aren't in the least concerned with my emotions; instead, they demand all the details I can remember about the Fray base, the team that held me hostage, the way the Vilor operate, and all the names I can remember. When I tell them about our escape from Therin in Rak's village, my father straightens, his eyes alert.

  "You killed Commander Therin?" he says, leaning forward.

  "Yes." I look from him to the others. Their eyes are eager, triumphant. "It wasn't a win for me. Sometimes I wish I hadn't done it."

  "Zilara, you executed the man responsible for your capture," says Feori, my father's Head of Press Relations. "Do you know what that says about your strength, about Ceanna's power? If we spread this story, no one will dare try anything like this again." He laughs joyfully, and my father actually smiles.

  "We'll guide the questions in this direction tomorrow then, at the press conference," he says. "Feori, go over the list of questions and responses with her tomorrow morning. Zilara, you are to use the answers that Feori gives you. Memorize them, and be sure that you don't stray beyond them."

  Cheeks flaming, I stare him down. "And what if I do?"

  Sudden silence. Eyes of the councilmen and councilwomen, swiveling to me, then back to my father.

  "We want to avoid a repeat of this incident," says my father, his voice smooth and cold as an icy lake. "The best way to do that, besides increased security, is managing the story. Following the recommendations of the professional press liaisons is in your best interest, Zilara."

  "What about the situation in Emsalis?" I say, my heart pounding. "The Fray are desperate for us to pull out, so desperate they resorted to hostage-taking. Shouldn't we consider their plight? Their nation is being ripped apart, and our Peace-Keepers aren't helping. In fact, the Peace-Keepers' presence might be making the problem worse."

  My father's eyes, venomous green, meet mine across the table. "Perhaps the Fray rhetoric affected you more dramatically than I thought. Please excuse my daughter, ladies and gentlemen. She is still recovering from her ordeal. I'm awaiting the results of her psych evaluation to see if she'll be able to participate in the press conference tomorrow."

  "I'm perfectly able to participate," I say. "And I hope that a group of men and women as wise and insightful as you are will have the humility to consider the truth of the Emsalis situation. All is not well, despite General Pregall's efforts."

  "And measures are being taken to correct the problem," says my father. "Zilara, we'll continue this meeting with only the elected council members. Please make yourself comfortable in the other room."

  Trembling, I rise, the eyes of the council weighing me down as I leave.

  Once the door closes behind me, I crush my fingers into fists and bite my lip to control the rising tears. I've been managed, belittled. Dismissed, like a child.

  I speak to my guards through gritted teeth. "Am I cleared to go into the city?"

  "Not until your psych evals come back," says Ridley apologetically.

  I stew in my seat in the hover-pod until we're back home. As we're leaving the pod and heading for the front entrance, I pull my guards to a halt, within that few feet of unmonitored space.

  "I want one of you to go buy me a communication unit. Untraceable, no Global Grid Link."

  "Untraceable, without GGL? That's illegal tech, unless you have a permit." Ridley's voice is respectful, but firm.

  "Surely you know where to procure one?" I maintain eye contact with her. "It's not for you, so you won't get into trouble. I'll pay whatever is necessary."

  Ridley and Tram exchange glances, and Ridley nods. "I'll see what I can do."

  After Ridley leaves, I throw myself on the sofa in the reception room and speak to the house. "Wave Vissa. Holo mode." It's been too long since I talked to my best friend.

  Within minutes, Vissa appears in full-color 3D from the shoulders up, an arm's length from me. "Vixen!" she shrieks, her earrings glittering as she bounces. "You're back! And browner than ever!"

  I can't help grinning. "You're looking good."

  She tosses her blue ringlets, her plump face dimpling as she smiles. "You like the color?"

  "It's great."

  "I knew you'd love it." Her smile disappears. "Zil, how are you? I heard you can't have visitors yet."

  "That didn't stop Gareth from showing up."

  Her eyes widen. They're golden-brown, like an eagle's or an owl's—nature's hint at the quality of her Evolved gift. She can see farther than most humans, with exceptional clarity. "Gareth? No he didn't!"

  "He did. Says he wants me back."

  "And you—"

  "I told him to get out."

  "Good girl!" Vissa nods. "Men. Who needs them?"

  "Right, who needs them?" I repeat, but without my usual ferocity.

  "Zil?" She cocks her head at me. "What's that about?"

  "What?"

  "You're eyes are all sparkly. Not
like a hostage who just escaped. Girl, you don't look weak and beaten-down at all. I wasn't sure what to expect, but you look—stronger. And happy. Why?"

  "I can't tell you yet."

  "Did you fall in love with one of the extraction team guys who came to rescue you?"

  No. I fell in love with one of the Fray rebels who abducted me.

  I can't tell her that, not yet. I'll sound insane.

  "Sort of," I say. "I can't give you details yet, but I will as soon as possible."

  "You'd better. When can you come see us at Uni?"

  "In a couple of days. I have to wait for psych and medical clearance. And there's a press event and a dinner tomorrow. But maybe the next day, or the day after that."

  "Don't keep us waiting too long. Reya has been crying for you every day. It's been so depressing. Me, I started lobbying every newsline runner I could reach to get your story out. I talked to ambassadors, I pestered your parents—I did what I could, Zil. It burns me that it wasn't effective."

  "Honestly it means the globe to me that you even tried," I say, blinking back tears. "While I was stuck there, I felt like no one cared."

  "The pair of us, we're your girls. We always care," Vissa says. "But Zil, your father did try, I think. As much as he can, with his inflated sense of political self-preservation. The newsfeeds gloss everything over, but from what I can tell, we were genuinely one wrong step away from war with a few different counties over this Emsalis thing—and it's still very volatile. I think the International League is going to force the Magnate to pull out."

  "They can't force him to do anything without threatening Ceanna's sovereignty."

  "Exactly."

  I swear. "I hate political drama."

  "Then let's talk about personal drama instead. I have the tastiest gossip for you."

  I tuck my legs under me. "Do tell."

  ***

  Ridley returns late that night and hands back the finance card I gave her to use, along with a shiny gold bag. "The dress you requested," she says, lifting an eyebrow significantly. I take the card and the bag, pull her into the bedroom with me, and engage privacy mode.