In the bag is a sleek red dress, floor-length, with a form-fitting skirt and an open back crisscrossed with glittering ruby straps. Instantly I picture how good the dress will look against my brown skin, with my dark hair.
"You have incredible taste," I say. "But I'm sure Demi has chosen a dinner dress for me already. I have a session with her tomorrow."
"I'm sure you'll find some occasion to wear this," says Ridley, smiling. "After all, the dress was merely a cover."
I reach into the bag again and retrieve a slim, glossy black square, about as thick as my little finger and as wide as my palm. A barely perceptible button at the edge powers on the device, turning it translucent blue as a small holoscreen projects from its surface.
"It's beautiful." I swivel the holoscreen back and forth with my finger.
After a quick tutorial from Ridley, I enter General Binney's wavecode. Ridley slips out of my room just as the general answers. His bearded face appears above the device's surface—crystal-clear, three-dimensional, and in pristinely accurate color.
"Miss Remay," he says. "I've been expecting your call."
I smile. "Am I annoying you yet?"
"Not at all. And even if you were, it's my duty to serve the Magnate and his family to the best of my ability." He smiles back at me. "I brought in a team today, to do medicals and psych evaluations on your three friends. I've run every scan and background check available, looked up their profiles, and had them scanned for subconscious programming. As far as I can tell, they're no threat to national security. Although the man Alik is concealing something from me."
"I'm sure they're all hiding a few things."
"His secret doesn't seem to be personal or family-related. This is something else, connected to his career as a thief. Maybe you can find out what it is." He hesitates. "Also I must tell you I think it's unwise to grant a man like him residence status in Ceanna."
As much as I hate to admit it, he's right. "I know. He became a thief out of necessity, but he really seems to enjoy it, too. Maybe we can think of a positive use for his skills."
"One that doesn't involve him lifting valuables from Ceanna's top families?"
"Exactly." I hesitate. "You aren't there with my friends now, are you?"
"No, I'm at home."
"Then I won't keep you," I say. "I just need the address of the house where they're staying, so I can visit as soon as I'm cleared."
"I'll get it to you soon."
I'm about to ask how and when, but the panel on my bedroom wall flashes red. "Warning. Privacy mode overridden, master account clearance."
"I have to go." I shut off the device and slip it into the pocket of my pants just as the panel lights up, showing my father's face.
"Zilara." His voice booms through the room. "My office. Now."
After our little showdown in front of the Council, I expected this.
I have faced down my father's wrath many times throughout my life; but the stakes have never been this high. My stomach folds in on itself, solidifying into a wad of heavy unease as I walk downstairs to his office.
"Wait outside," I say to Tram and Ridley. They retreat to stand along the wall with my father's three bodyguards, and I step into the office without them.
My father's study has soaring ceilings, studded with recessed lights. The walls are all touch-sensitive panels interspersed with holo-screens, so he can open as many documents, maps, vid-lines, and newsfeeds as he likes. I've seen him walk through dozens of them, flicking information expertly back and forth, absorbing, planning, scheming.
Right now, the walls are blank black mirrors reflecting my slow progress across the room, toward his sleek red desk—red as freshly spilled blood. The chair behind it is a darker, rustier red—leather the color of old wounds. He's sitting in the chair, leaning forward with his elbow on the desk and his hand gripping a glass of amber-colored liquid. My father rarely drinks. It dulls his edge.
"Sit," he says.
I take one of the four dark chairs arranged in a half-circle before his desk.
"Your behavior today was inexcusable. Have you forgotten how to behave in council? Did your captivity ruin your capacity to respect authority?"
"Not at all. I respect your authority. But I reserve the right to question your decisions."
He sneers. "Your hubris is astounding. A university student, boasting less than two years of study in the political sciences, daring to question decisions made by those with years of experience in the field. It's rank arrogance."
"It doesn't take years of study to see that something is very wrong in Emsalis," I say, gripping the arms of the chair to keep my fingers from shaking. "I learned that the—"
Slam! His palm strikes the desk as he rises. "I already know everything you could possibly tell me about the situation in Emsalis. Those fools dug a dung-hole for themselves, and we've spent a decade trying to fill it in. I'm this close to blasting that money pit into oblivion and starting over."
"Pull our troops out," I say. "Just leave."
He walks swiftly across the room and back again. "If we could wipe it clean, we could build it better. That piece of land sits right two of our richest trade partners. Do you know what an incredible advantage that is? That's the real reason why the International League is trying to kick us out. That's why I sent you in, to do those publicity vids and show them that Ceanna belongs there, that our occupation must continue. If we leave, someone else will move in, and we'll lose our foothold in the region."
"So that's it." I frown. "The other countries don't really care about Emsalis and its people. They only care about the strategic advantage of its position."
"Why should we care about the Emsali people? A nest of violent brutes and impoverished idiots. Scourgelings, all of them. It's time for a purge."
I stand up, trembling. "Have you actually met any of the Emsali people?"
"You have," he says, facing me over the desk. "The Vilor. The Fray. The peasants scraping for survival on the rim of the desert. What makes them worth saving, Zilara?"
"They're people. They are intelligent, creative, fascinating. They deserve a chance."
His green eyes narrow. "Intelligent and fascinating? Would we be talking about this Rakhi fellow? The one who called me a 'piece of dung'?"
Curse my traitorous blood for rushing to my cheeks. "He shouldn't have said that—he was angry, but he's not usually so—he hates you."
"Hates me?" My father bares his teeth in a vicious smile. "Millions of people hate me, Zilara. Their emotions mean little to me."
"Sometimes I hate you." I lash out with the words, hoping to sting him, but his expression doesn't change.
"That's your choice. I don't need your love, but I require your respect, in this house, and before the people. And that includes the Council. Sit." He jerks his head towards the chair I vacated.
For a second I rebel, standing tall as I can, my jaw clenched.
"Sit," he hisses, leaning forward.
Why anger him further over something as silly as sitting down? I lower myself into the chair, without breaking eye contact.
"Now," he says. "You will speak to the press exactly as Feori directs you. You will take only the approved questions, and you will not stray from the answers we give you. You are not to contact any newsfeeds or give interviews to any of the feedrunners. Watch your words with your guards, your friends, your classmates. This is your only warning, Zilara. I have enough enemies here and abroad. I don't need my own daughter adding fuel to the fire."
I pinch my lips together.
"If you speak against me publicly, I will have no choice but to assume your mental state has been compromised, and you'll be treated accordingly."
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, threatening to seep out. I have to leave this room before I break. "Are we done here?"
"Do we understand each other?" He locks me in a venomous stare.
"Yes."
"Then go."
I stand, curling my fingers so h
e won't see them shake. I'm almost to the door when he says, "One more thing."
I stop.
"About your skull-port. Your new one doesn't seem to be functioning correctly. I tried to connect to it earlier, to summon you here, and the link didn't work. Have it serviced tomorrow."
With my hair arranged the way it is, he can't see the port area, so he doesn't know that I refused the re-install. And I can't tell him about it, not when he's in this mood.
I have to think quickly.
"I won't have time to get it serviced tomorrow," I say. "I have a meeting with my aesthetic team, and then the session with Feori. And the afternoon is more styling, then the press conference, then dressing for dinner—"
"Fine." He waves his hand. "Have it looked at the day after tomorrow. I spent a fortune on that unit, and I want it functional."
With a nod, I hurry out of the office and dash up the stairs, not waiting for my guards before flying into my room and closing the door.
He threatened me. Vaguely, but it was there. And after everything I just went through.
I shouldn't be surprised at his callousness anymore.
"Stop shaking, Zilara," I hiss at myself, trying to still my fingers enough to enter General Binney's wave-code on my tiny com device.
He answers. "Miss Remay? Is everything all right?"
"I need to ask you something, if you have a moment. Not about my Emsali friends—something else."
"Of course."
I tell him about the conversation with my father. "I came back here wanting to do some good for Emsalis," I say. "I believe my father is wrong; but he says I only think that because I'm young and I don't have all the information. And I'd like to know what you think. You were stationed in Emsalis for a while, weren't you? That's one reason they sent you to get me—you know the territory."
"You're right," he says, sighing. "I was there for three years. And I must say, my impressions of the situation match with yours. Ceannan presence may have restricted the fighting within Emsali borders, but it has only served to further destabilize the interior workings of the country."
"And people here in Ceanna don't know that. They're being told lies. If they could see how it really is—"
"Or hear it from an eyewitness. Someone they know and admire, like you."
I chew my lip. "If I speak out, my father will be furious. I don't know what he'll do."
"I don't think you should speak now. It's too soon. Give it a month or two, and let everyone see you functioning normally. Let your father's anxiety wane, and let the international tension settle down. You'll know when it's time to speak out."
"That makes sense. Can I ask you one more question?" I don't want to encroach too much on the General's time, or his goodwill. "Why do you want me to undermine my father?"
He clears his throat. "Your father and I have a long history. I've served Ceanna well, but he and I have had many disagreements along the way. It's one reason I didn't speak out when I finished my duties in Emsalis—I wasn't ready to incur his wrath again and throw away the career I spent a lifetime building. But I've watched your father do things—" he shakes his head.
"To Ceannans? To Emsalis?"
"Yes, and to someone I used to care for very deeply."
"Who?"
He closes his eyes for a second. "Your mother."
I blink, shocked. "My mother?"
"Yes, she and I were together many years ago, before she met your father and became his consort. She was a different person then—happy, healthy, full of life and confidence."
None of those words fit my mother. I've never known the person he's describing. "You think my father is to blame for what she is now?"
"I know he is. There is a kind of relationship that wears on the soul, eats it away slowly." He rubs a hand over his beard. "I'm not pining for your mother; I've had a wonderful consort of my own for thirty years. But I remember the woman Sharlene was, and it still pains me. And that, Zilara, is one of many reasons I would like to see you knock a crack in that towering pedestal your father has built for himself."
***
The next morning, my aesthetic team arrives much earlier than I'd like, along with Demi, my stylist. She was with me in Emsalis, walking a short distance behind me when the rebel bomb blew a hole in the transport chute. But they didn't capture her—she escaped with a handful of scratches and bruises and was immediately shipped back to Ceanna.
"I've had the worst anxiety, darling," she tells me. "And the headaches and hot flashes are something terrible. I blame that horrible country and those awful men. If it weren't for my daily massages I simply couldn't function. Oh, you must have a massage after your exfoliation!"
The promise of the massage is the only thing that gets me through the next hour of full-body exfoliation, depilation, and moisturizing treatment. Finally, a little raw and excruciatingly smooth, I lie down on the massage table with a soft towel over my backside.
"I didn't realize how much I missed this," I groan as Seiji, the masseuse, kneads the tension out of my back. Seiji is in his sixties, and he has studied his craft for decades. To him, my body is an instrument, to be played under his masterful fingers.
"You have so many bruises and wounds," Seiji says, touching the edge of the fading bolt-burn on my ribs. "Let me know if I'm hurting you."
But he doesn't hurt me, of course—he seems to know innately where the sensitive spots are. Like he can read my tissues and bones.
"Seiji, are you Evolved?" I ask suddenly. How have I never thought of it before?
A pause.
"I have a gift, yes."
"Why have you never told me?"
"You never asked. Few people do."
I sit up, pulling the towel with me to cover my chest. "How does your gift work?"
He glances toward the door. Demi could walk back in at any moment. "It does not matter, Miss Remay," he says. "I prefer to keep this quiet, yes? It would not do to lose my clients."
"But why would you lose your—"
"Please." His tone is desperate. "Let us finish your treatment."
I lie down again. How many people in Ceanna are hiding their gifts? Why do none of the Evolved feel that they can talk about their abilities, except with each other? Everyone knows that the Evolved exist—so why the stigma and the secrecy?
Demi bustles back in and begins trying different hairstyles on me while her assistant plucks my eyebrows.
"I have the loveliest dress for you to wear tonight!" Demi snaps her fingers at another assistant. "Bring in the dress."
"Demi, I already have a dress."
"Nonsense, darling. You know you can't wear something you've already worn, not tonight. No, it has to be something new, something bold. And this—" she gestures toward the short gold dress her assistant is holding— "makes a statement!"
"Take an image of my closet," I tell the house. "Show in holo-mode."
An image of my closet projects from the wall near me. With my fingers I expand it and zoom in on the red dress Ridley bought. "This is the one I was hoping to wear to the dinner tonight."
Demi peers at it. "Oh. It is lovely, isn't it? Who chose this for you, darling? Are you cheating on me with another stylist?"
"No, of course not. But I'd like to wear this."
"I think this works," she says. "It's longer than I was thinking, but yes—let's use it. We'll do the cream suit for the press conference and the red dress for the dinner. Take that gold one away," she orders, and the assistant disappears.
"Now after the press event, we'll have less than an hour to get you ready for the dinner. No time for a full revamp of your hair, so I'll use the curls for a nice updo—yes, that will work. And we'll go heavier on the makeup for the dinner."
I tune out the rest of her comments—they're more for her and her assistants' benefit anyway. She's still talking makeup styles when Feori arrives with my notes for the press conference. After two hours of study and practice, he pronounces me ready for the event.
In four hours, the press event will be behind me, for better or worse.
In six hours, I'll be at the dinner.
In nine hours, I can leave the dinner and go home; and in ten hours, I'll be relaxing in my own room, and it will all be over. I'll be alone.
Alone.
A sudden, harsh ache begins in my chest, a pain so fierce it's nearly physical. An absence that I feel like a wound—the absence of a man with scarred lips, dark eyes, and a heart the size of a nation.
5
The press conference happens in flashes.
A voice, announcing my name. A hand, gesturing for me to walk out onto the platform.
A swarm of vid drones, forming a black buzzing wall beyond my reach. Behind and below them, a mob of fleshy faces, pink and black and tan and ivory and every shade in between.
I perform as I practiced. My ears collect the questions, and my lips regurgitate the phrases I was fed. I am a shiny, beautiful puppet.
What keeps me from screaming the truth? Not just fear, because I've already met fear, and I kicked it in the balls. No, I play along because I have a plan. I will move through this charade until I have all the information I need, and then I will release the truth, a net to catch the ones who have trapped the Evolved, and a key for people like me, who didn't know they were chained. A spotlight on the pain and terror in Emsalis.
After what seems like an eternity in a moment, a hand tugs at my elbow. I'm done. No more questions. "Thank you," I say to the people, and I take a moment to smile at them, a real smile this time, not one faked for the lenses.
And then I'm out of the conference hall, through the corridors, outside in the twilight. I step into the hoverpod and sit down on the cushioned circular seat. And I breathe.
When I slip off my jacket, Demi lifts my arm and fans my armpit.
Princess of Lies and Legends (The Evolved Book 2) Page 5