by Audrey Grey
“It’s called the Mercurian.” We are crossing Palladian Bridge, and the carriage jiggles loudly. White petals snow from the bowed cherry trees that border the banks. “My father developed it to change the path of the asteroid, but apparently it’s also a weapon—the kind that can wipe out entire populations with the push of a button. The kind the Emperor has outlawed.”
Riser exhales slowly through clenched teeth. “You’re telling me there is a way to save billions of people from dying?”
“Yes, but it didn’t fit into Emperor Laevus’s final solution, the formation of his perfect society.”
Riser is sitting very still. The only thing that moves is the artery in his neck. If Riser had any qualms about killing Emperor Laevus before, he doesn’t now. “Why do the Fienians want it?”
“Oh, I don’t know, to blow things up?” I find myself laughing, more of a sarcastic grunt. “The Royalists. The mad Fienians. Schemers like Nicolai and Brogue and Flame. Everyone wants it because whoever controls this thing controls the future of the world.”
“And to control it,” Riser says carefully, “They must control you.”
“Except, that,” I say, “Is proving easier said than done. How long until Nicolai decides to simply cut it out of me like the Archduchess?”
Riser leans forward, the muscles in his neck corded. “He wouldn’t.” He clears his throat. “I . . . wouldn’t let him.”
I shake my head. I can see now Riser really feels the emotions they gave him. Obviously it’s the one thing Flame was successful at. Riser was programmed to keep me safe—for as long as I hold the key. “Don’t you understand? We can’t trust anything in this world, not our feelings, not each other . . . especially each other.”
His hand reaches for mine, but I pull away. “These emotions aren’t real, Riser!”
His eyes are glittery sharp as they pin me to me seat. “They are real to me, Everly. As real as my need to eat, to breathe. I cannot, will not let anything happen to you. I cannot help it.”
I don’t like the intimacy in his voice, the cramped space in this carriage, or the tingly warmth from where his knee presses into mine. “You said so yourself, Lord Thornbrook.” I pull my knee away from his. “It’s only a matter of time before your reconstructed emotions vanish.”
I look out the window. We both don’t want to think about what will happen then. The courtyard comes into view and the carriage begins to slow, my body jostling with each bump. “Has Nicolai mentioned my brother?”
“No.”
It’s impossible to ascertain if he’s telling the truth. I begin smoothing out my dress as the carriage slows to a stop in front of the fountain. The breeze sprays tiny droplets against my cheeks. “Recent events tell me Nicolai hasn’t yet figured out how to access Max’s map. Which is why they need you to determine if I know where my father’s device is.”
“Do you?”
“No.” Should I tell him about my father’s message? Can I trust him? Part of me says yes; part of me screams no. But I have little choice. Without him, I’m almost guaranteed to fail. Exhaling sharply, I say, “But I may be able to find it.”
Riser lifts an eyebrow in question.
The footman is dismounting. I have to hurry. “My father left a message for me in the Sim. I didn’t have a chance to receive all of it, but I think he was trying to help me locate the Mercurian.”
“And how does that help us now?”
“Because it’s here,” I say, watching the surprise flicker in his eyes. “And now I know all I have to do is find another way back into the system to find out where.”
Riser shakes his head. “Won’t work. This is the heart of Royalist territory. Simulations aren’t allowed.”
“Well,” I say, rising, “then I guess it’s good Emperor Laevus forgot that when he had my father build one here.”
The door opens, a set of three iron steps unfolding to the ground, and the footman holds out his white-gloved hand. Before accepting, I turn to Riser and smile. “So, Lord Thornbrook, did I sufficiently quench your curiosity?”
Standing, Riser brazenly slides his hand around my waist. “Allow me.”
I shiver as his breath rolls across the back of my neck and his warm fingertips press into my hip.
It’s a simple act, but it’s also an answer.
From this moment forward, we are fake courting—except suddenly it doesn’t feel fake at all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The tables are set up in the courtyard beneath a strand of cherry trees strung with pale, flickering lanterns. Against dusk’s ethereal glow, the lanterns are unremarkable, but as soon as the sun falls, they will be a million twinkling stars. Somewhere in the distance a violin plays a haunting tune.
Riser and I are the last finalists to be seated. That makes eight of us at the table. Other than Merida and Rhydian, who sit directly in front of my seat, and Lady Teagan to my left, I don’t recognize anyone. I feel, rather than see, Riser take his place to my right.
Something has changed. I find it hard to look at him. To breathe normally knowing he’s near. I almost knock over my goblet of water trying to take a drink, and when I swallow it feels as if I will throw up.
Merida leans across the table. “That looks aces on you,” she says, gesturing to my costume. “I didn’t know if you’d dare wear it . . . but I hoped.”
“I wasn’t sure, either,” I say. As I scan the other finalists and their staunch Royalist attire—corsets and petticoats and long, full skirts, all Color correct—I begin to wonder if I made the right choice. But then I shift and the airy fabric moves with me, not rigid and stuffy but light and free, and I understand it is a quiet form of rebellion.
The music and idle chatter dies. We all turn to the procession slowly coming down the courtyard steps, flanked by Gold Cloaks holding torches. As if on cue the last bit of twilight evanesces into watery darkness.
The Golds lead. Emperor Laevus, clad in a long, stately white wig tied back with a gold ribbon, heads the procession, carrying a large burning scepter that illuminates his chin, mouth, and cheeks but leaves his eyes hooded in darkness. And beside him, cloaked in shadow, is my mother. I know it by the way my body reacts as she draws near, even before the lanterns confirm it. The Gold phoenix medal pinned to her cloak, a mark of distinction, glints in the soft light.
So she’s the Emperor’s second, now. It only cost her a husband and her children.
All at once I know she will pass by me, inches, maybe even brush my chair, and if she does, I won’t be able to stop my anger. Nothing else matters but the blind hatred I feel for her. My hand snakes over the table, snags a butter knife. Blunt, but it’ll do.
Riser pins my hand to the table in a gesture that looks outwardly romantic. His thumb trails lightly over my knuckles. “Patience.”
Someone at the table laughs at my ill manners, thinking I am merely hungry. I inhale a deep, choppy breath, my palm flattening in defeat over the cool knife.
“Remember,” Riser says, his voice making it clear he disapproves of my rash impulse, “good things come to those who wait.”
They are gone. Riser removes his hand, but not before quietly slipping the knife from my fingers. It returns to its place by the crystal butter dish adorned with perched phoenixes.
Riser knows who she is, of course. He read my journal. Which may account for the way he hovers near me, even as they take their place at the head table—just in case he has to forcibly stop me from doing something idiotic.
Some of the Chosen peel from the procession. They take seats at the finalist’s tables, one at the head, one at the foot. Roman and Delphine, clad in their formal wigs, take their places at the table nearest the water. Lucy and Hugo Redgrave are there, along with other wealthy Bronze finalists I don’t know.
In fact, most of the tables are grouped by wealth. Which is why I’m surprised as Caspian and his twin sister, Ophelia, join us. As far as I can tell, our table consists of the lowest esteemed finalists, those whos
e Houses were stripped of everything.
Caspian stands erect, arms clasped behind his back. Dressed in full military uniform, his chest sparkles with an assortment of metals—all of which I can’t help but think he earned. A mottled gold crown sits atop his simple wig. My chest tightens.
Now this Caspian I can see as the Emperor someday.
We all clamber to our feet and quickly bow as Bronze attendants scurry to light the candles on the table.
The sound of silverware tapping against goblets vibrates the stillness. The other tables rise at the sound. I see why a moment later. Emperor Laevus stands erect at the head of the Chosen table, prepared to make a speech.
“Lords, ladies, courtiers, citizens, the historians will regard tonight as a defining moment in the empire,” Emperor Laevus begins. “Every one of you present represents millions of souls, and it’s those souls to whom I speak.” He pauses to let that reality sink in. His words remind me I have still not felt a single upload since this afternoon.
“Your life is meaningful; it is sacred and beloved. And I vow to make your sacrifice mean something. Because of you, dear citizen, we have sifted through the ashes of our destruction and risen to the highest level, a flawless, perfectly designed society, free from the violent technologies that nearly destroyed us.” He makes a dramatic, sweeping bow to thunderous applause. When the applause slows to a gentle hum, he quiets the crowd with a wave. “So thank you. Thank you.”
My mother, who has been sitting, rises slowly. I watch the court to see how they respond. Immediate silence. So she must still carry enormous weight. Wearing a cotton-white wig with tight ringlets, she waits with hands clasped together, her eyes picking out each individual finalist. Only my mother could command the silence like this. Our eyes meet, just for a second. Although her eyes hold no recognition, I feel as if my body will rent in half.
Done addressing us with her eyes, she speaks. “Finalists, I do not want to take up much of your time—we all know how precious that is.” A few nervous laughs. “But I would like you to look around your table at the people, the food. Yes, this is a feast, but not the kind you are used to. With this food we are not celebrating life; we are rejoicing the end. The end of hunger. The end of warfare and disease. The end of an empire so plagued with rampant technologies we were systematically killing each other.” She pauses to drive home her point. “And as you know, such a feat requires great sacrifice.”
There is a sudden whooshing sound as flaming phoenixes descend from the sky and land on our table. They are holographic, of course. Made to seem even more real using our new Microplants. Mine, an angry, fidgety thing with white tipped wings, circles my aperitif plate, screeches, and then lifts into the air in unison with the others. Within seconds they are all frozen eight feet above us, wings spread wide. Every phoenix bears a number.
Everyone’s except mine.
“Your Avatar ranking,” my mother explains. “You may see all but your own.”
The air stirs with shocked murmurs.
“You all came here in the hopes of a chance at life,” my mother continues. “Unfortunately by the time dessert is served, only fifty of the highest ranked finalists will remain.”
I scour the golden birds above our table. There are one hundred finalists. Merida is ranked forty-first, which means she currently has enough uploads to survive the Culling. Rhydian, fifty-first, is one ranking shy of staying as well.
“Tomorrow, those of you who remain will be tested further.” Her voice has a hypnotic effect. I find myself wanting desperately to believe in what she says, even though I know every word is a bent truth. She is gifted that way. “Each test will embody a specific theme integral to our society. They are designed to peel away to your core so we may choose the very best among you.” She picks up a glass and holds it in the air. A toast. “To the ones here today who do not make it, may your deaths serve a higher purpose and fortify the empire. All hail Emperor Laevus!”
“All hail the Emperor!” the Chosen chant, stamping the table with their goblets before drinking. We all do the same. Deafening chanting and stomping follow.
It seems my mother hasn’t lost her silver tongue. It’s what makes her so effective . . . and dangerous.
Caspian gracefully tucks into the head chair. As bad luck would have it, Riser is seated to his immediate left.
“Sit,” Caspian commands the table. His voice is friendly, generous—but still a command.
We obey in unison, just in time for the first course, goose liver with goat’s cheese and maize. An uncomfortable quiet descends. Merida forgets about the customary formal introduction and tries to eat. Realizing her mistake, she drops her fork in horror. It clangs against her plate.
Caspian’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “Please, relax. I simply would like to get to know everyone here.”
Is it me or did he pointedly glance in my direction?
As the ceremonial introductions are made, I can’t help but glance at the rankings above us. Teagan Aster—forty-seven. Two sisters, Alice and Marianna Graver of Wakefield—thirty-two and thirty-nine. Blaise Weston, the former Minister of Treasury’s son—nineteen. Laurel Crawley—fifteen. All traitors’ children. When Riser introduces himself, I see he is currently at forty-eight. My own ranking, however, is impossible to see.
As is customary for the highest-ranked Color at the table, Caspian teepees his hands, pressing them into his forehead. “May the gods honor our food and fellowship. I am Prince Caspian Laevus, and . . .”
Everyone turns to Lady Ophelia, who shifts in her chair, looking about as comfortable as a mouse at a table full of cats. Caspian makes up for her shyness with a quick introduction. “This is the enchantingly beautiful, Princess Ophelia.”
Ophelia looks up from the table long enough to plant a timid smile on every finalist here. Clearing her throat, she smiles down into her lap and says, “Call me O, please.”
I love her immediately. She is draped in a pale-gold, off-the-shoulder gown that expertly matches her sad, soulful eyes and catches the candles’ light. She has foregone the formal wig, and her hair, a curtain of gold silk, hangs to her waist, white bird-boned shoulders jutting from its depths like glaciers, flowers running its entire length: orange irises and blush-pink azalea blooms, purple wisteria and soft red camellias. A string of dogwoods make a fragrant snowy crown.
In the daytime, she could be a goddess from the pages of my unsanctioned book. But in this phantasmal darkness, illuminated by an ethereal mixture of moonlight and firelight, she is a woodland nymph that will soon return to her enchanted forest and disappear.
Ophelia is watching me study her. “It’s okay,” she half-whispers. “I was studying you, too.”
“Me?”
“You’re the girl who challenged the Sulking Tigress.”
“I’m sorry?”
Her voice takes on a playfully secretive tone. “It’s our nickname for the Lady Delphine, Cas and mine. Fitting, don’t you agree?”
I stiffen, not used to such candor in court. Perhaps it’s a trick to loosen my tongue, get me talking? Smear a Gold. Isn’t there a rule against that?
She gives an embarrassed little laugh, cutting her eyes in apology at Caspian. “It’s silly . . . Anyway, it was a very brave thing to do.”
“Thank you,” I say, relaxing, “but I fear it was more stupid than brave.”
“Well, if I had to choose, I would rather be brave and stupid than smart and cowardly. And you”—she turns to Riser—“you refused to denounce Lord Pope. Why?”
Across the table, Merida quickly looks away, her face mired in guilt. Rhydian stiffens.
The corners of Riser’s mouth twitch. “I wish, Princess, I could also claim admirable intentions, but I just don’t particularly enjoy being told what to do.”
O glances at Caspian. “You sound a lot like someone else I know.”
But Caspian is staring at Riser, his sharp eyes whittling away at him. “So, obstinate and foolish. Tack on ill mannered, if our m
eeting earlier is any indication. Do you perchance have any redeeming qualities, Lord Thornbrook?”
Obviously Caspian hasn’t forgotten about their previous encounter.
Riser leans back into his chair, arms behind his head. Anyone else would be cowering in submission, and his calm demeanor puts me on edge—as does his insolent smile. “Well, Lord Caspian, not unless you count my striking good looks and unfailing charm.”
“I do not.” Caspian sits rigid, firelight playing across his refined cheekbones. “And as I am your sovereign and a Gold, you must address me as Prince Caspian. Or My Liege. Your preference.”
Everyone at the table freezes. Do it, Pit Boy! Because for all of Riser’s reconstruction, his newly polished appearance and mannerisms, the defiant expression twisting his face belongs to the boy from the pit.
His eyes flicker to me. My face begs him to do it. Don’t be an idiot, idiot!
“My apologies, Prince,” Riser says through clenched teeth, slowly tearing his gaze from me. “My courtly manners are rusty.”
“And when were you here, exactly?” Caspian’s face has gone completely serious. “Because I don’t remember you.”
I understand now Caspian will not let this go.
Riser lobs a dark grin my way, as if to say I tried it your way, now let’s try mine, and I know things are about to spiral out of control.
Oh Fienian hell.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“I do,” I blurt. “Remember him. I mean . . . Not from court—I was too young, obviously—but from . . . summering together at . . . my family’s ocean villa.” That’s something ex-courtiers do, right?
Caspian turns to me, his head tilted in puzzlement. “Pardon me, but—”
“Greetings.” A huge shadow has lumbered up to our table. The smell of brandy slaps me in the face.