by EF Joyce
"I'm sorry I didn't come by sooner, but things have been slammed. Holy Old World Roz, you're a disaster," she added, taking in the princess's disheveled hair, rumbled, stained clothes and unwashed stench. "First of all, get in the shower. Like, now," she commanded steering her friend to the bathroom. Rozlyn didn't bother to protest. She felt numb from the inside out, and once in the shower she washed herself mechanically, climbed out and toweled off, brushed her teeth and then let Fallon tackle her hair.
"Things have been crazy out there," the model said as she dried and combed Rozlyn's hair. "Like, your family has totally barricaded themselves in their apartments. The people are vexed, and no one knows what to do. There have been riots and stuff, a couple people got hurt. It's kinda scary," she said, her voice growing soft.
"I can't even think about it," the princess said, once again forcing the images of Kaelor with a gun, blood on the walls, screaming, dying people.
"You're right, we shouldn't think about it. That's why I'm here! You need to get out, you're wasting away in here. I'm worried about you."
"I'm not leaving this room, Fallon. Riots? My family locking themselves away? It's not safe out there."
"Fine, but I'm not leaving you alone. We'll watch some telodramas and drink some wine, k?" Rozlyn nodded reluctantly and Fallon stayed for hours, trying to break the princess out of her dismal mood. After a season long marathon of The Lives and Lies of Arcadian Models, the princess finally convinced her friend to go, faking a desperate need for sleep.
Crushed by her own thoughts, Rozlyn buried herself in blankets, content to let life pass her by. She dropped into a troubled sleep, woken hours later at the sound of her front doors swishing open. Every muscle tense with the terror of seeing any of her family, she continued to feign sleep, listening intently as footsteps echoed across her hard floor, finally coming to a stop beside her bed. A gentle hand combed through her long hair and she looked up into the deep blue eyes of Faifax.
She launched herself into his arms and he held her tight, letting her cry until her face was puffy and red. "I'm so sorry, love," he whispered roughly in her ear. "I'm tried to come sooner, but the guards...are you alright?"
"I'm alive," she responded. "I don't know if I should be."
"Don't you ever say that, don't you dare," he said, blue eyes blazing. "You are not your family. You are brave and selfless. You are better than they will ever be."
"You tried to tell me," she sniffed. "And I didn't listen."
"Even so, you are not to be blamed for any of this. This is the royal family's doing, and the rebellion's. No one should have had to watch that. Airing that video was pure cruelty on the rebellion's part."
"Don't blame the rebellion!" Rozlyn said, untangling herself from his embrace. "This is my family's fault. They killed those people. I'm glad the rebellion showed it to the world. Arcadia deserves to know what kind of people are really ruling them."
"You're just angry, Roz. You don't really think that about your family," he said, putting his arm around her again.
"Yes I do," she argued, her resolve strengthening. "I love my family, I do, even still," she said, sniffing. "But they are unfit to rule."
"That's a dangerous statement," he said. "If they were removed from power, who would rule? You?"
"Me?" she almost laughed. "No. Maybe we need a new system of government. I don't know," she felt like crying all over again. "This whole thing is hopeless. You said it yourself, there just aren't enough resources. Those people are doomed either way."
"That's not true," Faifax said quietly. Rozlyn wiped the rogue tears from the corners of her eyes and looked at him, really looked at him. There was a determination, a certainty there in his face; knowledge, power, a plan. "I've watched Yeraz, the empire outside, for years. Watched them with the Eye, a satellite Arzu launched before its fall. I've studied its language, and I've made a plan. As soon as this rebellion fails, I will go there and make a deal.
"They're at war, you see, against magic they cannot fight. But if I offer them our technology, our weapons, they will give me anything I ask for.
Chapter 20
Four days had passed since Damien's video aired in Arcadia. Apparently human rights groups had been cropping up all over the domed city in the sky, calling for legal action against the royals. The rebellion had been mostly inactive those last few days, monitoring A-Net feeds and getting a feel for public opinion. Currently he stood in Damien's office, nervously shifting his weight and waiting for his next set of orders.
"You already know what happens to magic users who are turned in to the Arcadian Guard," the young leader replied, meeting Drexel's gaze with sharp blue eyes.
"They are made into soldiers," Drexel replied.
"Yes, but more than that. They are given Arcadian citizenship complete with a job, an apartment – the works. Every scrap and whisper of your shameful Unders' upbringing erased forever from your past. A fresh start. That is your next assignment." Drexel's mouth grew dry at the thought, his stomach knotted. Surely Damien was joking. Drexel, an Arcadian?
"I know what you're thinking," Damien said. "But you're perfect for the job. We need someone who has magic, a rarity in itself, to even get them up there. Out of all our magic users, your skills are especially suited for the task. Blend in, watch, listen and report. I know I haven't told you, but you're the best spy we have." Drexel felt numb. Should he be flattered? Excited? Terrified? A bit of all those things?
"Everything is coming together now. This take over has been a twenty year-long project that's finally coming to fruition. After our next move, the royal family will be out of the picture. Gone."
"How?" Drexel asked,
"You'll find out when you get there," Damien promised.
"And what will happen after the royals are gone? How will we feed and care for all the Underlings?" Even with all Arcadia's resources, there were just too many of them, Drexel knew it. There was a reason Arcadia had a controlled population.
"The Monarch has a plan for that too. You wish to know more, and fear I don't trust you," Damien said, reading Drexel's thoughts exactly. Had he always had this power, always known what Drexel and everyone else thought without asking? "We do trust you, but this is a matter of security. Say you are captured and tortured? You might tell me now you would stay silent, but every man has a breaking point. That's a risk the rebellion cannot afford."
"I understand," Drexel replied. When phrased that way, he knew the Monarch couldn't risk more people than necessary knowing his plans.
"The truth is Drexel, we don't have any magic users with your particular abilities, and we desperately need you for the final act in overtaking Arcadia. So what do you say? Will you help us win this war?"
"Yes," he replied immediately, knowing he'd do anything, even lay down his life to destroy that paradise in the sky, a corporal dream world whose citizens denied all responsibility for the suffering that went on just below them, the tens of thousands of people who lived grim lives and died brutal deaths, just so the Arcadians didn't have to think or work or be inconvenienced. As Damien told him the plan, Drexel couldn't help but imagine all the things that were bound to go wrong – failing to lie to high ranking Arcadian officials and placing the rebels in direct, immediate danger they might not be able to slip out of, and risking his own life, to name a few. But one thought of Haydi and the warehouse slaughter, and he was ready and he would do whatever it took to knock Arcadia down.
His nervous, quick breaths were the only sounds Drexel could hear inside the mask as he made his way alone through the rubble in the dark, his flashlight a prick of light hovering at his feet, his eyes trained downward to avoid tripping. Damien's plan was risky, reckless even. Could Drexel manage to lie to some of the highest ranking Arcadian military commanders and get away with it? Would they know his story was false? Damien had assured him Arcadia possessed no magic users that could read minds like he could, but how could he be sure? Were his sources truly so infallible that Arcadia could hide nothing from the
rebellion? If so, then the domed city was certainly doomed.
Pebbles, broken plastic and protein pack wrappers crunched under his heavy, new boots as he made his way to the barracks of Brigade 34 – stationed closest to Arcadia and home of the most elite guards. As he approached the wall, blinding motion detecting spotlights lit him up, warning them with their silent brightness to back off. He continued, reaching the gate just as three guards pulled it open, intent on redirecting, or worse, whoever had dared get so close. They pointed their guns at him, motioning with the barrels that he had better move along, now.
Unable to speak with the masks, Drexel held up a hand, please wait, and gestured to the guards in the sign language of The Unders. Having to wear masks whenever outdoors made a form of simple, nonverbal communication crucial to their society. I have information on the rebellion. I know where they are.
One guard shook his head and the other shrugged. Finally one of them lowered his gun and approached Drexel. Come with us.
He was frisked thoroughly before being led through the inner wall. Most barracks only had one wall, but Brigade 34 was made up of the best. The interior looked as if it had been rebuilt overnight – free of bullet holes and blood stains from their fight only a couple weeks prior. The cement had been cleaned, the walls painted and the troops replaced.
The guards shoved him through the airlock doors and into a private room which reminded him of the unused cell at the rebellion's headquarters. At their command, he removed his mask. Only after subjecting him to a breath test to check for air poisoning did the guards remove their own. He faced three tough-looking men, each of them taller and broader than two of him put together. A lifetime of malnutrition had rendered him tiny, like most other Underlings. No matter how he ate now or much his life changed, he would never be tall or strong as those who were given an advantage at a young age. Unlike the other brigades, 34 was made up entirely of Arcadian soldiers, the reason the rebellion had targeted them.
Metal chair legs grinded noisily on the cement floor as Drexel sat and waited. After he'd been declared free of toxins, one of the guards had left the room while the other two stood watch, glaring over him menacingly with one hand on their gun belts. He shifted his weight uncomfortably in the chair as the guards paced back and forth, not daring to fill the silence with chatter in front of him. At least an hour passed before the door opened again, and this time Drexel immediately recognized the men that entered.
His muscles went stiff and his heart raced the second his eyes met the cool blue gaze of Faifax Hale, the Commander of the Arcadian Army. He'd murdered innocent people in that warehouse with his own hands only two nights earlier. It took all of Drexel's will not to launch himself at the man, not to scream that he was an evil murderer. As if weak, pathetic Drexel could do anything to the commander, who looked like he spent all his free time lifting weights and shooting guns. He took a breath and forced himself to calm down. Damien had warned him this might happen.
The second man who entered the room was Adrian Almeri, the royals' own sorcerer. His bald head gleamed in the harsh white light, his dark green silk robes billowing out as he walked. The sorcerer had always seemed a bit eccentric on the teloscreens, and in life he was even stranger. Commander Hale took the seat across from Drexel while the sorcerer lingered in the corner.
"So, you think you know where the rebel base is, do you?" he said, his tone implying that Drexel was trying to trick him, his eyes as cutting as daggers. And Damien expected him to lie to this man?
"Um, I do know where it is," Drexel stammered, not having to fake his nervousness.
"Well?" he prompted, clearly not expecting Drexel to respond in any favorable way.
"I can't just tell you..." Drexel argued, before the commander cut him off.
"Oh no, of course you can't just tell me. That would mean that you actually knew where it was. It would be unseemly of me to expect so much. This man is clearly wasting our time," he said to the guards. "Take him out in the yard and shoot him," he added, rising from his chair.
"Wait!" Drexel yelled. Surely the commander was an asshole, but he hadn't expected a death sentence before he'd spoken six words. "The base is hidden at the edge of the Red Zone, on the east side of the river bank, underneath the ruins of the Zaval building."
"Oh really?" the commander said, resuming his seat. "We've been looking for that base for years. How can I believe some kid shows up here, out of the blue with exactly the information we need. How do I know this isn't some crazy rebel trap?"
"My name is Drexel, ID GHQ357889. Check it. I was a guard in Brigade 153! They kidnapped me after they killed everyone else!" A lie of course, but one with proof. Damien had been planning this even longer than he'd thought – or the Monarch had.
"Check it," the commander said, nodding to one of the guards who quickly retreated from the room. An uncomfortable silence passed while the guard was away, Drexel terrified that one wrong word would send him straight to his grave. Damien was kidding himself if he thought this would actually work. The commander was no fool – he would not fall for Drexel's lies. And what about the sorcerer? He'd just been standing there the whole time, leering at Drexel with his too green eyes. Was he using magic to weigh all his words? Did he already know he was lying?
The guard returned, nodding quickly to the commander and informing him that Drexel's story checked out.
"So," he said, scrutinizing Drexel once more, "Why would the rebellion want you, one skinny kid out of fifty other capable guards?" Drexel cleared his throat nervously; terrified to finally admit the secret he'd kept from Arcadia his whole life, knowing the second he uttered them he could never go back.
"I have magic," he finally said, almost whispering the words.
"You? A magic user? Hmm. Test him, Adrian." The sorcerer stepped forward and lightly touched Drexel's forehead with dry hands. Unlike Damien's magic, Drexel experienced no flashbacks or floating feelings. Even his own magic felt like a chill crawling over him, yet Almeri's, whatever kind he had, felt like nothing.
"Hmm, yes, yes," the sorcerer mumbled. "He is quite powerful," he said, finally withdrawing his hand. "I could see why the rebellion would want him, if they knew what he was." The commander nodded in response and Drexel remained still, hoping he wouldn't kill him.
"Alright, kid. I'll buy your story. Adrian, send a message for me to Arcadia. I require the prince's elite squad down here immediately. Tell them to come fully armed. We don't know what's waiting for us at this base. Could be booby trapped, might be an ambush, but we can't afford to wait. Guards, don't let this kid out of your sight."
After the commander and the sorcerer had vanished, Drexel was left alone for what felt like forever. There were no windows, no clocks, nothing to tell Drexel how much time had passed other than his rumbling stomach and increasing weariness. So far, Damien had been right about everything – the commander going rogue, unable to step away from the temptation of squashing all the rebels at once. But had the trap worked? Drexel almost wished he could be there, to know if the others were safe or if Hale's men had gotten the better of them.
More time passed and Drexel had nearly nodded off when the door finally opened. The commander stepped inside, his face stone, giving nothing away. The sorcerer followed, and after him came the king himself. The king of Arcadia, here to question him? Drexel panicked. Damien would have never seen this coming, and he knew after one look at the king's face, those hard green eyes as flat and unfeeling as gunmetal, that he would not leave this room alive.
The commander and sorcerer placed themselves in opposite corners of the room, facing Drexel, and the king took the seat directly across from him.
"Commander Hale here tells me," the king began, his voice even, "That you are an unregistered magic user, previously a guard, kidnapped by the rebellion a mere three weeks ago. You somehow escaped and came here to provide the location of their base, the very thing we have been desperate to seek out, only to walk directly into a trap." So Damien's tra
p had been sprung. But had it worked? How much damage had the rebellion done?
"There are two options as I see them. Either you are a willing and knowing agent who was sent by the rebellion to purposefully lead us into this trap," Drexel shook his head wildly, not daring to interrupt the king, but also wanting him to believe Drexel was innocent. "Or," he continued, "The rebellion allowed you to escape, unbeknownst to you, believing that you would come here looking for amnesty in exchange for information." Drexel nodded. "I am the king of Arcadia. I am not a man to be trifled with, or a man to be lied to. In fact, if you do lie to me, I will know it," he added, with a nod toward the sorcerer.
Drexel swallowed nervously, knowing it was all over. Damien had sworn up and down no one in Arcadia possessed the same kind of magic he did – the thought combing, mind reading kind. Well, he had been wrong. Adrian the sorcerer narrowed his green eyes at him, daring him to test his magic. He was damned if he lied and damned if he didn't.
"Tell me everything you know about the rebellion," the king said.
Chapter 21
I
Anaka could count every time she'd cried on one hand: the day Elixa had become queen, the time Hakkon had almost killed her in this very office, the day she found out she was pregnant and realized what she'd have to do, three hours ago when Stellan had shown her their daughter's room, and now. She sat on the floor, her back pressed against Hakkon's great-great-grandfather's desk, the drawer knobs pressing into her though she hardly felt it. Her knees were up and her feet were pressed against the glass of the full-length window; one of Hakkon's demanded luxuries. Windows like this did not belong in the north. Through burning eyes she watched the deep orange light of the setting sun filter through the red early autumn leaves, illuminating them like parade lamps. Her throat was raw, her nose clogged and her eyes sticky with dried tears.
Stellan had made his proposals mere hours after she'd given his true name to Alaric. The irony of it evoked from her a harsh laugh that echoed like madness in the empty office. That she had been hours away from being granted everything she could ever want and that she'd thrown it all away without even knowing. Anaka looked down at her hands, her tiny hands that had personally delivered death to countless men, and more than that she had delivered two-hundred-twelve child magic students to their end and had condemned the twenty legions of men currently marching toward Darvaza to a premature separation from this world, all with families, people who loved them, sons and fathers and friends and lovers. They would all die because of her, leaving their empire defenseless and ripe for Alaric to plunder.