Elected (The Elected Series Book 1)

by Rori Shay

  The one person who doesn’t trail me is Griffin. We’ve avoided each other for days. I’m almost thankful for that, as I imagine Vienne’s fertile period is coming soon and it’ll start their intimacy. I can’t bear to look at him, so I’m grateful for the reprieve. He is there, still watching us, on the sidelines, but he doesn’t guard me specifically. He doesn’t guard Vienne either, almost like he’s trying not to show a preference for her. And I’m distracted enough by the proceedings in the country that I’m almost okay with this.

  My plan with Margareath in the prisoner’s quarters goes off without a hitch. I’m there as she drinks the mouthful of clear liquid, the tears welling up in her eyes as she thinks it is her last moment. I just nod at her encouragingly, not giving in to emotion. Only I know what will happen next, and this affords me the luxury of looking past her fear, knowing in the end she’ll be okay. Vienne dresses the body, as we discussed, and this too goes as well as we could imagine.

  I visit Margareath’s family afterwards, apologizing to them, listening to them tell me stories of her bravery and devotion to her children. I hold their hands as the youngest child cries, his tears falling like raindrops on the top of my thighs. I grasp tightly to his shoulders, telling them everything will be all right. As I watch them deep in despair, I try to remember I know things that will make them feel better later—that Margareath will eventually return. I try not to dwell on their despair further as I step out of their small house, into their side garden that is now overrun. It used to be one of the best personal gardens in the country, but without Margareath there, no one has thought to care for her plants. The space is closed off by a thick fence on all sides, allowing me a moment of semi-privacy to collect myself as a pair of guards wait on the other side of the high walls.

  I bend down and brush dirt off the tender petals of a few plants. The sun beats down on my uncovered head. The air has grown hot now, in stark contrast to the unwavering cold of one month ago. I’m not sufficiently prepared to work outdoors in the garden, but I lose myself in caring for Margareath’s plants. I stay there longer than I should, the harsh rays of the sun starting to burn my neck.

  “You should take more caution,” says a voice over my shoulder.

  I don’t look up, already knowing who it is.

  “What do you care?”

  “I care a lot,” says Griffin.

  He gives the two guards who are watching me through the garden gate a curt nod, relieving them of duty. The guards bow in my direction and make themselves scarce. Griffin and I are alone for the first time in a long while, but I don’t look at him. I keep my hands deep in the dirt of Margareath’s garden, pulling at a rock that just won’t come loose.

  “Here, let me help,” he says, squatting down next to me. He holds his hands out, meaning to dig the rock from the earth. Our fingers touch, just the slightest inch of his skin brushing against mine, and I’m paralyzed with the sensation.

  “No, don’t!” My voice comes out like a bark. “I don’t need your help.”

  He eases up, rocking back on his heels and then standing. “Well, it looked like you did.”

  “Don’t let this little stone fool you. I don’t need you.” I yank on it hard until it puckers from the ground and tumbles into my hand.

  “You certainly need me for something,” he grumbles, angst in his tone.

  I stand up fast, the blood rushing to my head. I’m wobbly on my legs but I overlook the feeling, too angry at Griffin to notice my own body’s needs.

  “Yes, over and over again, like you said,” I hiss.

  “Yes, that.” Griffin looks down at the dirt on the ground between us.

  “Why did you have to rub it in? Over and over again?”

  Griffin sighs. “I wanted you to be mad enough to change your mind.”

  “You could have refused either way. Everyone is free here.”

  “It’s like Vienne says, though. If you need something desperately, you know I won’t refuse you.” He pauses for a moment, looking up at the high sun instead of at me. “And yet you ask this of me, knowing I will ultimately do what you want.”

  My barrier of anger falters slightly. “I need this, yes, but that doesn’t mean I want it. The thought of you and Vienne...”

  My voice falls off. I can’t finish my sentence.

  “The thought of us making a baby together makes you want to choke, to throw up, to keel over, your stomach lurch?”

  Yes. How does he know me so well?

  “And does it elicit the same reaction in you?” I ask, knowing already any answer other than yes will cause me to wilt in this hot sun, the same as the plants on the ground in front of us.

  Griffin doesn’t answer for a moment and instead looks down at Margareath’s garden. “To tell you the truth, the physical act of being intimate with Vienne doesn’t bother me in that same way. She’s a beautiful woman. Any man would want her.”

  He’s just voiced my exact worry. I kick up the dirt in billows, knowing this is the ultimate truth. He will enjoy this. He will fall in love with her.

  “But,” he says, “the thought of what this does to you... that I’d rather be intimate with you... how even though you’ve requested this, you’ll hate me for it. That turns my stomach.”

  He catches my face in his hands, and before I know it, Griffin’s kissing me. It’s like a million fires spontaneously crackling as his embrace grows deeper. Like a wave of water crashing down on my body. Like I am on the ground but floating at the same time.

  I kiss back, my lips working perfectly with his in an amazing symphony of rhythm. All of my questions about what gender I like, or if I even want to feel someone’s touch, are answered in a split second. I know I’m trying to leave a passionate impression on him, so I have a slightest chance of Griffin remembering me after being with Vienne. I take in the taste of his lips on mine, the feel of his warm hands as they grasp my upper arms in the embrace.

  After what feels like mere seconds and eons all at once, I hear a bird in the distance caw. It breaks my concentration enough that I reluctantly take a step back. We may have relative privacy, but what we’re doing still isn’t safe. I cough, stepping back from Griffin and look up at the sky instead of meeting his eyes.

  “We shouldn’t,” I say.

  Griffin slowly lets go of my arm and rubs one hand over his forehead. “I came here to tell you Vienne and I will be together tonight. I thought you deserved to know. I will be... as fast as possible.”

  I turn red at the thought. My next words are stilted, caught in my throat. “Thank you... for the heads up.”

  He nods, mouth set in a grim line. “I guess I’ll see you around.” Griffin brushes a strand of hair from his forehead. It refuses to budge, clinging to his skin in a moon shaped curl. I want to brush it away for him, but I hold back.

  I blink, trying to block out my feelings as Griffin starts to walk away, out of the enclosed garden. Then he turns and his whispered words burn a hole into my heart.

  “You know, we could make love too.”

  23

  I don’t even know how to physically do what he’s talking about, but I have to admit the thought has crossed my mind. I want so much to run into his arms and tell him it’s a fantastic idea.

  I can’t speak for fear I’ll say yes, so I just shake my head back and forth. It’s all I can manage.

  Griffin nods back at me, like he knew I’d say no. Then he turns again and exits through the gate.

  Does he know my “no” isn’t my real answer? I want to tell him in other circumstances I’d, of course, want to be with him. But I’ve already told him we cannot act on our feelings together. I’m the Elected now, and I’m married. Any indiscretion I do with Griffin is not only a slight against my country; it’s a betrayal of my wife. Vienne’s having sex with Griffin is different than my being together with him. For her it’s a duty. For me it would be a desire.

  I wipe my hand in frustration across my lips and refrain from running after Griffin. I
keep myself busy for the rest of the day, trying not to think of the impending evening when Vienne and Griffin will be together. Vienne tells me since I’ve moved into her quarters, she and Griffin will use my old room. I don’t want to be in the house when it’s happening, and I rack my brain trying to think of what I can do with my time. Something that will erase their images from my mind.

  I refrain from having dinner with them, instead sequestering myself in Vienne’s quarters, flipping blindly through her books, trying to find one that will sufficiently pique my interest. And as I root through Vienne’s things, what I will do tonight is suddenly clear. I grab the circular metal object I’d placed into Vienne’s care weeks ago, carefully hiding it in a dark, canvas bag. I pull a tunic with a hood over my head, covering myself so I won’t be recognized. I want to be outside, under the stars and beneath the tree where Griffin’s hand first brushed my face. I know sitting under the tree will be my own unique form of torture, but it’s the place I want to be tonight.

  The moon is high but heavy clouds block its light, as well as any glow from the stars. The evening is dark, so my guards don’t even see me sneak out of the front door and across the Ellipse. My escape reminds me of five years ago, when I last snuck out of my own house.

  The townspeople are tucked away in their makeshift tents on the lawn or in their houses a mile away. Even the few people who are out roaming the grounds this evening don’t pay me any attention. I gather the bag closer to my chest, afraid to leave it bumping against my side like a normal bundle. I hold it in the crook of my elbow as I find the deep, thick roots of the oak tree. The ground is still warm from today’s heat, and this is fine with me, as the dirt feels pliable and soft against the back of my bare legs.

  I know what I’m about to do is dangerous, but right now I don’t care. I realize I vowed not to use the Mind Multiplier again, but I feel like defying something, even if it is just my own decree. I need to know a few things, and this is as good a time as any to find them out. I want to know what’s happened to my parents. And I need to understand if Mid Country is our enemy or not.

  I strap on the helmet, connecting the plastic tubes into their various ports. I look around once more just to double check no one can see me within the shadows of the tree. Satisfied I’m truly alone, I switch on the contraption.

  Instantly the helmet vibrates against my head, humming with power. I’m struck with an intense feeling of physicality. An image of Vienne and Griffin holding each other close crosses past my eyes with such allure I almost reach out to touch them—pull them apart. The two of them touch each other’s hands, arms, and necks. I see Griffin look at Vienne with tenderness and see her look up at him beneath long, batting eyelashes.

  This is not what I wanted to see! I close my eyes and push hard at the thought, thrusting it far back into the recesses of my brain. The strain of the concentration causes my eyes to water, but I’m rewarded with a different picture instead. In fact, there are three images dancing across my brain at the same time. One is Vienne dressing Margareath’s supposedly dead body, Margareath suddenly gasping awake, clutching at Vienne’s blouse. I know that one is true already.

  The next picture is one I really want to see. It’s of my parents, alive and well. They’re walking hand-in-hand past a set of fir trees. The lusciousness of their surroundings gives me pause. The ground is shiny, green and fresh. I can almost smell the pine cones. It’s moist where they are. In a forest. A cornucopia of greenery. With waterfalls and ponds. They’re happy. How they’ve found such a paradise is beyond me, but at least they’re safe.

  I try to hone in on this particular thought stream, stay with it for a while, figure out where they are, but the third picture burns into my retinas, pushing at the other images, setting fire to the image of my parents like a piece of paper engulfed in flames. The edges of that thought twist and curl up in orange licks. Try as I might to hold on to it, my parents fly off like a piece of ash. So I concentrate on the other image instead—this third one that so badly wants to get in.

  I’m glad it’s been persistent; I need to see this one. This image shows me the hills along the border of East and Mid Countries. A dark figure walks cautiously over the top of one of the highest peaks. The figure carries a bucket. At the bottom of the hills on our side of the border he sinks down to his knees, the bucket beside him on the ground. The man begins digging with his hands and then pulls out a small metal object, which gleams in the moonlight.

  I look hard to see what the man is holding. It has a small handle with a pointed metal triangle at its base. I prickle as I easily become aware of its name. A shovel. We have these in East Country too. However, this shovel is different. At once it comes to life, vibrating in the man’s hands. The shovel starts moving great masses of dirt, more than a person could dig by oneself. In just a few seconds a large hole is made in the earth. The figure sets down the automated shovel and dumps the contents of the bucket into the hole.

  On instinct, I put my hands to my temples, just below the helmet, pushing on my brain, trying to see more. I think I know what is being poured into the hole, but I need to be sure. I make the Multiplier show me the hole’s interior. And, of course, the objects inside are bullets. The man backs up, starting to kick dirt over the hole. He finishes and then looks left and right, suspicious of being seen. Finally, he starts running back up the hill, eager to reach the other side.

  That’s when it happens. I hear two sharp cracks in my head. The sounds hurt my brain as they reverberate between my ears. I try to discern if the cracks come from the real world or from the world the Multiplier is showing me. It’s hard to tell, but when I see the man lying on his stomach, I’m instantly watching by his side, looking down at his body. There’s blood leaking from his heart. It pools next to him, and I’m confused why we didn’t find this man weeks ago. His body should be lying out in the open, on our side of the border. He is certainly dead. Our patrols should have found him the second the sun came up, at least.

  But then the answer becomes shockingly clear.

  An airride whirls into view, silently descending out of nowhere. It lands next to the still body. As I watch dumbfounded, the jet’s doors open and another metal object slides out. It looks like a steel box, but it moves. The box starts its work, sliding over the pooling blood, leaving nothing but dirt in its wake. Then it attaches itself to the figure’s limp body and hefts the man along the ground to the side of the airride. The box is having a hard time, as the body is obviously too heavy for it. The man is crammed inside until the door has room to close. After a moment the aircraft ascends again, disappearing behind the clouds in a matter of seconds. I look down at the ground in front of me, but there are no traces of the man. He and his blood are both gone.

  I try to focus, figure out what’s happened, but my head is beginning to hurt. In fact, it pounds; I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. But I keep trying to focus through the constant throbbing. Why would Mid Country send in a man to deposit the bullets but then gun him down and take his body? Is he a rebel, hoarding ammunition to take over his own country? Is he Mid Country’s form of a Technologist?

  If Mid Country picked up his body via an airride, they have to be using technology too. So is the man not following orders correctly? Was he punished for depositing the bullets? Or maybe he stole the bullets from Mid Country. And maybe the airride didn’t come from Mid Country at all? Who knows who else is out there?

  This is all so confusing. My mind pulses, trying to take it all in, decipher what I’ve just seen through the haze falling over my brain.

  And all of a sudden there’s a sharp pink light crashing through my head, like a tidal wave breaking over a beach. Then a yellow light. Like a pulsing jackhammer, the light flashes behind my eyes. I know it’s coming from inside my own head, but I claw at it with vigor. I can’t stop myself from pulling at the skin on my own face. I scratch my nails across my cheeks. I need the light to stop! I’ll go blind! I pull at the sides of the helmet, but suddenly I ca
n’t seem to pry it from my head.

  Other images bombard me, coming at rapid speeds. Vienne’s future baby crying. Griffin’s father hosing down one of our horses and then ramming a long arrow into its side, blood gushing from the horse’s guts. Margareath screaming behind the armor glass in the prisoner’s quarters. Imogene breaking the armor glass and running at me with hands at my throat.

  I can’t seem to get the images to stop coming. They’re horrible, garish pictures. They don’t even make sense, but the most alarming part is in between the bright flashes of light and these repugnant thoughts, I can’t seem to remember how I’m supposed to get this helmet off my head. I can’t seem to think about anything except for the barrage of pictures floating behind my eyes.

  I feel my own hands pulling at the helmet, grasping at the plastic tubes, trying to pry them loose too. But a flash of dark red light crosses over my forehead, moving from right to left. I feel myself slump against the tree, my head falling first. I want to help myself, but it’s like I’m seeing my body from the outside looking in. I can’t do a thing. I just watch myself fall onto my side, the helmet still securely attached to my head.

  And then everything goes black.

  24

  Hands are on my face. At my sides. They’re pulling at me, jostling me. I want to ask them to stop. To tell them they’re hurting me, but I can’t speak. And I can’t see. All I feel is heat beating down on me. I’m so hot. So hot! I reach up, trying to cool myself. But my hands are caught. I hear a voice at my side, deep and vibrating in the recesses of my mind.

  “Lie still, Aloy. For God’s sake, stop trying to pull out your own hair!”

  It’s Griffin. At his voice, I try even harder to open my eyes. I manage to inch the eyelids apart a bit, but the searing sun threatens to burn them, so I shut my eyes hard again.