by Penelope, L.
They teetered that way for agonizing seconds, everyone frozen in shock. Then the bus was falling, pushed off the road and onto its right side. It slid down the muddy incline and flipped again. Jasminda squeezed her eyes, holding her body rigid as the impact of the crash shook her body.
Lizvette’s only movement came from the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. She didn’t move so much as an eyelid in order to blink. She sat rigid in the chair, hands clasped neatly in her lap.
Jack, on the other hand, was all motion, pacing the floor of the sitting room in the Niralls’ residence suite. Two Guardsmen stood at the door. Jack did not trust himself to speak yet, so they all waited in silence.
Then a knock sounded and a terrified maid was led in by the same Guardsman from the dungeon.
“Is this the woman who delivered this note, Captain?” Jack asked.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And you . . .” He rounded on the maid who shrank into the Guard still holding her arm. He gentled his voice and posture; there was no need to give the poor woman a heart attack. “Who gave you this letter?” He held up the forged paper.
The maid’s eyes darted back and forth between Lizvette and Jack.
“It’s all right, Cora,” Lizvette said. “You can tell him.”
“Miss Lizvette gave it to me, Your Grace.”
“Thank you,” said Jack. “You may go back to work. All of you.” He made a motion with his hand and the room cleared, leaving him alone with Lizvette. He did not face her, could hardly bear to look at her.
“Where is she?” he ground out.
“On a bus with the other refugees.”
He dropped his head into his hand. “Why?”
“It was the best place for her.”
Jack spun to look at her. “And that was your decision?” His supposedly healed wound throbbed angrily, as though the grief and pain were trying to claw their way out through his chest. He wrenched open the door and ordered the Guardsman outside to radio the refugee caravan and pull Jasminda off the bus.
“And was it you who destroyed her dress?” he said, resuming his pacing.
Her head shot up, brows furrowed. “Her dress?”
“Her ball gown, ripped and burned and left in front of my office today.”
Lizvette blinked slowly and took a deep breath. “That wasn’t me.”
“Do you know who it was?”
She notched her chin up higher and stared straight ahead.
Jack made an exasperated sound and crouched before her, careful to maintain his distance. “Tell me.”
A single tear trailed down her cheek. Her jaw quivered. “I think it was Father,” she whispered.
“Nirall?” Jack reared back on his heels, almost falling. He braced himself with a hand on the floor and shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
Her hands were squeezed together so hard, the tips of her fingernails had lost all color. She shook her head and another tear escaped her eye. Those were more tears than Jack had ever seen her shed in her entire life. She had always been a stoic child, never screaming or crying, not even when injured. Everything kept bottled up inside, even now.
Her whole body vibrated as if the strength it took her to remain composed had run out and pure chaos reigned underneath her placid exterior. She was at war with herself. Jack could see it plainly. Her distress stole a measure of rancor from his anger.
“Vette, we have known each other all our lives. You must tell me.”
Her jaw quivered, but she nodded, darting a glance at the closed door. “He wanted me to be the princess. I suppose it would make up somewhat for me being born a girl. Alariq was kind, but he never held my heart.”
She looked at him pointedly, and his stomach sank in understanding. He opened his mouth, unsure of what to say, but she continued. “When Alariq died, Father didn’t miss a beat. He was determined to be the grandfather of the next Prince Regent, no matter what it took. Jasminda was an obstacle, but one that worked in his favor. If you would not choose me of your own free will, then he would give you a push.”
“What kind of push?”
“Feeding information to the press. Giving them fodder for the fire. Presenting me as the solution.”
“And you went along with this, Vette? Why?”
She swallowed and brushed away the wetness from her cheeks. “I never wanted to hurt you, and I certainly never wanted to see her harmed. But Jack, you are the Prince Regent of Elsira. You must marry well. Your wife is not just for you; she will be the princess of the land. Did you really think there was a future with her? It’s for the best that she leave now with the others.”
Jack shot to his feet as the ache in his chest seemed to spread to his whole body. His hands pulled at the short ends of his hair, searching for a release from his frustration. “Lizvette, there is no future for me without her.”
“So she should have stayed here, hidden away for the rest of time so you could sneak into her chambers? And then what? What about when you need an heir? She’s to be content being your mistress while you sire the next prince with someone else?”
“You had no right! Not to decide her fate. Did she get on that bus willingly?”
Lizvette turned her face to the fire. “I gave explicit instructions that she was not to be harmed.”
Jack leaned against his desk, imagining Jasminda fighting tooth and nail against whatever hired thugs Lizvette had acquired.
“Did you think of what it must have been like for her?” Lizvette looked down to her folded hands. “If one day, someone ever loves me, I would hope they would scream it from the rooftops.” Her smile was brittle.
Jack fell onto the couch and slumped down. Lizvette was right. In a perfect world, he would have shouted his love for Jasminda from every window in the palace . . . but the world was far from perfect.
A knock sounded at the door, and a Guardsman entered.
“Your Grace, radio communication with the refugee caravan is down due to the thunderstorm. We’re unable to contact them.”
“Then send a telegram to the Eastern Base and keep trying the caravan. I want to make sure she doesn’t step one foot inside Lagrimar.”
“Yes, sir.” The Guardsman spun on his heel, readying to leave.
“Wait.” Weariness lay over Jack like a blanket. He looked at Lizvette and sighed. “Take her to the Guard’s offices for questioning. The charge is kidnapping. And arrest Minister Nirall, as well.”
Lizvette stood and brushed her dress off, her sad eyes relaying an apology. Jack’s head fell to his hands as the weight of the crown grew even heavier.
The noise of the crash reverberated through the bus, screams and wails, crunching metal and glass. Then all movement ceased, and they were held in a bubble of stillness for a pregnant moment. Jasminda may have lost consciousness, she was not certain, but after a timeless period of insensibility, the world came back piece by piece.
First, the cold rain seeping into her clothing. Burning metal tinged with blood and fuel assaulted her nose. Crying, moaning, agonizing sounds of suffering. The tinny taste of blood on her tongue. Osar’s eyes, inches from her own, peering at her. The warmth of Earthsong cradling her in calm, knitting her wounds.
Jasminda jerked to life, flexing her arms and legs. The bus had landed on its right side. Those in the window seats, like herself, would have sustained the worst injuries. She was sore, but whatever injuries she’d had, Osar had healed. Her hands were now free; the bar she’d been chained to was cracked and the chain broken, leaving only the heavy silver bracelets on her wrists.
She levered herself up and held out her arms for Osar. He fell against her, and she squeezed him close. The uninjured helped the injured from the wreckage. As they clambered out, they found the two buses directly behind them in the caravan had also crashed, unable to avoid the accident.
Chaos reigned on the ground as the last of the refugees were rescued from the wrecked buses. Faces peered out the windows of the other buse
s farther back in the convoy. On the ground, severe injuries were being tended to by the children, using Earthsong. Soldiers stood grouped together, huddled around maps and radio transmitters or tending their own injured.
Jasminda set a young girl she’d been carrying down on the sodden ground, then straightened. In the east, the muted glow of dawn emerged behind the mountains. Perhaps a two-day’s walk to the southeast lay her mountain. Buried hope bloomed in her heart.
An old barn loomed a hundred metres away. If Jasminda were to go now, during this confusion, she could escape and could keep the caldera safe. She would head to her valley where odds were that no one would find her.
She searched the crowd for Turwig and Gerda but couldn’t find them. Osar was healing a woman she didn’t recognize. Most of the other Earthsingers were resting. Hopefully not many more needed healing, and the healers’ magic would not be exhausted, but there were too many people around—injured and uninjured—for Jasminda to search through. She would have no chance to say her good-byes. This may be her only opportunity to escape.
She kept low to the ground so as not to bring attention to herself and backed away from the throng. At the bottom of the hill, a stream overflowed its banks. Trees dotted the ground, offering cover as she made her way to the barn. Most of the refugees were focused on their family members or the injured. Her retreat went unnoticed until a sharp face shot in her direction, as if drawn by a magnet.
Rozyl crouched on the ground in conversation with two other women. Jasminda froze, just steps from cover. She glanced at the nearest group of soldiers, arguing among themselves, not paying attention to the scattered refugees. Rozyl followed her gaze, then turned back to Jasminda. The two locked eyes for a long moment before the other woman dropped her head, silently giving consent.
Jasminda darted behind the tree, hiding just as the soldiers dispersed. The men took up places around the perimeter of the refugees and herded them into a tighter group. Visually marking her path, she searched for the fastest way to move from her current position to new cover.
A scream tore through the air, rippling chills across her skin. One soldier broke through a cluster of refugees, dragging a child with him. Her breath caught at Osar’s wriggling form being dragged by his collar.
The soldier holding Osar tugged him along until they reached the lieutenant in charge. A line of refugees trailed behind them.
“This one bewitched me!” the soldier shouted in Elsiran.
One bedraggled woman wailed in Lagrimari, “Leave him alone! Leave the boy alone!” She was working herself into a frenzy. Others tried to calm her, but she brushed off their aid. Jasminda recognized her as Timmyn’s mother. The poor thing had already seen her son shot, the threat of violence to another child must have pushed her over the edge.
“What is the problem, Sergeant?” the lieutenant asked.
“Sir, this vermin spawn performed his enchantment on me. I . . . I felt a strangeness befall me. Some unnatural thing.” The sergeant shook Osar in anger, and Timmyn’s mother lunged toward them.
Another soldier pulled his weapon, training it on her. “Keep back!”
She screamed for them to let the boy go.
“What is she saying? Where’s the one that can translate?” the lieutenant barked. To Osar he said, “What have you done, boy? What vileness have you brought upon us?”
Gerda approached, her presence calming many of the refugees, though Timmyn’s mother grew even more hysterical. “All the boy’s done is heal your soldier,” Gerda said.
The lieutenant drew his own pistol, not understanding her words. “Get back. All of you get back!”
Other soldiers mobilized, drawing their firearms on the refugees. From behind her tree, Jasminda watched in horror. Rozyl stood at the edge of the group, her stance defiant. She darted a glance to where Jasminda hid before snapping back to the soldiers.
Cold logic told her there was no better time to go. The attention of the soldiers was fixed on the refugees. There would not be another opportunity. But the image of Timmyn, flat on the ground, blood pooling on his shirt, would not leave Jasminda. If someone was shot this time . . . Were there any Earthsingers not drained from helping the others?
Her brain knew the caldera was more important than the lives of a few refugees, but could she stand by and watch a potential massacre just to keep it safe? The mother screamed again, thrusting Jasminda from her daze.
She rose and started back toward the others.
Escape would have to wait.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“There is too much interference, sir.” The communications officer flipped a switch, testing yet another connection.
“What kind of interference?” Jack said, peering over the man’s shoulder.
“It’s very unusual, but we’re not able to contact any unit east of the Old Wall.” Static could be heard from the man’s headset.
“So the entire northeastern sector of the country is radio silent?”
“Yes, sir. No telephones, two-ways, or cable communication is operational. They’re just silent.”
Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s almost as if this were intentional.”
The officer looked up startled. “Well, yes, sir. It could be.”
Jack did the math in his head. The caravan was too far along for vehicles to catch up with it, and there was no way for him to contact anyone who could get Jasminda to safety. Panic threatened, but he beat it back through force of will.
Dusk had fallen, bringing with it rain from the east that pelted the city mercilessly.
He banged his fist on the table, and the young officer jumped.
“Blast it! I would need wings to get to her now,” Jack murmured, then stopped short. His gaze rose to the ceiling.
The airship.
Alariq’s pride and joy. And the cause of his death.
It was risky, too risky to even be contemplating, but what was the alternative? Jasminda trapped in Lagrimar? Forced to work in the mines or the harems or worse. She could be killed. He could not save the hundreds of refugees, much as he wanted to, but the life of one woman, the woman most precious to him, could he not even save her?
The airship was the only way to get to the border fast enough—maybe even beat the caravan that had left hours earlier. However, it was this precise situation, flying in a thunderstorm, that had killed his brother. Jack had called Alariq foolish . . . Who was the fool now?
He stalked out of the communications room and into the small office the army maintained in the palace.
“The airship that was on the roof—is it still there, Sergeant?” he asked the soldier on duty.
“Yes, sir. It’s scheduled to be moved next week.”
“Never mind that. I need a pilot. Immediately.”
“Sir, the army doesn’t have any ships or pilots. The airship was a gift to Prince Alariq from—”
“Yes, I know all that. But there must be someone in this city who can pilot a bloody airship. Find the ambassador to Yaly. It’s their invention, he must know someone.”
The sergeant rushed to stand, confused but determined.
“Your Grace,” a Guardsman appeared in the doorway. Jack whirled around to face him.
“What is it?”
“There’s a woman here from the Sisterhood. She’s been raising quite a ruckus for some time now, saying she needs to speak with you.”
Jack sighed. “I can’t imagine a worse time."
“Your Grace, she’s saying it has to do with Miss Jasminda. I thought you might want to speak with her.”
Jack peered more closely at the Guardsman. He was the same fellow who’d escorted Lizvette to questioning. Tension gripped Jack, and he nodded. “Take me to her.”
They’d kept the woman in the main lobby of the palace, and Jack could hear her voice from two corridors away.
“I will not stand down, and you would do well to keep out of my way, sir. I refuse to leave this palace until I have seen Prince Jaqros!�
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“Sister,” Jack said as he approached. The woman startled and spun around, gracing him with the tiniest curtsey possible before rushing to his side. A Guardsman reached out to stop her approach, but Jack brushed him off. “What can I do for you?”
“You can stop a great miscarriage of justice, Your Grace. My niece, a citizen of Elsira, despite all appearances to the contrary, was chained and forcibly placed on a bus headed to Lagrimar with the refugees. She does not belong there and I—”
“You are Aunt Vanesse,” Jack said. The woman stopped, looking stunned. He should have recognized her at once, but his mind was scattered in a million directions. How many Sisters had burn scars on their faces? “Jasminda told me about you.”
She looked confused, but the determination in her eyes burned bright.
“Please, come with me,” he said, leading her toward his office. “I have been trying to rectify that situation, believe me. But I’ve been stymied at every turn.”
Jack stopped at his secretary’s desk. “Netta, I want you to check in with the palace regiment every five minutes for an update on their search for an airship pilot.”
Netta nodded and picked up the phone.
“An airship pilot?” Vanesse said, squinting at him.
“Yes. I fear that is the only way to get to her before the caravan reaches the border. My brother had the only airship in Rosira and pilots are in short supply.”
“Your Grace, I have a . . . a friend, who can drive just about anything. She’s competed in the Yaly Classic Air Race the past two years flying speed crafts. If there’s anyone who can pilot it, she can.”
Jack stared, speechless, before breaking into a grin. He picked up the startled woman and spun her around, only putting her down when her small fist began beating against his back.