Transcender Trilogy Complete Box Set

by Vicky Savage

  I raise the opera glasses and check out the guest area. People are talking and laughing, seemingly oblivious to the impending melee.

  “I see no sign of soldiers in the distance, ours or theirs,” Patrick says. “But many Royal Guardsmen have taken positions on either side of the palace. Most likely that means that the Noir army is rapidly approaching. The guests will soon sense that something is awry. We should go down to your room.” He lays the telescope on top of the chest.

  “You go ahead. I need to get something up here.”

  “I will wait for you at the bottom of the steps.” He makes a slight bow and leaves.

  I set the opera glasses next to the telescope and open the bottom drawer of the chest. A sketch pad lies to one side. I slide it out and flip through the pages until I find what I’m looking for. The handsome face of a young Ryder Blackthorn stares up at me. The princess made this sketch and wrote a short poem for him many years ago on the day they met. I rip out the page and replace the pad in the drawer. Then I carefully fold the sketch in thirds, making certain that the creases don’t run through Ryder’s face. It’s the only memento of him I’m taking with me. I slip it inside my shirt and tuck it next to my heart.

  SIXTEEN

  I find Patrick pacing stiffly at the foot of the tower room stairs.

  “Leave this door open in case we need to come back up here,” I say. “It’s a much better vantage point from the tower.”

  “Perhaps, but you must not be seen. We are not certain of the range of their rifles.” He motions to the hatch. “After you, ma’am.”

  We climb down the ladder into my closet, and I wander into the sitting area of my room. “Please take a seat away from the window, Your Majesty,” Patrick instructs. “There is nothing to do now but wait.”

  I drop into one of the armchairs near the fireplace, my nerves raw as hamburger. I detest being stuck in this room, not knowing what’s happening out there. “How will we know when the Noirs finally get here?” I ask.

  “The sounds of gunfire may be our first indication, or perhaps the sound of the wedding guests making their way inside the palace.”

  Goosebumps prickle across my skin. “Yeah, it’s going to be chaos down there—a lot of frightened people.”

  “They will be safe inside the palace, as will you.” Patrick says.

  Someone pounds on my door. A spike of adrenaline shoots through me like a storm of needles.

  A voice calls out. “Stillwater? It’s Luskin. General LeGare has sent us.”

  Patrick opens the door to two Royal Guardsmen armed with long rifles. They step inside and both bow to me.

  “I’m Luskin, ma’am,” the taller one says. “This is Cartwright. We’re riflemen. General LeGare wants us stationed on your balcony.”

  “That way.” Patrick jerks his head toward the French doors, and the soldiers tromp outside.

  “Do you know those guys?” I ask him. “Because I’ve never seen either of them before.”

  “Yes. Luskin’s been around longer than I have. Cartwright is fairly new.”

  “I understood only long-serving members of the guard were going to be assigned to me.”

  “Perhaps General LeGare made an exception because he is skilled with a rifle. If you are uncomfortable with his presence, I will send him away immediately.”

  “Not yet,” I say. “He might be handy to have around.”

  I sidle over to my desk where Ralston’s glasses sit in the tray. Slipping them on, I try to appear nonchalant while I take a turn around the room. I attempt to make eye-contact with each of the soldiers. They seem a bit confused or flustered by my actions, but, so far, no little red flashes.

  The soldiers, Luskin and Cartwright, are positioned at the balcony rail with their sited rifles at the ready. “Hey, Cartwright,” I say.

  He lowers his rifle and spins around. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  Instantly red flashes in my upper left lens. Nonhuman – automaton, IUGA ID# S1772. Shit! He’s IUGA.

  “You any good with that thing?” I ask, nodding toward his rifle.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says with a touch of pride. I reach up with my fingertip and press the small silver emblem on the side of my glasses, surreptitiously snapping his photo. A wary look crosses his face, like he’s pretty sure he’s just been made.

  “All right, carry on.” I step back inside, my mind frantically sifting through my possible options. I’ve no doubt he’s an expert with that rifle, and he’s probably here to use it on me. Even if he’s not here to kill me, he’s an IUGA agent so they now know we’re on to their plan.

  I grab Patrick’s arm and drag him into a corner of the sitting area not visible from the balcony. “That Cartwright guy’s a spy,” I say in a harsh whisper.

  His expression conveys confusion and disbelief. “How do you know this, Your Majesty?”

  “It’s hard to explain, but these glasses.” I rip them off my head. “They can identify spies.”

  He stares at me, eyes still dubious.

  “No really, Patrick.” I quickly make up an explanation and hope he’ll believe me. “Eve’s people gave them to me. Remember, she had all that special medicine that healed you? They have other special things too, like these glasses that identify spies. I know he’s here to harm me.” I shove the glasses into my back pocket.

  “Go after him and take him out,” I say. “I don’t care how you do it, but get that gun away from him before he uses it on me.”

  “Yes ma’am.” He draws his sword.

  I open my mouth to tell him about the vulnerable spot on the back of Cartwright’s neck, but before the words reach my lips, the first shots ring out on the palace grounds. The battle is engaged.

  Patrick sprints for the balcony, signaling to one of the guards to follow him.

  The next thing I see is Patrick’s body being blown backward, simultaneous with a loud crack. Goddamned Cartwright shot him!

  I dive behind an armchair, clamping a hand over my mouth to keep myself from crying out.

  “Stop!” I hear Luskin’s voice followed by another loud crack.

  I peer around the side of the chair in time to see Cartwright advancing through the French doors, rifle at shoulder height. He points it at the two guards in front of him.

  “Drop your weapons. Now!”

  Their swords clang loudly to the floor. He wheels to his right, aiming his rifle at the guard stationed in my bedroom. “You too.”

  The sword falls from the man’s trembling fingers. He raises his hands above his head and cowers pitifully in the corner.

  “Your Majesty,” Cartwright calls. “Come out now. You and your men will not be harmed.”

  Yeah, right. If I stand up, we’re all dead. But what do I do? My sword’s useless against his rifle. I grasp a heavy brass paperweight from the table in front of the fireplace. Two options occur to me: hurl it at his head or use it as a distraction. I’m a lousy aim under the best of conditions, so I opt for the distraction and chuck the paperweight into the kitchenette.

  My brilliant ploy doesn’t fool him for a second. He whirls around and aims his rifle in the direction of my hiding place. “There you are. Come out, or I will begin executing your men.”

  I peek around the side of the chair again, and he takes a potshot at my head. The bullet barely misses me, thudding into the chair. Amazingly, the formerly cowering Guardsman from the bedroom springs into action, rushing Cartwright from the rear. He leaps onto the automaton’s back and places him in an impressive chokehold. The two remaining guards quickly retrieve their swords and assail him head on.

  Cartwright parries their sword blows with his rifle, while the scrappy guardsman on his back tries to choke the life out of him. Unfortunately, the kid doesn’t know what I know—automatons don’t need oxygen. The guy’s never going to pass out.

  I draw my sword and jump into the fray. It’s clear he’s been programmed for combat, though, and he succeeds in knocking one guard’s sword from his hand. I sw
ing my katana wildly at the robot’s arms, but he maintains his grip on the gun, not feeling the cutting blows.

  This frontal assault is getting us nowhere. The automaton’s too strong, and unless we can completely cut-off an arm, we’re not getting his gun. I fling my useless katana to the side, and dropping to my hands and knees, I sweep-kick the robot’s feet out from under him. Both he and the piggy-back guard crash to the floor. The rifle clatters out of Cartwright’s hands.

  Scrambling to my feet, I make a charge for the weapon. Cartwright thrusts himself up from the floor and attempts to intercept me. I hold out a hand to fend him off, while reaching for the rifle with my other hand.

  “Stop!” I shout as the robot lunges for me.

  In a surreal moment, Cartwright’s body sails backward across the room as if propelled by some invisible force. He slams against the wall and falls face first to the floor.

  Too occupied to question my inexplicable good fortune, I seize the gun and dart to the downed automaton. Mustering every ounce of strength in my body, I slam the rifle butt into the base of his neck. His body convulses once and becomes deathly still.

  I drop the gun and rush to Patrick. Kneeling at his side, tears pour down my face as I press against the gaping hole in his chest. “Help me get his armor off,” I shout to the others as his life blood seeps into the fabric of my riding pants.

  Gentle hands grasp my shoulders. “There is nothing you can do, Your Majesty. He is beyond help. We must get you to safety.” The gray haired guardsman’s eyes are kind, but steely with purpose.

  “I can’t leave,” I say, wiping my bloody hands on my thighs. “Besides, where would I go? The palace is under siege.”

  “Only three of us are left, ma’am. We cannot adequately protect you.”

  “Get reinforcements from the second floor,” I say. “Tell them we’ve been attacked. I’ll hide in the tower room until you return with more men.”

  His jaw clenches as he scoops the rifle from the floor and faces the other men. “Do either of you know how to use this?”

  They both shake their heads.

  “Well, do the best you can,” he says, handing it to the older of the two. “Guard her with your lives. I won’t be long.”

  “Where is the tower room?” The younger guard looks to me expectantly.

  “This way,” I say, heading for my closet.

  “We’ll stay down here,” the guard with the rifle says as I step on the first rung of the ladder. “Once you’re inside, close and lock the hatch. We’ll roll the ladder to the other corner.”

  I nod and start my ascent up the ladder. Near the last rung, I’m almost knocked to the ground when a loud explosion rocks the palace. Shit!

  The guardsmen exchange worried glances. “Be careful, ma’am,” one of them calls to me. “They may have breached the palace walls. If you hear fighting, stay quiet. We’ll do our best for you.”

  “Thanks,” I call, scrambling up through the ceiling hatch. I slam it shut and trip up the steep staircase to the tower room. When I reach the bank of windows facing the front of the palace grounds, I’m unprepared for the sight of the all-out melee taking place below.

  The palace gates have been secured, but the Noirs aren’t surrendering the way they were supposed to. Instead, they’re fighting viciously. In the Grand Arboretum, overturned tables and broken chairs lie scattered alongside mangled bodies and body parts. The pillared gazebo has become a stage for a brutal standoff between Royal Guardsmen and black knights. My gut flails at the appalling carnage.

  Falling to my knees, I dry heave until my insides throb with pain. How could Ralston’s prediction model have been so wrong? Or did he just sugar-coat everything for my benefit? What if our grand plan doesn’t work after all and we’re all goners?

  The polycom vibrates loudly inside my pocket, nearly sailing me out of my skin. It’s Urick’s signal. When my heart slides back down my throat, my brain registers that the assassination party is on its way. An icy-hot shudder racks my body. This is bad. Only two guards and Urick stand between me and a crazed death squad.

  Using the window sill for support, I hoist myself to my feet. The dual sights of the sickening battle in front of the palace and the frightened wedding guests clawing and shoving their way inside the back doors are too horrifying to witness. I move near the door to the walkway and turn to face inside the room, steeling myself for the final act to come.

  Tense, trembling seconds tick away. I barely dare to breathe.

  The crack of a door bursting open below me makes my blood jump. All my nerve ends stand at attention. The thud of boots tells me the Noirs have made it inside my room. Only a few heartbeats now before they reach me. I test the knob to make certain the door will open easily. Sounds of soldiers clanging through the hatch in my closet send fresh tremors of fear through me.

  A soldier’s head emerges from the stairwell, but it’s not who I expected.

  “Charles! What are you doing here?” LeGare and another Royal Guardsman bound into the room.

  “I came for you, Your Majesty. We heard you’d been attacked. Come quickly, we must get you to safety.”

  “But I can’t. I need to stay here,” I say, confused. This was not in the plan. This didn’t show up in any predicted scenario.

  “You cannot stay here. The Noirs are on our heels.” He urgently takes my arm and a small seed of hope sprouts in my soul. Maybe I can go with LeGare and be safe. Maybe I can live through this and stay with Ryder after all.

  But my tender dream is ground into dust when four black-armored soldiers, led by Urick, trample their way inside the room, guns raised.

  “Drop your weapons,” Urick shouts at LeGare. Against such hopeless odds, he and his man immediately surrender their swords.

  “Take care of them, the queen is mine,” Urick orders his men. He aims a large pistol at my head and cuts his eyes sharply to the walkway door—my signal that it’s time to go.

  I back up slowly and twist the knob, never taking my eyes from Urick’s. I tentatively place one foot on the rotted walkway, and release the door knob. My hand is poised on the latch to my TPD, and I glance quickly at the ground below, preparing to jump. A sudden burst of activity in the room makes me jerk my head around. A knot of Unicoi warriors explodes up and out of the stairway. Loud battle cries and swinging broadswords quickly divert the Noirs’ attention away from killing me to staying alive.

  Gunshots ring out as Ryder breaks through the fray and races straight for me. I pivot to scramble back inside the room, but an unexpected jolt makes me stumble. The wood under my foot cracks and begins to give way. In a split-second I realize what is about to happen. But it’s too late. Ryder lunges for my hand and our eyes meet at the exact moment the walkway splinters and disintegrates beneath my feet.

  “Nooo!” It’s the keening of my soul ripping in two. I clutch wildly at my bracelet and manage to click the latch before I slam into the earth, but not before the sight of Ryder tumbling from the tower behind me is engraved forever upon my heart.

  SEVENTEEN

  In the space of a single pulse, I land in Narowyn’s office. Her eyes flare when she sees my bloodied clothes. “Jaden,” she gasps. “What’s happened?”

  “Going back.” I fumble with coordinates on my bracelet and double click the latch. Zzzt, I touch down at the base of the tower. The princess’s body lies eerily alone, splayed in the grass as if she’s just fallen there. A group of men I recognize as Transcenders is gathered around another body fifteen feet away. One of Ryder’s boots protrudes grotesquely from the huddle.

  “Ryder!” I shout.

  Asher detaches from the cluster of men and intercepts me, using his body to shelter me from view. “Jade, you’ve got to go. Soldiers are coming. You’ll be discovered.”

  “I don’t care,” I shriek. “I need to see him.”

  Narowyn appears at my side and places a hand on my shoulder. Quick as lightning, we’re back in her office.

  I roughly shrug o
ff her hand. “Let me go!”

  “No. You must not.” She lifts my arm and smoothly slips the bracelet from my wrist. “Be reasonable, Jaden. The lives of your Domerican family, and possibly the fate of the entire country, depend upon your following through with this plan.”

  I consider snatching my bracelet away from her, but I know she’s right. Instead, I crumple into a chair and cover my face with my hands. Unspeakably black thoughts invade my head, and all reason threatens to abandon me.

  “I think he’s dead,” I cry. “I think I killed him.”

  She gathers me in her arms and gently strokes my hair. “Let us not presume the worst, my dear.” Her voice quavers. “We’ll know soon enough.”