The Last Princess

by Galaxy Craze

  “Isn’t that what you want?” I sat upright and took the cloth away from my cheek. “I haven’t forgotten that we’re on opposite sides just because you saved my life.”

  “We aren’t on opposite sides,” he protested, his voice low.

  “As long as you’re in Hollister’s army, we’re on opposite sides.”

  “I didn’t have a choice!”

  “There’s always a choice.” I shook my head. “I understand what it’s like to be cold and starving, now, I do. But if you really don’t believe in his cause, couldn’t you have found another way for you and Portia?”

  “That’s not it, you don’t—” He stopped. “Please just promise me you won’t sneak off on some suicidal mission.”

  My eyes met his, and this time I didn’t look away. Instead I let myself study him in the dim firelight. Something had shifted. The hard mask of the soldier had vanished, revealing a sad and lonely boy. I looked at the soft curls of his hair, shining like dark gold, his glittering green eyes, his broad shoulders.

  I must look so ugly to him, with my hair cropped close to my skull and the red welt on my cheek. I covered my face with my hands. “Just stop,” I said. “I don’t—”

  “Eliza,” he interrupted. He took my hands in his, gently lowering them from my face, lifting my chin to gaze at me in the flickering light. “You are beautiful.”

  He moved closer to me. I felt his breath on my lips, warm and soft. Then our lips touched. His hand moved tentatively from my cheek to the back of my head, his fingers resting softly in the hollow of my neck, just touching my hairline.

  He hesitated for a moment, and I knew that he was giving me a chance to pull away. I answered him by leaning in, opening my mouth to kiss him back, consumed by a strange and restless hunger. In this moment, everything fell away. The brand on my cheek, the sign of the New Guard, the knowledge gnawing at the back of my mind that Cornelius Hollister lived in the Tower of London. All that mattered was that we were here, falling back against the pillows, kissing as the fire turned to embers and slowly grew cold.

  Wesley pulled me into his arms, wrapping me in a cocoon of warmth. “It’s late,” he said. “You should get some sleep. Take the bedroom—I can sleep here.” He gestured to the sofa.

  I nodded, but didn’t want him to let go of me. “Come with me?”

  He stood and led me into the bedroom. I lay down under the covers, still in my uniform, pulling him down with me. He placed the lantern on the bedside table, turning the wick low so the room went dark. He wrapped his arms protectively around my waist as he settled in. His skin smelled sweet and fresh, like water. I closed my eyes, pretending for a moment that this could last, that we could always be like this, together in the warmth of this tiny cottage in the middle of a poisoned forest.

  19

  I SAT UP WITH A START, GASPING FOR BREATH. THE NIGHTMARE was already gone, but fragments lingered, swirling in the dark corners of my mind. Mary and Jamie trapped in a steel cell as men in white coats came to torture them. Me, running madly through a maze, hearing their voices but unable to find them.

  It was the middle of the night, and Wesley was still asleep beside me. His head lay on the pillow we shared, his wavy hair falling across his forehead, glowing like fine silver in the moonlight. I leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “Good-bye,” I whispered. I felt the sting of sudden tears as I moved away from the bed, desperately hoping he wouldn’t wake up, that I would be free to remember him like this.

  A few embers still glowed in the fire. I fumbled around in the dark for the candle and lit it on a dying cinder. By the light of the candle, I hurriedly laced up my boots and buttoned the coat of my uniform. The gun was on the round table where I had left it. I tucked it into my pocket.

  I looked back through the bedroom door one last time. I was putting Wesley in danger, leaving him here without a horse. But he had his gun to protect him, and he knew these woods well. By the time he woke it would be sunrise and safe enough to walk back to camp. I forced myself to look away and open the front door.

  The morning air felt damp and cool. Before I left, I kissed the wall by the door. It was a superstition I had inherited from my grandmother: She always said that if you kissed a door before you left it would ensure a safe return. I hoped, despite all odds, that I could come back here someday with Wesley.

  I looked out into the dark, cold night, hoping for at least one star to get my bearings, but there was nothing. Caligula slept standing, a dark shadow against the darker sky, still tethered to the post. I looked fearfully at her huge frame and pulled a handful of wild grass out of the ground.

  “Caligula, here, girl,” I murmured, holding out the grass and reaching to stroke her nose. At the touch of my hand she reared up, kicking out at me, snorting and baring her teeth. I jumped aside. The chain on her neck rattled as she pulled at it wildly, trying to free herself.

  I took a deep breath. I’d been riding horses since I could walk, but I’d never seen a horse like this, raised for destruction. “Shhh,” I whispered as I reached out for the reins, pulling them down firmly to look her in the eye.

  She paused, and for a moment I thought I’d connected with her. But then she yanked the reins up so quickly that they slipped through my hands, the leather pulling on my bandages and reopening my wounds.

  I stared into her dark eyes. Wesley had managed to control her using sheer force, but I lacked the strength. I made low, soothing noises as I reached up and gently slid the halter out from under her ears. She spit out the bit and looked at me with an almost curious expression. “It’s just you and me now, Caligula,” I murmured. “Can you help me get to London?”

  She stood utterly still, blinking at me as I climbed onto her back using the post as a mounting block. Without the reins, I laced my fingers tightly in her mane. I hoped my weight would be enough to direct her. The moment she felt me on her back she took off running, throwing me backward on the saddle.

  We hadn’t been riding for long when what was left of the sun rose in the east, silhouetting the bare branches of the trees against a brighter patch of gray in the thick darkness. That was all I needed for now. Straightening myself in the saddle, I nudged the warhorse slightly with my left leg, moving her to the right, toward the sliver of gray against the horizon.

  Some time later, we trotted up to the edge of a motorway. I pulled Caligula to a stop, squinting into the distance to read the faded, graffitied signs. The gray concrete slab of highway was buckled and broken, the yellow traffic lines faded. This was the motorway to London, but riding on such an open road was not safe. Hollister’s forces patrolled the interstate, capturing any lone travelers or refugees from the raided towns.

  I tried not to look at the cars scattered across the highway, at the rotting skeletons that sat in the drivers’ seats, the smaller bodies of children curled up in the backseats. These people had been driving when the Seventeen Days hit. They had never had a chance.

  A rumbling sound came from down the road. I swiftly slid off Caligula and led her back into the trees, peering out to see what was coming. In the distance, far down the long stretch of highway, a cloud of riders on horseback appeared. Caligula neighed softly, picking up on my fear, and I stroked her coat, shushing her under my breath. There were hundreds of them. The army was a blur of gray on warhorses, the stock horses and diesel trucks behind them. Armed guards sat on top of the trucks, sevils and guns aimed in all directions. As the trucks passed, I heard the horrific screaming of the prisoners inside, banging against the vehicles’ metal sides, trying to escape the fate that awaited them in the Death Camps.

  When they had passed and the road was empty again, I rested my head for a moment against Caligula’s neck, breathing in the warm horsey scent of her. Wesley had rescued me from the Death Camps—I owed him my life. Glimpses of our night together flashed through my mind: the feel of his lips, the warmth of his arms around me, the low sound of his voice. Somehow, the memories already felt far away, but they gave me the streng
th I needed. They gave me the hope that love still existed in this dark world, that it would exist even after I was gone.

  I touched the gun tucked into my belt, checking to make sure it was still secure. The woods were safer than the road; the best plan would be to ride along the edge near the thinning trees, following the direction of the highway. I let Caligula graze for a moment more, then climbed up onto her back. “To London!” I said. Her ears flicked back for a moment, almost as though she understood me, and then she took off.

  Clouds of soot and ash hung like a veil over the city. A thick swarm of pigeons flew overhead. I rode through district NW30, Caligula’s hoofbeats echoing hollowly on the deserted streets. From the silence and dark windows, I knew this district had already been invaded by Hollister’s army; its people must have been captured and their homes plundered. I stuck to the shadows as we moved past rows and rows of burned-out houses.

  Tacked to a boarded-up storefront was a poster of a young brown-haired girl. She sat in a sailor’s dress, her hands neatly folded in her lap, her silky hair falling below her shoulders. She had pale skin and rosy cheeks.

  WANTED ALIVE

  ELIZA WINDSOR

  NAME YOUR REWARD

  I moved closer to the poster, staring into the girl’s bright, hopeful eyes. This picture had been taken a few years ago, in a private sitting for my father; we hadn’t distributed royal portraits since my mother’s death. My father thought that keeping our faces out of the public eye would keep us safe; and there hadn’t been much money for mass printing photographs anyway. I studied the poster. This happy, sheltered person looked nothing like me. They were looking for a girl who no longer existed.

  “Help! Somebody, please help!” A woman’s high-pitched screams came from a park nearby. I hesitated, wanting to intervene, but desperate to get to the Tower. “Please, no!” she cried, and then, more shrilly, “Help!”

  I kicked Caligula, urging her forward and drawing my gun as we approached. I had to at least try.

  As I neared, the screaming stopped. A cold, empty silence filled the air. I pulled back on Caligula, reluctant to enter the park. The thought of what could have happened to the woman sickened me. I could have helped her, but I was too late.

  Even during the Seventeen Days, London had emergency aid crews to help those in need. Now everything—police, firemen, hospitals—was gone.

  I rode on into the night. Finally, the grim turrets of the Tower of London appeared against the skyline. Rising above them all, like a knife slicing open the horizon, stood the Steel Tower. The windowless prison of steel was once protected by an electrical current strong enough to kill anyone on contact. But the current, like every other system that provided order, was gone. As I rode closer I saw a line of Hollister’s soldiers guarding the Tower, standing around the moat, sevils at their sides. Somewhere inside was Cornelius Hollister.

  We reached the moat surrounding the Tower, and I left Caligula in the dark shelter of an underpass. I had no way to tether her, but I took off her saddle and rubbed her down quickly with a bit of saddlecloth. My nose wrinkled as I caught the brackish stench of the moat’s stagnant water. I pulled a few weeds for her and left them in a pile. “Please stay, Caligula,” I said. “I need you.” I looked into her eyes, willing her not to leave. They were big and brown now, no longer red with rage.

  I took a deep breath and pulled the army hat low on my forehead so that my eyes were in shadow. I straightened my uniform, tightening the belt, buttoning the jacket, double-knotting the shoelaces on my boots. I stared down at my reflection in the river water. The burn below my eye shone red and throbbing in the dim light. I ran my fingers along the wall, gathering black soot on my fingertips, rubbing it around the scar, wincing at the pain. Now it looked dirty, dark. More like a bruise.

  Now I looked like one of them.

  20

  DARK CLOUDS OF SOOT SWEPT ACROSS THE CITY SKY, THE DAY - light turning to dusk. The sound of a crank wheel echoed from behind the Tower wall. The drawbridge was being lowered and the guards were changing positions, right on schedule. I crouched down, preparing to run, stretching my aching muscles with a bitter smile.

  I had spent the day staking out the Tower and now knew every inch of the grounds, the moat, the wall around it. I had memorized the drawbridge schedule. If I ran quickly I could reach the soldiers about to march inside, joining them and making my way unnoticed to the kitchens. From there, I would follow Hollister’s dinner to his chambers. His location might be a secret, even to his followers, but my rumbling stomach reminded me that everyone had to eat.

  I took off at a sprint toward the Tower wall, keeping low to the ground and trusting to the gathering dark to hide my movements. I paused for a moment in the shadow of the wall to catch my breath and wipe the sweat off my forehead. Two lines of guards were marching steadily toward the drawbridge. As the last soldier passed, I fell in line behind him, keeping my head low, the rhythm of my feet matching his.

  I shivered as we crossed the drawbridge into the Tower. I had always been so afraid of this place, ever since we had come to visit when I was a little girl. The chopping block, the marks in the stone from where the axe had fallen over and over, the bloodstains that still remained after hundreds of years of rain. I thought of the torture chambers where innocent prisoners had suffered—were still suffering. I wondered if they screamed, unheard and unanswered, like the woman in the park. I knew her cries would haunt my nightmares.

  Once inside, finding the kitchens was easy. I followed the smell of food and the line of hungry soldiers. Keeping my eyes downcast, I stepped to the back of the line, shuffling forward into a stone entryway. I felt for the gun hidden inside my jacket. In the darkened hallways of the Steel Tower a bell chimed, and a voice rang out from upstairs: “Prisoner feeding time.”

  The line of soldiers made their way down into a dank dungeon kitchen. Iron pots bubbled over the flames. At the chopping block, a line of cooks severed the heads and tails of rats and mice, sewer snakes and frogs, skinning them and tossing the carcasses into the pots. A cage sat on the floor beside the fire, filled with rats that ran from side to side in a frantic effort to escape their fate.

  I glanced across to the other end of the kitchen where a feast was being prepared. Large platters of fruits and cheeses, freshly baked breads, and a tower of chocolate truffles sat on shining silver trays. Bottles of champagne cooled in buckets of ice. I had no idea foods like this even existed anymore. I felt almost dizzy. All I’d eaten today was a handful of weeds and half a stale biscuit I’d found in my jacket pocket. Was all of this for Hollister? I thought of what he had said to me before he killed my father. Because England is starving, and you are having a ball. Seeing this feast, I hated him more than ever.

  “Stop staring, it’ll only make your mouth water,” the girl next to me said.

  I nodded and looked straight ahead, where an old woman with white hair and bushy white eyebrows stirred the pots with an enormous ladle. “Fill up the bowls! Feeding time for cells one through nine!” she yelled. I nearly gagged as I watched her unlatch the top of the rat cage, lowering her twig-thin arm inside. Quick as pulling an apple from a tree, she plucked out a squirming rat by its tail and tossed it into a bubbling pot, fur and all.

  Keeping in step with the soldiers in front of me, I copied their every move, picking up a tray, filling a glass with gray water and a bowl with one ladleful of the rat-and-insect stew. I kept my face expressionless, hard, averting my eyes from the rat foot and mouse head in the bowl on my tray. The soldiers made a line up the stairs. I gripped the tray in my hands, walking shakily behind the girl in front of me.

  She paused, glancing to her right and left, looking for a chance to gossip. She put her lips close to my ear. Her breath was sour. “If you want some of the good stuff, talk to me later,” she declared self-importantly. “I could help you get some—for a price.” She smiled, showing her yellowed teeth.

  My eyes darted to the tray in front of her. She wasn’t c
arrying a bowl of stew like the rest of us. Instead, her tray held a pretty pink teacup containing a mix of herbs: rosebuds, lavender, anise, and something else, a yellow flower I couldn’t identify.

  “That tea smells nice,” I said quietly, wondering why her tray was different. Was she the one tasked with serving Hollister?

  “It may smell nice, but it’s deadly. It’s tea for Her Royal Highness.” She said the last in a sarcastic singsong, then spat on the stones for emphasis. “The queen.”

  I nearly dropped my tray in shock. Mary was alive.

  “They say it makes her weak,” the girl went on with a grin. “She’s been puttin’ up too much of a fight, I hear, but this quiets her real good.”

  “What if she doesn’t drink it?” I asked evenly, trying to disguise the horror in my voice.

  “Oh, she drinks it all right. If she don’t drink it, the young prince gets whipped,” she cackled.

  I tried to laugh with her, but all I could manage was a hacking cough. My mind raced as I tried to recover. Jamie and Mary were both alive, and they were here! I would have to come back for Hollister later. I tried to compose my face as I thought of my sister and brother, imprisoned, needing me. I could not wait another second to see them.

  I knocked over the gruel on my tray, letting it spill all over the staircase. “Oops!” I exclaimed. “I’m so clumsy.”

  The girl rolled her eyes. “You’d better clean up that mess before Mrs. Caldwell sees it,” she said, turning to continue up the stairs.

  I waited a few moments before setting my tray on the ground and trailing the girl up a winding metal staircase. The walls were steel, my reflection a dark, blurry shadow. There were cells on each floor, lined with bars only an inch apart, revealing rows of sickened, dying prisoners. Most of them were whimpering and begging for water. The ones that lay there quietly saddened me even more.