The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2)

by Cordelia K Castel

  As we settle around the others, Byron welcomes us back with an apology that Prunella has returned to the Chamber of Ministers to assist them with further inquiries. He winks at the camera, and I wonder if she’s going to be tortured for the public’s amusement.

  “There are six Amstraadi, five Nobles, three Guardians, two Artisans, and three Harvesters,” he says, holding up the golden statuette of Gaia. “It’s entirely your decision if you would like to form teams, but whoever returns with Gaia’s treasure will be the winner.”

  I glance around at the girls. Ingrid, the Noble with pinched features, beckons the three Guardians closer. Sabre from Amstraad divides her group into two, while the Artisan pair stand alone. I drop my gaze to the marble floor, not daring to ask if there’s a penalty for non-participation.

  “The cameras embedded into the seams of your jumpsuits will track your movements,” he continues. “Scouts will retrieve you as soon as somebody finds the treasure.”

  “Which means we’ll be out there forever if we don’t find it,” mutters Vitelotte.

  I suppress a laugh. The worst part about her comment is that it’s probably true.

  Byron sends the Amstraadi first, then the combined team of Nobles and Guardians. The two Artisans, who don’t make eye contact with us, huddle together. One of them is the pink-haired dancer who nodded from the armored personnel carrier and implied that it was safe for me to return to the vehicle.

  A pair of camerawomen beckon us to follow and guides us through a side exit. Nobody speaks as we walk through the narrow hallways. Technically, this is a hidden passageway and I need to memorize this intel to pass onto the Red Runners, but I no longer care.

  When I accepted this mission, I thought I would enter the palace, sneak about at night, and find a hidden entrance. Then I’d get eliminated, sent home, and inform the Red Runners of a secret route to revolution. I never thought I’d end up with guards outside our Rugosa home, waiting for Queen Damascena’s order to shoot.

  A door opens, and we step into a stairwell that leads to a basement, where a large jeep with blackened windows awaits. Two slimline backpacks sit in the front and three at the back. After settling in, we examine their contents. One bag contains a map and handheld computer, another contains Gaia’s bible, the third contains cutting equipment such as penknives, a pocket chainsaw, and a small ax. There’s even a gaslighter with a nifty belt hook. I hope these items are for cutting firewood.

  “After last night, I should be in charge of the weapons.” I glare at Emmera. “Any objections?”

  Her camouflaged features twist. “So you can bury that ax into my back?”

  Vitelotte places a hand on Emmera’s shoulders. “It’s alright,” she says in even tones. “Zea-Mays wouldn’t hurt a fellow Harvester.”

  “How would you know?” Emmera whispers.

  I clutch the bag of weapons to my chest and wait for the purple-haired girl to reply.

  “How could you forget that Zea-Mays got whipped twice for saving the virtue of Harvester girls?” says Vitelotte.

  One of the Artisan girls in front twists around to gape. I don’t meet her gaze, and I don’t blame her for resenting me. Over the past few days, Prunella Broadleaf and her media team have worked hard to make me look like I used underhanded methods to steal Prince Kevon. They were so convincing that even Berta believed them.

  I twist the ring Carolina slipped on my finger and wonder if that’s why I haven’t heard from her or Ryce, then shake off the thought.

  “Alright.” Emmera bows her head and exhales a long breath. “But I’m taking the tablet computer.”

  Without a word, Vitelotte picks up Gaia’s bible and reads.

  My gaze drops down to the pack of knives, and I catalog them in my mind for future reference. If we meet killer birds like the one who attacked Gemini, we’re going to need more than just one ax.

  As the hours pass, our jeep traverses increasingly bumpy terrain and over a steep gradient. It looks like we’re going to the mountains, which is technically the Barrens and beyond the wall that encloses the Echelons. The reverberations of my heart rattle my bones, and the only thing stopping me from a full-blown panic attack is the knowledge that Ingrid and her allies left before us and are probably fighting among themselves over who should claim the golden statuette.

  Eventually, we stop and the production assistants allow us to step out of the jeep. I open the door, and the scent of pine fills my nostrils. We’re parked a few feet from the edge of a mountain cliff that drops down to more rocky ground and then a forest that stretches out for miles. The setting sun is a ball of incandescent yellow that spreads an orange haze across the distant mountains.

  “This isn’t a simulation,” Vitelotte mutters from my side.

  I stare out into the horizon, wondering how we’re supposed to find a statuette in this expanse of green. “This isn’t the oasis, either.”

  “What the hell are we supposed to do with those?” says Emmera.

  We both turn to find the assistants setting up five… skateboards? They’re four-feet long, metallic with looped foot straps. The two Artisan girls squeal and clasp each other’s hands, but the three of us share blank stares.

  “What are those?” I ask.

  “Air gliders.” One of the Artisan girls stands crossways on the board.

  I shake my head. “What do they do?”

  She walks around the boards, finds the one with her name, and places her feet in the foot straps. As a motor roars to life, her companion mounts her board. They both lean their weight forward, and the boards rise a foot off the air.

  My mouth drops open. I’ve seen planes fly and have no idea how they stay in the air, but I guessed that most of the vehicle consisted of engines, fuel, and physics. But a board as thin as a computer tablet?

  With a whoop, the girls fly over the rocky ground and over the edge of the cliff. My stomach plummets, but they stay afloat.

  “No.” Emmera shakes her head.

  Despite our differences, I’m inclined to agree. My pulse pounds louder than the roar of the wind, and blood rushes through my ears, it’s nearly enough to muffle the sound of a door closing, but I turn to find the jeep reversing back down the mountain, leaving three gliders on the ground.

  “We don’t have to do this,” I say.

  Emmera, whose features are slack, nods and turns to Vitelotte.

  Vitelotte glances at the girls disappearing toward the horizon. “We can wait here until someone comes to get us.”

  We stand together in silence and watch the setting sun. I’m not sure how much time passes when Emmera stifles a yawn. She blinks three times then places her hand over her mouth and tilts her head back to yawn again.

  A yawn builds in the back of my throat, and I cover my mouth to let it out. Then Vitelotte yawns. Soon, we’re standing together, yawning like it’s infectious.

  “What’s that?” says Emmera with a yawn.

  “Yawning is…” Vitelotte stops to yawn. “Contagious.”

  “No,” Emmera says, sounding sleepy. “That rumbling sound.”

  I turn around just as a pair of giant lions approach from further down the slope.

  Adrenaline lances through my heart, forcing my limbs into action. I rush toward the glider labeled ‘CALICO.’

  “Ligers!” Vitelotte jumps on her glider.

  With a shriek, Emmera mounts. We mimic the Artisan girls’ rocking motions, and two sets of engines roar to life. Their gliders rise off the ground and head toward the cliff’s edge.

  Mine won’t work.

  The ligers continue toward us, giant sand-colored beasts whose heads reach my chest. I glance at the other girls, who move toward the edge of the cliff, and I make one last effort to activate my board.

  Terror wraps around my neck like a noose. Queen Damascena lied. She never had any intention of letting me survive these trials. Now, I’ll die, and they’ll either blame a technical malfunction or add it to Prunella Broadleaf’s long list of crim
es. Maybe that’s why they kept her alive.

  None of these matters right now. If I don’t move, these ligers will maul me to death.

  Chapter 3

  I wrench my feet free from the board’s straps just as someone screams. My gaze darts to the two Harvesters floating toward the edge of the cliff.

  Emmera waves her arms. “What are you doing? Fly!”

  Vitelotte, who seems to understand what’s happening, stretches out her hand. “Hurry!”

  Blank terror distorts my perception of time and lengthens the space between heartbeats. With one beat of my heart, I turn to the ligers, the monstrously large cats with heads the size of a man’s torso. Their whiskers glint like spun gold in the setting sun, and thick muscles ripple beneath their tawny fur. One snap of their jaws could tear off an entire limb.

  There are several reasons why running would be a dumb idea. I’ll never reach the girls before they pass the cliff’s edge. Running will arouse the ligers’ hunting instincts. They can pounce quicker than I can run.

  After another heartbeat, the ligers’ guttural growl makes the lining of my stomach tremble. Survival instinct blanks my mind, and my legs spring to action. I run with the swiftness of a gazelle, just as the girls’ boards pass the cliff’s edge by inches.

  The distance between the girls and me widens. Emmera floats a foot away from Vitelotte, who is on her right and still holding out her arm. I can’t hear what they’re screaming—the roar of blood pumping past my eardrums deafens everything except my pulse.

  A desperate cry tears from my lips and I leap off the cliff. I’m weightless, and for a moment, there’s no pull of gravity. My arms and legs cycle through the air, my heart stops beating, the gap between the girls and me closes, but not fast enough.

  One anguished roar from behind makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A cold mix of relief and resignation washes through my insides. If this is how I die, smashed into pieces from a high fall, it’s better than a long, slow mauling.

  Vitelotte grabs my right wrist, but my left foot lands on the back of Emmera’s board. She screeches and swats at me, but I grab her hand. With Vitelotte’s firm grip, I have enough leverage to secure my right foot on her board.

  Emmera yanks at her arm. “You’re going to sink us both!”

  Time speeds up to normal, and my heartbeat doubles. I clench my teeth and grip Emmera’s resisting fingers. All her struggling tilts her board and makes my leg slip. She shrieks and rights herself.

  “Keep still,” I yell over the billowing wind.

  Another panicked scream rings through my left ear. “You’re too heavy. We’re going to die. We’re going to crash!”

  Vitelotte shouts at her to stay calm. I can barely make out the purple-haired girl’s words because Emmera loses herself in a full-blown panic. I gulp mouthfuls of air and try to slow my frantic heart. At least she’s stopped struggling.

  Slicing sounds fill my ear. I glance up to find a pair of drones hovering above our heads, and I turn to Vitelotte. “We need to land.”

  She offers me a grim nod.

  Nothingness surrounds us, and the sun setting over distant mountains acts as our sole landmark. Wind batters the exposed skin of my face and hands, carrying the faint scent of juniper and pine. I can’t bear to look down. Down is an unfathomable drop that will send my consciousness spinning like an out-of-control sycamore seed. I don’t want to turn back, either, because seeing those ligers once was enough.

  If the production people met our silent resistance with wild animals, there’s no telling what they will do if we defy them again. The only way out of this is down.

  Sucking in a deep, calming breath through my nostrils, I try to block out Emmera’s sobs. With no training in how to use these gliders, we can’t afford for them to run out of fuel. And if they’re solar powered with no battery, the imminent dusk will mean our deaths.

  Now that the beat of my pulse no longer fills my ears, I can finally hear the wind blowing past the hood’s fabric, and I finally understand why we needed these garments. What would happen if we pushed our weight to the front? Would we swoop down or would we plummet? It’s better than waiting for the gliders to stop working.

  “Has anyone ever used one of these devices before?” I shout over the wind.

  Vitelotte shakes her head.

  “Yes,” shouts Emmera, but it sounds more like a sob.

  “When?” I shout back.

  “One of…” she hiccups. “One of the guards brought a glider to the village. He wanted to teach me.”

  I push back any speculations about the guard having ulterior motives and focus on the gliders. “What did he say?”

  “I only rode behind him,” she says with another sob. “Never on my own.”

  Impatience prickles across my skin as she’s just invalidated her claim that my extra weight would sink them. “Emmera, close your eyes and try to remember.”

  She nods but remains silent.

  I turn to Vitelotte. “What do you think would happen if we put our weight to the front?”

  “A forward somersault?” she replies.

  My stomach clenches with anxiety. I was afraid she would say that. For the next few minutes, Vitelotte shouts commands at the board, but it continues floating through the air and toward the setting sun. I glance at Emmera, whose features look too contorted with panic to indicate that she’s capable of remembering what the guard said about the glider.

  With each passing moment, the pounding of my pulse intensifies until my head is filled with its reverberations.

  “The strap,” shouts Emmera.

  “What?” we both shout back.

  Emmera’s breaths are so fast and frantic that her spine bows with every exhale. Now that she’s stopped struggling and trying to jostle me off her board, I can see she was acting out of panic.

  “Raise the toes of your left foot to go down, she says. “Right to go up.”

  “Alright,” shouts Vitelotte.

  Two more drones join the pair above us, but one dives several feet out of sight. A fresh bout of panic lances through my chest, and a premonition flashes before my eyes. It’s of the girls dropping at different rates and me tumbling through the sky. That’s why the drone is positioning itself—to catch footage of my fall.

  “Wait!” The word bursts from my lips.

  Emmera yanks her arm free. “What?”

  “Coordinate.” I snatch her wrist. “You two need to raise your feet at the same time.”

  Vitelotte nods, but Emmera’s lack of movement tells me that my death isn’t a huge factor in her decision-making. The gliders’ engines rumble under both feet at differing speeds, sending tremors through my bones. If I can’t get them to work together, I’m as good as dead.

  “Right, then.” I try to keep the tremble out of my voice. “Let’s show the viewers at home some Harvester teamwork.”

  “On your count,” says Vitelotte.

  I tighten my grip on both wrists, inhale another deep breath, and clench my abdominal muscles. “Ready, steady, go.”

  A second later, both boards, along with my stomach, plummet. One of them is descending faster than the other, and they’re moving further apart. I yelp, but the screams of the other two girls drown out the sound.

  “Stop!” I yell over their screams.

  When they stop, Emmera floats three feet from Vitelotte’s left, and I’m bent forward at an angle with my arms feeling half-wrenched from their sockets. My left foot can barely feel Emmera’s glider and all my weight balances on the muscles of my bent right leg. Spasms ripple through my heart, and cold sweat drenches my jumpsuit. This isn’t going to work.

  I turn to Vitelotte and instruct her to ease her board down. When she’s level with Emmera, her stricken eyes meet mine. The only way I’ll get through this alive is by riding behind one girl, but there’s no telling if the production assistants have tampered with the gliders’ ability to hold the weight of two.

  Whirring from th
e drone pointing a camera at my face tells me it’s taking a close-up. The other two draw back, presumably to get a comedic shot of my awkward angle. Now isn’t the time for me to wonder how they’ll present this footage on the Lifestyle Channel, but my mind can’t help drifting to how I’m the new Gemini Pixel, set up for extraordinary punishments and a spectacular death.

  Emmera is the first to speak. “You should have stayed with those ligers. What if they were androids?”

  I purse my lips, exhale my anger in ragged breaths, and force myself not to snap.

  Vitelotte lowers her glider a couple of feet and squeezes my wrist. “I’m the smallest, and you’re thin. Ride with me.”

  Gratitude floods my heart. Emmera doesn’t object to the implication that she’s the largest, but I think she’s too relieved at no longer needing to support my weight. It takes an eternity and several false starts for me to release Emmera’s wrist, shift my left foot to Vitelotte’s board, and wrap my arms around the smaller girl’s waist.

  The engine under our feet splutters, and the board wavers from left to right. One of Vitelotte’s arms stretches out for balance, but the other is trapped within my side-ways embrace.

  We both freeze, waiting for the glider to give out under our combined weight. Even the wind stills and the only sounds are the rapid beat of my pulse combined with the drone’s slicing blades.

  Emmera disappears from our line of sight. She’s probably halfway to the forest below, but I can’t think of that right now. After what feels like an eternity, the engine beneath us restores to a steady rumble.

  “What do you think?” asks Vitelotte.

  I don’t want an ounce of fear to affect the girl who will maneuver us to safety, so I say in the gentle tone I use on injured birds, “Let’s see what happens when you raise your big toe.”

  Moments later, the board drifts down.

  We both exhale identical breaths. Vitelotte says the mechanism must be sensitive, and slight movements are enough for it to understand our commands. It takes several minutes for me to gather the courage to look down. When I do, we’re drifting a hundred feet over a fast-moving river.