My stomach drops. “What happened to you?”
She walks ahead and bends her neck to hide her fresh tears. Vitelotte and I walk on both sides of Emmera, waiting for her to speak. Last night, she didn’t seem so beaten up but we had watched her from up a tree.
Emmera tells us that a group of Noble girls captured her shortly after she landed in the forest. They seized her glider, then forced her to become their pack-mule and gopher. She had to carry their bags, fetch their snacks, and play coal-mine canary by venturing into caves and hidden spots to look for the statuette.
Based on what she understood from the Nobles, the computer tablet pinpointed a number of possible locations for Gaia’s treasure, but many of them contained traps such as snakes or nests of ants.
I lean back and exchange a nervous glance with Vitelotte, but we both remain silent. The hiding-spot we blew up might have just been another trap, which meant the game ended because someone retrieved the statuette.
Emmera hiccups. “They found a cave, but something inside it was growling. It sounded like one of the ligers.”
“Maybe it was an android,” says Vitelotte.
The taller girl stops walking and stiffens. Huge breaths huff in and out of her lungs, and she looks like she’s building up into a rant. But her face crumples, and she wraps her arms around her middle. “I deserve it for flying away when I should have stuck with you. I’ll never put my faith in a Noble again. Those girls were violent and ruthless.”
I purse my lips and continue walking down the track. After helping them hunt me with automatic guns, she’s only realizing this aspect of their personalities now?
The slicing of a drone’s propellers reaches my ears, and its air currents blow against my hood.
“What happened to you two?” Emmera asks.
For the benefit of whoever’s watching, we focus on the parts of our adventure captured on camera and distract Emmera with descriptions of giant crocodiles. The drone guides us in a winding route through the forest, and we avoid meeting any groups of animals. Eventually, we walk up a dirt track that leads to a wooden staircase where the drone hovers close to a bus that stands on massive wheels.
Every ounce of air in my lungs leaves in a relieved breath as the doors hiss open. A single row of double seats runs down its left with a kitchenette down the other side. Like most of the vehicles in the Princess Trials, its windows are blackened. Six girls sit like tin soldiers in the front seats. I check their hands for signs of the golden statuette, but it looks like none of them won this contest.
Behind the Amstraadi sits a group of four whose haughty voices and bitter complaints identify them as Nobles. As soon as we take our seats at the back, the bus leaves.
“Aren’t we going to wait for the others?” I ask.
One of the Nobles twists around and sneers. “Ingrid won.”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“You don’t know that,” her companion says.
“Why else would she and her Guardian dogs attack us with guns and blow up that cave?”
My heart somersaults, and all thoughts of raiding the kitchenette fade as I listen to the Nobles complain about Ingrid. The combined team of Nobles and Guardians received eight packs, each containing equipment vital for surviving and finding Gaia’s statuette. Ingrid seized the first aid, air guns, computer tablet, and trail mix, which she shared with her Guardian allies.
I glance at Emmera, whose face is too swollen for meaningful expressions. The Nobles probably used her tablet computer to find the hiding-places.
When the subject turns to politics, I walk to the kitchenette and open the refrigerator. Most of the food packages require heating in an electromagnetic oven, so I take some yogurts and bananas for the Harvesters. Emmera refuses to eat, but throughout the journey, the Nobles are too busy griping about Ingrid and her cheating to even bother about me.
Triumph fills my chest. If I can remain inconspicuous and let all the attention slide to Ingrid, that’s one less group of people pointing a knife to my back.
Hours later, we reach the palace, and the production assistants guide us to an empty classroom with eight tables that each seat two students. As I take a seat with Vitelotte at the back, my gaze rises to the empty wall at the front of the room. I wonder if this is where Prince Kevon had his lessons.
“Where is the winner?” asks one of the Noble girls from the front seat.
The production assistant who gave me the doctored water before my audition hugs her computer tablet and can’t look the Noble in the eye. “If you’ll kindly wait, there will be an announcement.”
I bite down on my lip. There’s no sign of the two Artisans who traveled up to the National Park with us. One of them was blonde. My gaze flickers to the Amstraadi girls who sit in front of me on the left of the room. If they’re all here, that means the dead girl I tripped over was an Artisan.
But what on earth happened to her friend?
The entire front wall flickers to life, and the production assistant scurries to the door. Prunella Broadleaf walks into the frame. Her long hair now hangs in uneven strands at her chin, looking like she’s cut it herself with a knife. She wears the same sackcloth dress as before, but the cuff around her neck stretches from her collarbone to her throat.
None of the Nobles sitting on the right flinches at this new development. One of them leans into her companion and whispers something that makes the other girl snort. My experience with Gemini Pixel tells me this kind of punishment is not unusual.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Prunella’s voice trembles and she lowers her lashes as though unable to look at the camera. “I regret to inform you that due to technical difficulties, we are unable to broadcast the completion of the task. Please enjoy these highlights.”
Whispers fill the right side of the room, but they soon turn to angry mutterings. The production assistant opens the door and rushes out into the hallway.
I turn to Vitelotte. “Where are all the camerawomen?”
“I don’t know,” she mutters. “But something must have gone terribly wrong.”
With a nod, I force my features into a neutral expression. Three dead girls and not a single one of them is me. I can see how some might consider that a catastrophe.
One of the Nobles shoots to her feet. “What’s happening?”
Byron Blake steps into the room and pinches the bridge of his nose. All traces of the gleeful celebrity are gone, replaced by a man who looks like he’s spent the past few hours staring into the barrel of Lady Circi’s gun.
“May I have your attention, please?” He raises his palms. “Six girls still haven’t returned from the task. We have scoured the park and there are no signs of the missing contestants.”
Nobody speaks, and the rapid thuds of my pulse echoes between my ears. At any minute, the footage will switch to something that incriminates Vitelotte and me. Silence stretches across the room until it takes the form of a pair of hands squeezing my neck.
“Our drones have captured footage of two charred bodies.” His voice is muffled, and I have to lean forward to catch what he’s saying. “One of the corpses is possibly Ingrid Strab.”
Chapter 6
A spasm of alarm shoots through my heart, but I force my features into a mask of neutrality. Neither of those burned corpses was Ingrid. I’m a hundred percent sure. But what if Ingrid disguised her voice? What if in my panicked state at having a gun pressed into my eye, I imagined that my potential killer was someone else?
Thoughts and possibilities whirl through my mind in a maelstrom of panic and paranoia. Cold shudders run across my skin, and it’s just like that time the country got hit with an epidemic of capybara flu that wiped out over three-quarters of our aged population.
Prince Kevon appears on the screen, and Byron steps aside. The prince wears a naval officer’s jacket with gold stripes on the shoulders. His hair is slicked back, which only emphasizes his furrowed brow. They’ve done something with the camera to bring out the color
in his eyes, and they glow with an unusual shade of cobalt.
I hold my breath and wonder if he’s about to announce that one of the dead girls was in fact Ingrid Strab.
Ingrid is the Chamber of Minister’s favorite for winning the trials. Her father is the Minister of Integration. If she’s dead, I doubt that her family will accept an apology and a few pithy words from Queen Damascena that she was a great girl.
Prince Kevon ’s lips move, but there’s no sound. One of the Nobles yells to turn up the volume, and I lean forward in my seat.
“…And that is why I wish to put an end to the physical element of the contest,” he says. “The death of Berta Ridgeback was a terrible tragedy. I hoped that those running the Princess Trials would learn to make it a safer contest for these special young ladies, but this last trial has proven my assumptions false.”
I study his features for clues. His tense posture says repressed fury, but his eyes are more tired and just as sad as the morning after Rafaela died. The panicked thoughts in my head recede to the back of my mind, and I concentrate on the rest of the interview.
The camera cuts to Montana, who looks like the makeup artists have performed a hasty job. He must have forgotten to take his rejuvenation tonics because dark circles ring his eyes and make him look like he hasn’t slept for at least two days.
“We appreciate your candid words, Your Highness,” he says without his usual enthusiasm.
“Two further young ladies have been confirmed dead and another four are missing,” adds the prince.
Six images appear on the screen: Ingrid’s, the three Guardians, and the two Artisans. My throat dries. I know for sure that the estimate is wrong. The number of dead girls is three.
The camera cuts to a wide shot of Prince Kevon sitting behind the mahogany desk in a formal-looking study with Montana. Behind them is a large shelf of leather-bound books that remind me of the naval office where Prunella Broadleaf allowed me to speak with Mom, Dad, and the twins.
They shoot Prince Kevon in profile. “From this moment, all Trials will test the qualities required for a successful queen, such as diplomacy, kindness, and love for Phangloria.”
“Thank you, Your Highness, for your wise choice,” says Montana. “Do you have any words for the missing contestants’ families?”
The camera zooms into Prince Kevon’s face for a closeup. His features harden, and his eyes burn with determination. “I will mobilize every resource at our disposal to find your missing daughters. For those whose loved-ones suffered unfortunate deaths, I will seek justice.”
When the Phangloria insignia appears onscreen, a boulder of dread rolls around my stomach. Justice for Berta. What on earth will that mean when he discovers her killer was me?
“So, who won this Trial?” snaps a Noble in the front. She pulls off her hood and releases her blue-black ringlets.
I narrow my eyes at Constance Spryte, the girl who pointed a rifle at the decoy I hid up a tree. If Ingrid is dead, this girl will take over as my biggest threat among the contestants.
The door opens, and camerawomen stream into the room. Once they’re in place, Byron positions himself in the front and makes a few cheery comments to the viewers at home about finding the missing girls. “And now for a thrilling twist in the Princess Trials!”
My muscles tighten in anticipation. I hope he won’t flout everything Prince Kevon just announced and throw us back into danger. With Prunella Broadleaf still alive, she makes the perfect scapegoat.
He sweeps his arm to the side. “The future Queen of Phangloria will be the patron of the arts and must have a deep appreciation for all things beautiful. Ladies, each of you will obtain an object of art that best represents the treasure of Gaia.”
Byron stops talking, and the camerawomen point their lenses at our faces. I stare straight ahead, too concerned about Prince Kevon’s comment about justice to care for art.
Constance raises her chin. “What happened to the gold statuette.”
Byron coughs into his hand. “It’s back where it belongs.”
One of the Amstraadi girls raises her hand. Byron nods at her to speak, his features relaxing.
“What are the rules?” she asks. “Will you provide a budget?”
Byron’s serene expression falters. “Another quality of a potential queen is the power of persuasion. Convince a friendly Artisan or a museum curator to lend you an item to showcase.” He winks. “Our assistants will help you to venture anywhere within Phangloria. You have until dinnertime to present your acquisition.”
Constance is the first to stand. She walks to Byron, who raises his forearms and flinches. The camerawoman filming my lack of reaction swings around to record their silent standoff.
I turn to Vitelotte, who sits as still as stone. Her eyes meet mine with a look that mirrors my confusion. This is no place for a conversation about what we did, and I doubt that a place as well guarded as the palace would allow for privacy.
My brows rise in question, hoping she will understand what I want to ask, but she frowns and shakes her head. Whether that’s a sign for me to never talk of what we did in the woods or confirmation that Ingrid wasn’t the one we killed, I don’t know.
Out of desperation, I place my hand on hers and rap her wrist with the side of my thumb in Vail code:
DID
WE
KILL
INGRID?
Vitelotte doesn’t react, and my shoulders droop. So much for the idea that she’s a Red Runner. I turn back to the front of the room, where the Nobles have already left and the Amstraadi girls rise to their feet and form a small group.
A trio of production assistants walks toward us down the aisle of the classroom. Each of them wears oversized glasses with tiny camera lenses on their end pieces. I guess they’ll be our guides.
“Zea.” The dark-haired one in front raises a hand and directs her smile at me. Dimples appear in her warm, beige cheeks. “I’m Cassiope, and I’ll take you anywhere you’d like to go.”
I jerk back and blink. None of the production staff have ever introduced themselves.
“Is there an infirmary?” I point at Emmera, who sits at the back table with her head bowed. “We’d also like to get cleaned up.”
Cassiope’s brows draw together. “Don’t you want to complete the trial?”
“We have until dinner, don’t we?” Vitelotte stands. “Let’s all go.”
The three assistants exchange awkward glances, but I don’t care if they’re failing to capture sensational footage. I want to tell the viewers at home about my malfunctioning glider and how they forced us to escape off a cliff with ligers. But what’s the point in complaining when they’ll twist my rage into a scene of me playing the bucking bronco?
As they walk us out of the room, Vitelotte grabs my hand and taps on my knuckle in Vail code:
NO.
My gaze snaps to her, but she stares ahead and follows the production assistants out into the hallway and up a stairwell that leads to a white door. Cassiope knocks, waits for a male voice to call us inside, and lets us into a spacious, white room.
Doctor Palatine stands in front of a black screen that glows with blue charts and flashing numbers that monitor a set of vital signs. He shuts them off, crosses the room, and gestures for me to raise my wrist. Without indicating that we have ever met, he scans my Amstraad cuff and hands me an ointment for irritated skin. After examining Vitelotte, he hands her the same ointment and turns to Emmera, who bursts into tears.
The doctor guides her to a reclining chair with arm and footrests then injects her with something that makes her go limp. He tells us to return in two hours, so he can fix Emmera’s fractured eye sockets.
As we leave, one of the production assistants remains to question Doctor Palatine on the extent of Emmera’s injuries. The assistant assigned to Vitelotte descends the stairs ahead of us, and a light flickers on the plastic band of the glasses that wrap around her head.
I resist the urge to ask Vitelo
tte how she knows Vail code. If she’s not a Red Runner, then she must be a supplier, a sympathizer, or a relative to a Runner who betrayed secrets about our resistance group.
She loops her arm through mine and taps BE CAREFUL on my forearm then suggests out loud that we should take a two-hour break to eat in our rooms and get cleaned up.
“Do you have any ideas for Gaia’s treasure?” Cassiope asks from behind, her voice perky.
I rub my temple and try to temper my irritation. She has never stuck a camera in my face, and as far as I’m aware, she didn’t doctor any footage to make me look like an idiot. It’s not fair to snap at Cassiope for doing her job.
“Perhaps I’ll be more productive after a glass of water and some food,” I mutter.
She pauses. “Whatever you say, Zea.”
After a silent walk to our side of the palace, Cassiope pushes my door open and lets me into my assigned room. Georgette and Forelle, who were sitting at the velvet sofa, scramble to their feet.
Forelle rushes at me with her arms outstretched. “Did you really jump off the side of a cliff?” She squeezes me tight. “Of course, you did.”
“Have you befriended your makeup artist and stylist already?” asks Cassiope.
While Forelle explains that passing the marquee round of the Princess Trials made her eligible to work in the Oasis, Georgette guides me through the walk-in closet and into the bathroom.
The floors are a pale gray with ivory mosaic tiles in the same shade as the rest of the suite. A screen behind the bath playing images of palm trees swaying in a pristine beach reminds me of the bathroom in Garrett’s guesthouse. There’s even the same walk-in shower with a giant head and multiple jets.
Georgette puts a finger to her lips and gestures with her outstretched palm for me to stay. She walks to the right of the room and turns on the taps, and lets the water flow at full blast. She then turns to the end of the room and runs the bath.
I bite down on my lip, wondering if she’s going to tell me something about Prince Kevon. Instead, she opens a drawer beside the sink and pulls out a huge tub of a cream that smells like QuickBurn.
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 8
