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

by Cordelia K Castel

  A tiny part of me that used to believe in Mom’s fairytales wishes Prince Kevon would see behind my words and know that they were coerced. Carolina’s harsh voice asks what I will do when he discovers my intentions for joining the Princess Trials, and I shove it aside.

  “Zea,” his voice is a caress. “Am I correct that you were responsible for creating the dress?”

  I raise my gaze and meet his guarded eyes. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  He doesn’t react to my formal method of address, but he’s had all afternoon to get used to my change in attitude. Instead, he nods and continues to the next table, where one of the Amstraadi girls tells him the history of a bowl decorated with fruits that date back to before the nuclear bombs.

  “We have seen paintings, sculptures, and even a living embodiment of our great goddess,” Byron says with a wistful sigh. “The lucky winner will spend a romantic evening for two with our most eligible bachelor.”

  One of the Noble girls bursts into a round of applause, but nobody joins her.

  Byron turns to Prince Kevon. “Tell me, Your Highness, who is your choice?”

  I hold my breath and pray to Gaia that Prince Kevon doesn’t choose me.

  “It was a difficult decision.” He turns and makes eye contact with each of the girls. “You all have such exquisite taste. However, I particularly enjoyed Miss Solar’s reading from Gaia, chapter four, verse six.”

  Vitelotte stiffens at my side. With a gulp, I examine Prince Kevon’s features. He isn’t smiling, but he isn’t scowling. He and Byron must have been in another room, watching footage of our confrontation with Constance.

  “A round of applause for our winner, Vitelotte Solar. Congratulations!” Byron sweeps his arm in the direction of our table.

  Seeming inches taller, Vitelotte steps forward. I force my features into a smile and clap, hoping that this won’t be the day she becomes the target of the other girls’ animosity.

  Vitelotte walks to the front of the room, where Prince Kevon kisses her knuckles and congratulates her on winning. I can’t fathom whether he chose her because she insulted the Noble echelon, because he was impressed by the fruit and vegetables she collected, or because he has decided to move on from me.

  My face throbs from the fake smile and my palms sting from clapping so loudly, but it’s nothing compared to the ache of my heart.

  They look striking together with his blue-black hair complementing the purple undertones of her curls. Vitelotte is clever and witty and brave. I can think of no better girl to date Prince Kevon, but I doubt that Queen Damascena will allow any liaison between them to last.

  “The winner also gets to choose tomorrow’s leisure activity,” says Byron. “Is there anything you would like to do in the Oasis? A visit to the Botanical Gardens, a dip in the Gloria Hot Springs?”

  She nods. “My grandmother told me she used to sell spiced corn in a farmer’s market. Does it still exist?”

  “Of course.” Byron turns to the camera. “Tune in tomorrow for an exciting visit to the Gnamma Market. Over to Prunella for the latest coverage on the search for the missing girls.”

  Prince Kevon offers Vitelotte a kindly smile before leaving with Byron and an entourage of camerawomen. From their hurried steps, it looks like they’re going to the Gloria National Park to help.

  The room empties, and no one tells us what to do next. It’s supposed to be dinnertime, but I can’t smell any food. The other girls exchange confused glances, and I wonder if there’s something else going on in Phangloria besides a tsunami on the other side of the mountains, missing girls, and a king who is dying in secret.

  Constance steps out from beside her easel. “Who else thinks nobody cares about the Princess Trials?”

  “Are you talking about the focus on Ingrid Strab?” Sabre asks, her voice more slippery than corn oil.

  My eyes narrow. The six Amstraadi girls hardly speak, but when they do, it’s usually to goad others into saying something dangerous or foolish. I don’t trust them, their motives, or their ambassador, but at least this time, their attention is on someone I despise.

  As Constance rants about Ingrid, Prince Kevon, the stupid girls from the Guardian and Artisan Echelons who managed to get themselves lost, I turn my gaze to the wall screen, where Prunella talks to the camera in front of a scene of guards carrying a body bag on a stretcher. My throat thickens. In all my stressing about the dead Guardian girls, I didn’t mention having found a dead Artisan.

  Vitelotte returns to my side, her face grim.

  My brows draw together. “Hey, congratulations.”

  “What’s this?” Vitelotte points at the screen.

  “They’ve found Jaqueline Bellini,” says Emmera, trying to mask the disappointment in her voice from not being chosen.

  Vitelotte’s lips tighten, and she glances in the direction of the Amstraadi girls. I follow her gaze, thinking the same thing. Sabre is too busy goading Constance into criticizing the Princess Trials, but the Amstraadi girl with ebony skin and bleached blonde curls turns to us and smirks.

  A knot forms in my belly. I fold my arms across my chest and frown. Does that mean they’re responsible for the disappearances of the girls we didn’t kill? With a sick sort of logic, it would make sense. Ambassador Pascale told me specifically that the Chamber of Ministers favored Ingrid. He also said his girls hadn’t charmed Prince Kevon. Now that Ingrid is missing, I wonder if he instructed them to eliminate the competition.

  I turn to Vitelotte. “It looks like we’re having dinner in our rooms tonight. Do you want to eat together?”

  She shakes her head and heads toward the door. “Another time.”

  I’m beginning to think Constance is right. Either they’ve relegated the Princess Trials to a lesser priority or Prunella Broadleaf was the only person keeping it together.

  According to Forelle and Georgette, who join me in the morning for breakfast, Ingrid’s disappearance has caused a state of National Emergency. I don’t comment because I think the search for the missing girls is covering up for something else.

  When I join the much-reduced group of girls for a photoshoot on the red carpet, only twelve photographers stand behind the cordons. The morning sun shines bright enough to make us all squint, and the photographers snap a few pictures before turning to check their tablet computers.

  We all trudge down the red carpet where a bus awaits. I had hoped by now that Prince Kevon would arrange my departure, but I didn’t have the guts last night to ask him if I could leave.

  “All the journalists who matter are at the National Park, waiting for pictures of Ingrid’s mangled corpse,” Constance’s voice fills the bus’s interior. “It was probably her who burned Minnie Werfer and Tulip Ironside so they wouldn’t report her for murdering Jaqueline Bellini.”

  I glance over my shoulder at Vitelotte, who rolls her eyes.

  The drive to the farmer’s market is mercifully short. It’s located in an opaque dome close to the Botanical Gardens and resembles the domes in the Harvester town squares. We step off the bus and onto a red carpet flanked by guards holding back crowds of regular people.

  They scream out our names, flash their cameras, and hold up tablet computers. Byron isn’t here to tell us what to do, but a group of production assistants crowds the entrance. None of them hold cameras, so I guess they just want to observe us as we browse.

  Gnamma Market’s interior looks nothing like our dome. Instead of a long line of people stretching across the space to pick up their weekly rations, the market is made up of bell-shaped gazebos each manned by robust-looking Harvesters. Their uniforms are vibrant shades of brown that include hickory, cinnamon, and gingerbread, and they all wear pristine, white aprons.

  My brows draw together. They look too stylish and individual to be from our Echelon, and the women sport cosmetics and hairstyles that require hours of preparation. I walk through the throng, scrutinizing the stall-holders. It’s almost as if someone like Master Thymel created the uniforms an
d placed them on Artisans.

  The customers are mostly blue-haired Nobles dressed in one-piece outfits in the style of Montana and Lady Circi, but mingling among them are uniformed officers, flamboyant Artisans, and a few people whose uniform I recognize from the hospital.

  Some of the stalls only sell one type of food, such as the round man with ruddy cheeks, who displays every imaginable type of lettuce from purple to green to white.

  On his left is a woman whose tomatoes range in size from peas to pumpkin-sized monstrosities. There are so many varieties that her produce occupies two gazebos. Some of them are yellow, some are black, some are purple.

  My head shakes from side to side as I take in all the shapes. Perfect spheres, plums-shapes, carrot-shapes, gourd-shapes, some shaped so irregularly I can’t even tell they’re tomatoes.

  “You’re Zea-Mays Calico.” The tomato seller’s gold bangles jingle as she claps her hands together. Black hair curls around her ageless face, and her brown eyes sparkle with excitement. She grins, revealing whitened teeth. “What do you think of my selection?”

  My mouth opens and closes, and words tumble through my brain. We don’t grow any of these in Rugosa, which is the only Harvester town that cultivates tomatoes.

  “She’s speechless!” A man claps me hard on the shoulder, making me tumble forward. The slapper is a laughing, blue-haired Noble dressed in Harvester brown, who wraps his arm around the tomato seller. “Have you ever seen so many beautiful varieties?”

  I glance at a pair of camerawomen filming my reaction with their thick glasses. “No. This is truly amazing.”

  “Did you hear that?” says the Noble man. “Trumpeter’s Tomatoes are approved by Zea-Mays Calico herself.”

  A crowd of Nobles swarms us, and I stagger back against the influx. My pulse quivers in time with the fury quickening through my heart. This is madness.

  More and more people crowd the tomato sellers, pushing me further back into the crowd. I can’t see the camerawomen anymore, and I glance from side to side as more people arrive from all over the market, presumably in search of a spectacle.

  A large hand wraps around my arm, and someone pulls me aside. I catch a glimpse of pale eyes, unsmiling lips, and a dimpled chin. My breath catches in the back of my throat.

  It’s Ryce Wintergreen.

  Chapter 8

  Ryce pulls me through the crowd and down the gap between the tomato stall and its neighbor’s, who sells pumpkins and squashes.

  He wears a regulation white shirt that’s either brand new or dipped in laundry bleach. His brown vest and matching pants look pressed, and there isn’t a speck of dust in his uniform. I guess that’s the only way a Harvester can blend in among these Nobles pretending to belong to our Echelon.

  I glance from side to side to see if anyone has followed us, but he wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me into his chest.

  “Zea,” he murmurs into my hair. “You look so good.”

  His earthy scent engulfs my senses. It’s freshly-tilled soil, sugar beet… and something unusually floral. I try to pull back to look into his eyes, but he holds me tight and continues murmuring about being pleased to see me.

  I relax into his embrace. Ryce reminds me of home, and that’s one step away from Mom, Dad, Yoseph, and Flint. “Ryce,” I say. “Have you seen—”

  “Zea.”

  The way his deep voice curls around my name makes me pause. I hope this means he’s about to tell me that the Red Runners took my family to safety so I can complete my mission without worrying about their fates.

  He releases me, draws back, and cups my face with both hands. It’s the tenderest of touches, and his pale eyes soften. A corner of his mouth curls into the barest of smiles.

  My throat dries. He looks at me as though I’m precious.

  “After seeing you on that glider, I’ve suffered nothing but sleepless nights,” he says. “When you stopped answering my calls—”

  “My family,” I blurt. Ryce is talking about the watch he gave Sharqi to hide in her beak. The watch I left in my boot and haven’t thought about for days. “Are they alright?”

  His expression blanks, and the hands cupping my face stills. After a significant pause, he says. “Yes.”

  “But I thought there were guards outside—”

  “They visited that time when you spoke to them on camera.” He doesn’t allow me to complete my sentence, and there’s something in his assurance that doesn’t ring true. “Nobody’s watching your home, I promise.”

  My muscles tense, my spine turns rigid, and my insides numb. Adrenaline courses through my veins, making my pulse thrash in my throat. I would sooner believe Queen Damascena’s menaces than Ryce Wintergreen’s promises. There’s no way she would ease up on her threat to murder my family just because everyone has lost interest in the Princess Trials.

  “How do you know?” My voice sounds far away.

  Ryce frowns. Then his face breaks into a wide smile. It’s the first I’ve ever seen anything but him looking grave. It’s a grotesque baring of both rows of teeth, the type of expression a person makes during the rare times we get to see a Guardian dentist.

  “What are you talking about?” he says with a forced chuckle. “I should ask why you ran past me in the gardens when I called your name or why you never answer my attempts to call you on Netface.”

  My nostrils flare. If he’s talking about the whisper I heard when I ran half-blind for my life to the guesthouse after being gassed, I’m not going to apologize. This whole conversation is a waste of my time. Ryce will say anything necessary to keep me spying for the Red Runners, even at the cost of my family’s life.

  “Where’s Sharqi?” I snap.

  He flinches. “Who?”

  “My bird,” I say through clenched teeth. “The one you thought was a kakapo. The one you said you would take care of. The one you sent to the Oasis with a watch in her mouth.”

  He lowers his lashes. “She flew home to spend time with her chicks.”

  A tight fist of grief slams into my heart, making my eyes sting with tears. Sharqi probably got shot while trying to find her way back to Rugosa. I jerk away from his touch and turn to the side.

  “Zea.” He tilts my head towards his and forces me to meet his hard eyes. “While you’ve luxuriated in palatial surroundings, over two-hundred-thousand Harvesters worked in back-breaking conditions. Our water rations are barely fit for humans. People are dying every day, Zea. Dying.”

  That last word hits like a punch in the throat, and I can’t breathe. They’re dying… just like Mr. Wintergreen.

  Ryce nods with confident satisfaction, as though he’s found the exact sequence of words to manipulate my heart. “We’re all depending on you to find a way into the palace and lead us to freedom,” he murmurs. “What is your report?”

  Burning hatred sears my veins and makes the blood surging through my ears roar. How could I have ever allowed Ryce and his mother to maneuver me into such a perilous mission with little training and no backup? Guilt. Guilt for having once been a nine-year-old girl too frightened to stop a brutal murder. Now Ryce is using that guilt with a hefty dose of feigned affection to make me sacrifice everything for the cause.

  Now, when I stare into those eyes, they’re glacial. White striations run through the frigid blue, revealing glimpses of a calculating, twisted soul.

  Prince Kevon showed me how a man acts toward a woman he holds to his heart. He pays her attention, helps her when she’s in trouble, and does his best to keep her happy and safe.

  Ryce only stopped ignoring me when I poisoned a guard. Then, on the pretext of paving the way for a better world for our future, he convinced me to join the Princess Trials as a spy.

  I’m not selfish. I care about the wellbeing of my Echelon more than my own happiness, but I can’t, I won’t, I refuse to sacrifice Mom, Dad, Yoseph, and Flint.

  “What have you learned, soldier?” he said.

  I want to tell him about the secret en
trance that leads from the navy barracks into the palace, the secret underground river, or any of the other secret and poorly manned passageways I’ve seen in the palace, but not if that means hurting Prince Kevon.

  My gaze drops to his shoulder, and I offer the only piece of information I feel is safe to share. “Something’s wrong with King Arias.”

  Ryce’s breath quickens. His fingers close around my arm, and he gives it a hard shake. “What?”

  “He’s dying.” I pull out of his grip. “From the way Prince Kevon talks about things, it’s only a matter of weeks before he takes the throne.”

  His eyes bulge, and he grabs my shoulder. “Is the king in the hospital?”

  I shake my head. “They’ve put him in a secure room.”

  Ryce nods, his eyes turning vacant. “Can you—”

  “What?” I snap. “You want me to murder a dying man?”

  He flinches. It’s the barest movement, and a look of realization sharpens his eyes. The hands around my shoulder tighten, and his fingers dig into my flesh. Wincing, I try to wriggle out of his grip, but it’s too tight.

  “Are your loyalties drifting toward the Nobles?” he snarls.

  I shove against his chest. “You’re hurting me.”

  “Answer my question,” he says from between clenched teeth.

  “I’m loyal to my people.”

  His fingers loosen so the grip no longer hurts, but he doesn’t release me. “You’re falling for the prince.”

  I shake my head. “How will the Red Runners protect my family from the guards posted outside my house?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” His hands slide over my shoulders and up my neck.

  My skin tightens, and a tight band of alarm forces the air out of my lungs. Will he strangle me for failing to report the secret passageways?

  When one of his hands cups the back of my head and he strokes my cheekbone with the other, some of the tension around my chest relaxes. Weeks ago, being held by Ryce Wintergreen was my most fervent dream, but his touch is unwanted and feels like yet another threat.