Angry heat floods my body, and blood roars through my veins. I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve seen die or almost die. It’s not too late to save Thomas, and I couldn’t live with myself if he got torn apart by wild men.
“Colonel Victorine put me in charge,” I bark. “Stop the van, now.”
Sabre slams her foot on the brake. The movement of the van lurches me forward, and my head hits the dashboard. Pain radiates through my skull, making me cry out. Katana’s angry shouts drown out the moans echoing from the back.
“Why?” I raise my head, swing my fist at Sabre’s smirking face, but she blocks.
“Just following orders,” she says. “Ma’am.”
Someone outside screams, and I tear my attention away from the Amstraadi girl. Thomas jumps down from his camel and lands on his hands and knees. The wild men are less than five-hundred feet behind. The cloth over his face slips as he scrambles to his feet and races toward us.
I push the van door open and rear back at the rush of desert heat. “Hurry.”
“Why don’t you jump down and carry him?” Sabre starts the van and creeps toward the Great Wall.
Ignoring her, I wrap one hand around a wall grip, brace my legs on the vehicle’s interior, and lean my body out of the cab. With one arm stretched toward Thomas, I scream at him to keep running.
Thomas’ eyes bulge, and his open mouth twists with terror. He’s a lot younger than I imagined and doesn’t have a beard like the others. A few of the wild men tackle his camels to the ground, but most of them continue running toward him.
“He won’t make it,” Tizona shouts. “Get back inside.”
“Shoot over their heads,” I scream.
Gunfire rings through my ears. Some of the hoard scatter, but those at the front continue their relentless pursuit. Thomas’ nostrils flare with a newfound determination, and he runs faster. Our fingers brush.
“More!” I shout.
My gaze fixes on the man’s hand, but on the edge of my vision, I see a wild man drop to the ground. His comrades trip over his fallen body, and the others run around the writhing mass.
I stretch toward Thomas so far that my muscles ache.
He grabs my hand. His weight yanks my arm out of its socket, and a scream tears from my lips.
Sabre slows the truck, bullets sound from a distance, and the wild men fall. Thomas grabs the passenger door with his free hand and hurls us both inside. I fall onto Sabre, who shoves me back into the passenger seat.
“Close the damn door,” she snarls.
The triumphant cry of a wild man fills the cab. He hangs off the door and swings toward us. His red hair blows in the wind like a flag. Thomas kicks at him with all his strength, but he won’t let go.
“Get back!” Sabre points a handgun and shoots the wild man between the eyes. His body goes limp, and he falls into the sand.
Thomas slams the door. “Sorry.”
“What changed your mind?” Sabre sneers.
I shake my head and try to catch my breath. “Leave it.”
“You’re an idiot,” says Sabre.
I’m about to yell at the girl, when Tizona adds, “Popcorn isn’t just a regular idiot, she’s a brave idiot.”
“I was going to say selfless, but brave also works.” Sabre laughs. “At least I know why some people say you’re the favorite to win the Trials.”
My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips, and all I taste is salt. She’s probably talking about Mouse and Ambassador Pascale. If I can ally with the Amstraadi and arrange protection for my family, maybe I will survive these Trials long enough to win.
Chapter 15
With all the people on camelback safe, Sabre stops the truck a few hundred meters away from the gates to allow whoever is shooting at us to get rid of the wild men. The sand around the truck turns red with their blood. I swallow back my bile, wishing there was a better way to deal with these people.
I force my gaze away from a wild man slashing through the entrails of a female comrade and wonder if any other species eats its own dead. My insides have gone numb, the way they’re starting to become when someone who threatens my life dies.
Thomas whimpers beside me and flinches each time a wild man drops from the vehicle. Some of his camels have disappeared into the distance, but others lie dead on the ground, their broken and bloody carcasses dragged across the sand by the horde.
“Do you have wild men in the north?” I ask no one in particular.
“If we did, they probably froze to death,” says Tizona.
“Some think they traveled south to escape the nuclear winter,” says Katana.
I rub my temples. Until now, I hadn’t given these strange humans much thought. Bullets spray across the land, hitting a group of wild men who stopped to feast on a dead camel. When a pronghorn bolts out from the Great Wall, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the explosion.
Moments later, a blast sounds from far away, and I remember Gemini’s explosive death and Berta’s cheerful description of bunny bombs. Despair washes through my veins like sour milk, only broken by the roar of the engine as Sabre starts the truck and moves toward the opening gates.
The marquee is empty, save for a row of helmeted guards pointing automatic guns at the van. My insides deflate. What have we done, now?
“What’s happening?” Thomas’ voice shakes.
“I’m not sure,” I reply.
“But you’re the border guards.” His voice rises in pitch. “How could you not know?”
“It’s probably decontamination,” says Sabre.
“What?” he asks.
“They do this when people come in from the desert,” I reply, remembering everything I’ve learned today about the Foundling welcoming process. “It’s to make sure you’re free of radiation and diseases.”
Thomas relaxes, but one of the guards opens the door and asks him to step out. The truck’s back door opens, and the men we saved exit the van. There are eleven of them, and their faces are obscured by kerchiefs. One of them points at the van, presumably to ask about his bags, but the guard shakes his head and guides them through a door on the left.
Somehow, I don’t think these people will be allowed to keep their possessions, but that will be the least of their problems.
Sergeant Travis steps forward and guides us through the door on the right. Instead of a blast of light and heat, there's a shaded walkway that leads to our coach.
Byron stands by the driver’s seat and flashes his whitened teeth. The beds on the left sides are folded into the wall, their space now occupied by about thirty production assistants wearing sand-colored jumpsuits.
“Let’s have a round of applause for the brave team of rescuers.” Byron grabs my wrist and raises it into the air.
Ingrid and Constance, who are already seated, rise from their seats and stand in the aisle, blocking the camera’s view of our faces. They grin and wave at the applauding contestants and camerawomen.
Tizona leans into my side and mutters, “What’s so brave about shooting people from a tower?”
I snort. Before the Trials, I would have quipped that someone else did the shooting for Ingrid and Constance, but at least one of them has proven herself adept at killing humans.
When the applause dies down, Byron releases my wrist and lets us walk back to our seats. Emmera stares up at me with a smile and hands me a bottle of Smoky Mountain water. I flop down on the seat, so thirsty that I forget to check its label. She opens up a large packet of chipped vegetables and holds them under my nose.
Byron claps his hands together for our attention. “Those of you who completed this challenge will progress to the next level of the Princess Trials, and the rest of you will return to the palace for a farewell dinner before going home.”
Sucking in a sharp breath between my teeth, I turn to Emmera, whose eyes bulge.
A noble girl with a thick braid around her hair shoots out of her seat. “What bearing does rescuing Foundlings have on the sui
tability for becoming the next queen?”
Byron pulls at his collar. “I was clear about the rules—”
“When our guide asked if we wanted to help Calico and a bunch of Amstraad drones save some Foundlings, he didn’t say the consequences for refusing was elimination.”
“Villosa is right,” says another Noble. “This is completely unfair.”
Ingrid stands and places her hands on her hips. “Don’t complain because the rules won’t bend for you.”
“You’re one to talk,” Villosa spits. “Everyone knows they’ve rigged the Trials in your favor.”
The two other Noble girls rise from their seats and join the argument, but there’s no sign of Constance Spryte, who has taken up the role of Noble spokeswoman since Ingrid fell out of favor with her peers. They talk over each other and hurl accusations—some of them dating back from when they were children.
Byron tries to get them to return to their seats, but they ignore his pleas to remain calm. The back door hisses open, and the production assistants not holding cameras stream out and hurry toward a large van. I can’t tell if they’re trying to escape or desperate to edit footage of what’s shaping up to become a one-sided catfight.
I turn to Emmera, who takes several long gulps of her water. “Are you looking forward to going back to Rugosa?”
She licks the moisture from her lips and exhales a long sigh. “Actually, I am.”
“Really?” I reach into the bag of chipped vegetables and take what looks like a dried piece of kale. It’s crunchy and tastes like bacon. My brows draw together. The sun-dried tomato slice I eat next also has the same delicious taste.
“The Oasis people might have all the food and water they can drink, but they’re miserable.” She flicks her head at the squabbling Nobles. “They’re not capable of loyalty or love. What’s the point of being rich if everybody wants to stab you in the back.”
I stare at my lap and ponder her words. She’s right to an extent. I think Prince Kevon’s apprenticeship in the Barrens made him so different from those power-hungry harpies. Being born into ultimate power also meant he never needed to seek more.
A pang of sadness touches my heart. Emmera is the last Harvester girl in the Trials. Now, it will be two Nobles, three Amstraadi, and me.
She meets my eyes. “What will you do?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Even a scarecrow with buttons for eyes can see how much they’re trying to push Ingrid and Prince Kevon together.” Emmera takes another sip of her water. “Will you step back and let him go, or will you fight for the prince?”
My gaze darts to the light flashing overhead. I think I have an ally in the Amstraad Republic. Both Mouse and Ambassador Pascale have made enough cryptic comments to suggest that they want me to win the Trials, and I’ve got to see if there’s a way to neutralize the threat of Queen Damascena. There’s no way I’ll broadcast any of these intentions to my enemies, but I also don’t want my words twisted at a later date.
“You know what?” I pluck a long piece of chipped carrot from the packet. “I want Prince Kevon to end up with the girl who’s both right for him and for Phangloria.”
Emmera tilts her head up and smiles. I think she’s caught sight of the camera, but she seems satisfied with my answer.
“Miss Calico.” Byron stands at my side.
I draw back. Apart from grabbing me ten minutes ago, he has barely acknowledged me since he interviewed Forelle before our auditions. “Yes?”
“The coach will make a detour in Rugosa.”
Emmera leans forward. “Can I go home?”
Byron’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “A representative from the court of Queen Damascena will meet you in Fort Meeman-Shelby with instructions.”
Sweat breaks out across my palms. That’s where Prince Kevon stayed last night, but he would hardly refer to himself as part of his mother’s court. “What’s this about?”
Byron shakes his head. “They didn’t specify.” His gaze wanders to the squabble taking place at the front of the coach. “Excuse me, I have more important things to do than relay messages.”
“Miss Hull asked you a question,” I say.
He frowns, not seeming to understand my words. “Pardon?”
“Can I get off the coach in Rugosa?” Emmera asks.
Byron waves his hand. “If she’s prepared to find her own transportation home, she’s free to go wherever she wants.”
As he walks back to the screeching Nobles, Emmera leans close and whispers, “He was better as Prunella’s assistant.”
I raise a shoulder. Byron might be incompetent, but there’s only been one attempt on my life since he has taken charge of the Princess Trials. “He must be here to make sure Ingrid wins.”
Villosa shoves Ingrid in the chest. Ingrid grabs onto the braid wrapped around the other girl’s head, making her screech. Another Noble tackles Ingrid to the ground, allowing Villosa to stomp on her head. The other girls join the attack, and the Amstraadi girls rush down the aisle to cheer.
My head pounds, and questions swirl around my mind. What if there’s a firing squad waiting for me in Fort Meeman-Shelby? What if I disappear? What if that’s where they’re holding Mom and Dad hostage? I can’t think of what I might have done to incite the queen’s wrath apart from my hospital visit with Prince Kevon.
Byron orders the driver to open the coach door. Any satisfaction I might have gotten from seeing Ingrid get her comeuppance pales with the gut-churning worry of what Queen Damascena plans to do to me in Rugosa.
A pair of camerawomen set down their equipment and escort Ingrid out. Emmera taps at me to let her watch Ingrid leave the coach, and I swing my legs to the aisle. From what I can hear between the girls’ hooting laughter, Ingrid is having difficulty walking. I tune out the voices and focus on the challenge ahead.
An hour later, the coach stops at Fort Tyler, where Byron joins us for a late lunch in the dining room. I pick at my food and tune out the other girls’ grumbles about how Ingrid probably got an even better room of her own.
We drive through the day and most of the night, only stopping for the production assistants to bring dinner. The Lifestyle Channel broadcasts highlights from the dates with Prince Kevon. While the Nobles flirt with the prince, the Amstraad girls tell him about their struggles to grow food in an Arctic landscape.
Their reporting of the last challenge centers on Ingrid’s prowess with the gun, with commentary on her valiant effort to protect me from my own stupidity at confronting a hoard of hungry wild men. I close my eyes and stop paying attention.
Sometime after three in the morning, we reach Fort Meeman-Shelby, and a production assistant guides me off the coach. It’s cool outside, and the moon shines down within an indigo sky that reminds me of Prince Kevon’s eyes.
An ache forms in my heart as I walk through the darkened courtyard. It’s hexagonal and covered mostly with lawn, unlike the sandy courtyard of Fort Tyler. The assistant guides me to a private room, where a scandalously low-cut dress lies on the bed.
Alarm seizes my heart. I spin around and gape at the production assistant, who is already backing out of the room and wishing me good luck. As I rush to the door, a key turns in the lock, but I try the handle anyway.
“Hey.” I pound on the door. “What’s going on? Let me out.”
I run to the window, but its fastenings won’t budge. So much for a stealthy escape.
With a snarl, I turn back and glare at the outfit. The two strips of sheer fabric that make up its front are cut so low that it would expose the wearer from shoulder to waistband. My stomach churns at the minuscule skirt. On legs as gangly as mine, it would land at mid-thigh.
With an outfit like that, Queen Damascena has got to be setting me up for something scandalous. I lean against the wall and fold my arms across my chest. If there’s a lecherous lieutenant waiting outside the door, I won’t go down without a fight.
Moments later, a knock on the door causes
my heart to somersault into my throat. I glance around the room for a weapon, snatch the chair, and hold it in front of me like a shield.
The lock turns, the door opens, and I charge on my would-be attacker. In an instant, the chair flies across the room and the back of my head hits the hard floor. Pain explodes across my skull. I kick out at my attacker but he’s not hovering over me.
I struggle to my feet and find Lady Circi standing on the other side of the room. She wears a black catsuit with a hip holster and carries only one gun.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” she says.
“What are you doing here?”
She pinches her nose. “You agreed to be present at the banishment of Vitelotte Solar.”
I pause, not remembering having agreed to anything of the sort. Somehow, I don’t think calling her a liar will help my predicament. “In that dress?”
Lady Circi raises a shoulder. “If you wanted to choose your own outfit, you should have negotiated that with Her Majesty.” She snaps her fingers. “Hurry up and get dressed before someone puts a bullet through your friend’s skull.”
“May I have some privacy?”
“Sixty seconds.” She crosses the room, picks up the dress, and flings it into my arms.
I clench my teeth. Sometimes, it’s hard to work out which of them I dislike the most: the queen or her lady-at-arms. I shake my head and change into the dress. Lady Circi is gruff and occasionally unpleasant. Queen Damascena is just plain evil.
After I change into the dress, Lady Circi makes me slip on a pair of high-heeled shoes, then marches me through the fort’s angular hallways. Seeing as she’s a general, the few guards we pass salute, but their gazes linger on my barely-covered chest. For once in my meager life, I’m glad my figure is nothing like Emmera’s or Forelle’s. This outfit is obscene.
I smooth out the fabric. “Why do I have to wear this dress?”
“A girl stops Prince Kevon’s heart with a knife, and you’re complaining about what to wear for her pardoning?” Her brows draw together. “You must admit that it was generous of Prince Kevon to spare your friend’s life.”
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 21
