by Anne Wheeler
©2020 Catherine Wheeler
www.anne-wheeler.com
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Cover design ©2020 Megan McCullough
www.meganmccullough.com
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Illustrations ©2020 Meaghan Ward
www.meaghaneward.com
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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ISBN: 978-1-951910-03-7 [print]
ISBN: 978-1-951910-02-0 [ebook]
For Mom and Dad, who first read me fairy tales.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Anne Wheeler
Once upon a time . . .
Chapter One
Ryllis jerked awake at the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside and put her hands over her eyes before the brightness of the lights above blinded her. The Vilarian Star Realm prison on Cereth, where she’d spent the past dozen lunar cycles, had advanced lighting that gave her an hour of replicated sunlight each day. It was enough to ward off any medical issues that they’d have to stop her interrogation to deal with—or so her captors thought. But as intense as the light was for that short time, it didn’t have the warmth of the local sun, and it wasn’t long enough to prevent her unending depression. She would never take that star—or unfettered access to the outdoors—for granted again.
Not that it was only the lack of sunlight that distressed her. The small cell, interrupted sleep, and cheap, tasteless food had worn on her from the first week of her new life, aggravated by the ceaseless questions and accusations of the Vilarian Imperial Fleet interrogators. The entire effect was intentional. They weren’t torturing her—yet—but the effect was much the same. On her darkest nights, she thought of confessing to anything they wanted, as long as they let her go, let her stay on her home planet of Cereth, let her return to her beloved mountains and woods.
That, of course, was a fantasy.
The footsteps stopped before they reached her cell, and a low conversation took their place. Maybe they weren’t coming for her after all—maybe it was another unlucky soul’s time. She rolled on her back, closed her eyes, and breathed a sigh of relief. A five-minute reprieve was something to celebrate here, even if it was broken by the constant sound of door buzzers in the background. Too soon though, the voices became silent. The sound of boots outside resumed, and a scrape echoed through the cell as the steel door was pulled open.
“Amaryllis Camden.”
Ryllis jerked to her feet at her name. Lieutenant Kresten Westermark stood there, tapping his stun stick on the frame and sounding irritated, as he did most of the time. It was a shared emotion—she would never tell him that his blue uniform with the silver edging made her stomach churn, or that the light galaxy on his chest pocket was an affront on a planet that had just wanted to be left alone.
“If you’re not standing against that far wall in the next three seconds,” Westermark said, banging the stick one more time for emphasis, “I’ll have to come in there after you, and neither one of us wants that.”
Ryllis glared at his impatience through the static field that remained across the open doorway—it hadn’t been more than five seconds since he’d opened the door. It was too early for this kind of rush, her body too stiff for any rapid movements, and her mind too muddled from sleep to force herself to move as quickly as Westermark wanted. She stretched her legs as she turned, making certain he couldn’t see what she was doing—showing any kind of weakness was a mistake—but wasn’t able to hide a yawn.
Westermark’s gaze landed on her mouth, and he tapped the stick again. Despite his claim, she doubted he’d use that stun stick on her, but she’d heard the screams from elsewhere in the block, heard the swearing and orders and subsequent tears. Someone was certainly using them on prisoners, and she wouldn’t press the issue. Satisfied she’d riled him enough for one morning, she did what he asked.
Slowly.
“Was that so difficult?” he asked. “Turn around and put your hands on your head.”
Gritting her teeth, she turned and focused her stare on the far wall, then interlaced her fingers behind her head. There was a scrape along the pitted concrete, like someone had tried to claw their way out, and as always, she wondered what their story was. What had they done to end up here? And what had happened to them?
The static field dropped with a slight buzz, and even though she was expecting his touch, she jumped when Westermark’s hands hit her shoulders. He chuckled at her reaction, and she hated him for it. She hated him for chuckling and for smelling like sandalwood instead of mildew like the rest of the prison and for waking her up and for interrupting her hour of sunlight and for touching her, respectful though he was.
“All right,” he said, when he was finished searching her. Some of his irritation had disappeared, no doubt out of relief she hadn’t resisted. Something was up. “Let’s go.”
Her fingers twitched, but Ryllis managed to keep her hands from his throat and let him guide her from the cell. Unlike some other guards, he didn’t push her along the bright corridor hard enough to make her stumble, and his hands always behaved themselves. That was something, even though she loathed him for the consideration at the same time. It made it too hard to see him as the enemy, and they were all enemies here. She was constantly reminding herself that Westermark’s kindness shouldn’t earn him anything except the same slight gratitude she showed the people who brought her food and kept her from starving. He was still Vilarian, after all.
But worse than Westermark and the rest of the guards were the interrogators, alternately terrifying and frustrating. It had become a game of a sort—will I be frightened or annoyed this time? This time, as Westermark walked her inside the interview room and restrained her hands in the manacle bar bolted to the steel table that matched everything else in the wing, it appeared the questioning would be frustrating. It always was when the bespectacled fool sitting on the other side of the table, the one who spoke of her father with a certain respect he didn’t deserve, was conducting it. He couldn’t have been more than five solar cycles older than she—Vilarian solar tracking, of course, was all that was allowed on Cereth—but his mannerisms, those of a man three times his age and a thousand times his intellect, grated on her.
He’d been questioning her more and more lately, and he’d spent most of their sessions telling her the best she had to hope for was a transfer to a labor camp on Vilaria. Even if that was an exaggeration, one thing was certain: she was never going home. No one taken by the Fleet and accused of what they’d accused her of ever did. Sometimes she could maintain hope; this time, even if the fear had faded into apathy, it seemed there was nothing left to live for.
Westermark gave her a short pat on the shoulder and resumed his usual place by the door, like he and the fool were afraid she could fight her way out of the restraints and past the both of them. He’d neglected to push the metal chair under her all the way, so she perched on the very edge and waited. With any luck, there wouldn’t be games today. Just question
s. And questions she could ignore. Games, she was too tired to deal with.
The fool smiled and scratched at his face under his glasses. “Did you sleep well?”
“No.” She tried to move the chair underneath her with her feet, but it was too heavy.
His smile slipped a bit at her frankness. “Oh. That’s too bad. Last night they were talking about sending you away—though whether that will be better or worse for your sleep is anyone’s guess.”
Ryllis shifted as the sharp metal edge of the chair ground into her bottom. She wouldn’t try to drag it back under her with her bare feet again, not with him looking at her like he was, but had he and Westermark made her this uncomfortable on purpose?
“You will kill me anyway,” she said. In this concrete prison, she was as good as dead. “What do I care where you send me?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” The fool tapped his fingers on the metal table. “You cannot be freed, of course, but it is possible you will simply be removed from Cereth. The evidence against you is scant, and without a confession—well, as far as I’m concerned, you’re guilty, but imperial law says we can’t execute you without proof. Very likely, you’ll be handed over to the Eradication Council on Vilaria. If so, they will determine your sentence.”
Ryllis choked on a gasp she hoped neither of them had heard. The Eradication Council could sentence her to things the Fleet couldn’t. Slavery. Torture, then execution. Reeducation camps. Even a lifetime in a civilian prison, not bound by the vague code of honor the Fleet seemed to be subject to, even if she scorned their methods most of the time.
“If you’d prefer to take your chances with the Fleet,” he said, “I’m ready and willing to listen. Cleared out my schedule today, in fact.”
“I’ve told you.” They weren’t listening to her. They never would. This entire thing was a sham. The tears threatened to break through, but before they could, the chair moved underneath her. She fell flat into the center of it, then looked up just in time to see Westermark move back against the wall. “I haven’t done anything.”
That wasn’t true. Not in the least. But she hadn’t done what they’d accused her of.
“A reliable source—a few, actually—say otherwise. We’ve been through this. I’m not going to go through it again with you. My schedule is cleared so I can listen to you talk. Not so I can repeat myself over and over.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
Saying it again was the only thing she could do as the room began to spin. Was this it? Were they going to give up on her after this, move her somewhere worse? Something scurried in the corner of the room, and she glanced down just in time to see a rat disappear through a crack in the concrete.
I’m sorry, she swore she heard it say, but that was ridiculous. Animals didn’t speak words to her, exactly, even if she felt their conversation. But even the rats had stopped talking to her here, as if they knew how doomed she was. She’d always disliked rodents, but in a prison, they were the only animals around. She missed their conversation.
“You have to believe me,” she went on. “What else can I do to prove it?”
The fool just folded his hands on the table and smiled.
Kresten leaned against the cool wall, right over the deep gouge left over from some riot or another, and watched the woman fidget as Captain Sorenson droned on. He didn’t blame her for not talking, but protesting her innocence wasn’t going to get anywhere. Ryllis Camden’s father and his new wife had been adamant about what they’d seen and heard, and there wasn’t any reason to doubt a regional governor appointed by the emperor—Kresten’s father—himself.
He frowned at her profile as her shoulders sagged. The accusations Captain Sorenson was making were all part of the strategy, but at the same time, he couldn’t help wondering if the Fleet had arrested an innocent party. It didn’t matter much, naturally—the Star Realm only gave casual consideration to such things—but it did mean the true offender was out there somewhere, and that bothered him, as it would bother anyone who cared even the least bit about justice.
But justice, thankfully, was not his problem. Officially, he wasn’t in charge of detaining rebels or even investigating who they might be or what their plans were. Only questioning—and this mission didn’t even involve that. His orders were only to rest, observe, and give advisory assistance, particularly if requested. The regular interrogators hadn’t shown much interest in taking said advice, but that wasn’t his problem either. The respite was his first priority. It was a way for Shadow Force to keep him useful while they waited to see if his post-telepathy blackouts would end.
Kresten crossed his arms over his tactical vest and suppressed a yawn as he watched her argue with Sorenson. Ryllis Camden was supposed to be an easy case, one who didn’t require the telepathy which could exhaust even the most experienced interrogators. She’d even been just cooperative enough that they hadn’t needed to resort to more drastic measures.
Yet.
I think she’s working alone, her father had reported to the Fleet authorities on Cereth before he’d handed over a disk full of her alleged activities. But that’s up to the Fleet. You know I’ll do whatever I can to support the Star Realm and His Imperial Majesty.
It’d seemed like a good lead at the time, but nothing on the disk had panned out, security officials had said. Just a bunch of research on local plants and notes of the best places to find endangered ferns, and since Ryllis was a horticulturist by education, it was an apparent dead end. Even so, accusations like this, especially from one’s close family, were never taken lightly. Governor Tavis Camden of all people knew how much he stood to lose if his daughter was found to be a traitor and he hadn’t notified the Star Realm of his suspicions—or if he’d lied about her loyalties.
Yes, Ryllis Camden was almost certainly guilty of something.
If only he could read her mind. One or two small black circles on her forearm—more if she was unusually resistant—and he’d have access to all of her conscious thoughts, most of her unconscious ones, and a good deal of her memories. But the Fleet had forbidden him from so much as attempting telepathic interrogation for at least the next six lunar cycles, and he hadn’t argued with the restriction. Finding out whatever nonsense some bitter Cerethian woman was up to wasn’t worth waking up on the floor with his head thundering in protest. He’d have another chance later, and it would be with someone more important than Ryllis. Someone with information that would lead to a promotion and decorations.
Involuntarily, his fingers went to his chest, toward where his awards would be if he’d been wearing his formal uniform. They hit plain navy-blue fabric instead, and he clutched his hands at his sides in embarrassment.
It surprised his Fleet colleagues when they learned he craved job recognition like he did. The last son of the emperor shouldn’t want for anything, his superiors said in wonder whenever the subject came up, and Kresten was tired of explaining. No one outside the imperial family had ever been able to understand, as much as he’d tried to explain his dreams. Lieutenant Westermark was someone he’d built himself on his own merits. Prince Kresten was someone who’d had everything handed to him, and he wanted more than that. He wanted his own life.
Sorenson stood, and Kresten shook off his irrelevant thoughts, along with a heavy cloak of fatigue. It was only mental, he knew, the product of being treated like a telepathic invalid, but he was tired of it, too—and even more tired at the thought of debriefing with Sorenson later. The debriefing would go the same as the rest of them.
You could do this better, sir. Here’s how.
Nah. She wasn’t responding. It’s a lost cause. We’ll try it again tomorrow. Less sleep tonight. Start earlier in the morning. Wear her down. She’s bound to start talking sooner or later. Perhaps the control chip would speed things up.
She wasn’t responding because you did X, Y, and Z instead of Z, then waiting for her to mull over that, then trying Y and not bothering with X. The control chip would be excessive.<
br />
It always went the same way, and Sorenson was one of the worst for taking guidance. Kresten tried not to think about how frustrating his afternoon would be as he released Ryllis from the restraints and escorted her into the hallway outside, his right hand holding her wrist behind her back and his left on her opposite shoulder. The standard Fleet escort technique was overkill for someone like her—too slender to resemble the ancient warrior goddess on his home planet, and with dark pewter eyes, always touched with fear, the same color as her prison uniform.
It was the fear that made him wonder about her innocence more than her apparent delicateness, but policy was policy, and there was always the chance she had hand-to-hand training. Kresten stifled a laugh at the idea. She would have shown signs of that kind of thing before now. A covert warrior, she was not.
True to his suspicion, Ryllis didn’t try to pull away as they approached her cell. She didn’t speak to him, either. Not that he expected her to, but every so often, prisoners saw a guard as an ally. It’d happened before, occasionally to him. This morning, however, she didn’t move her head, even to whisper at him, and as he walked her inside the stale room and stopped her against the far wall, she didn’t protest, either.
Now.
Kresten glanced backward, and, seeing no one in the corridor outside, pulled a small piece of chocolate he’d unwrapped earlier out of his pocket. He pressed it into her right hand, palm out at the small of her back, then folded her fingers over it. Ryllis drew in a sharp breath but didn’t move at his touch.
