Yes, Bracus knew. He never forgot it.
“Carry on men. We will discuss this more upon my return.” Both men saluted him, and he inclined his head in a half bow, his body already turning to enter the cave so he could debrief the president.
Bracus stepped forward, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the cave. This small crevice in the woods had been a clandestine meeting area for every president with the Band since the time of the Evil Ones and the days when the earth breathed ash.
“Bracus,” President Bowen said, his face in shadows.
“It is I... with news.” Bracus came forward, dwarfing the president with his height. All Band members were huge men. It was a key part of the defense. With their superior strength, physical acuity, and throat slits, they were perfect protectors. But without more people, there would be nothing to protect.
President Bowen, a man of few words arched heavy brows above deep eyes, waiting for his report.
“I have located the lead female. The one you say is a Princess.”
The sphere-dwellers had a strange hierarchy of leadership. Instead of presidents and advisers, they had kings, queens, princes and princesses.
“You have been scouting this location for months. We must take her soon. Contact is critical.”
“She does not frighten easily.” Bracus thought of her standing her ground as he rushed the sphere.
“Good, this is exactly what we need: a high-ranking female, one who can be reasoned with. She must hear what we say, deliver this message to her people, then there may be negotiation. Surely they wish to meld our two cultures, to experience the Outside once more.”
Bracus felt existing in a place that was nothing more than a gilded cage would drive him mad. But the female had always been there.
“I do not know that it is so. I have watched these past four months. They labor in those fields for the shellfish.”
“Oysters?”
“Yes. These... oysters. They harvest them for food and the small gems found inside.” Bracus thought of how different the female looked while surrounded entirely by men, her dress and composure utterly different. Bracus had watched her tending these strange watery fields from a pink and green boat, its weather-beaten surface pushed forward by two men with long poles. Interesting work. The female was always intense, inspecting the strange shell creatures, returning some, collecting many. She always wore her hair up off her neck, a slim stem of white with the deepest burnished copper on top of her head like a dying flame, a lone flower.
She held his thoughts prisoner.
“Bracus?”
“Yes, President Bowen?”
“I asked you a question.”
Prisoner, a deaf one. “I apologize. I was lost in my own thoughts.”
“I see that.” Bowen started round the table, a circular one which had stood in that spot for one hundred years with papers sealed under glass in the center under a sphere of their own.
His fingers trailed the edge of the table as he walked uncomfortably close to Bracus.
Bracus stood still.
“Do you know why you were chosen for this assignment, Bracus?”
Not at all. “No.”
“Objectivity.”
Oh. Bracus was sure that he was not as objective as he had been upon the inception of this assignment.
“You are not...developing feelings for the subject?”
“Of course not. This is about establishing a rapport between our peoples. I have not lost sight of our objective,” Bracus lied smoothly. There was nothing that would stop him from initiating this. The thought of another male with the same objective, carrying it out instead of him…
It would be himself or no one.
“Excellent, I wish to make sure that we remain of one mind. The propagation of the species is what matters.”
Bracus backed away, circling the table in the opposite direction, grabbing some paper from under the glass weight.
“Let me sketch the primary area of acquisition.” Bracus briefly laid the groundwork for the sphere, showing with fair accuracy its placement in front of the Great Forest that sheltered his people. To the east lay their sphere's traveling pathway, a small sphere, which served as a tunnel of sorts. This sphere tunnel, as Bracus thought of it, seemed to be a vital method of trading with the other spheres. There were also several intersecting tunnels which traversed over the great lake ending in much smaller spheres, a place with many workers who tended the oyster fields, all under the great umbrella of the main sphere. Those workers would be picked up in the strange pink and green boats that filled the fields, searching and gathering the shell creatures, with the female their unlikely leader. If she were so vital in their leadership, why was she not under guard? Why were their females not better secured? So many questions to which Bracus wished for answers.
Bowen leaned over the paper, indicating the point where the main body of the sphere bisected the tunnel. “This is the point of acquisition we discussed. It is the most vulnerable area.”
“Yes. Kingsley and I feel that their unusual ventilation system must release at this area. Also, and this is most interesting, the outside air is drawn in.”
“Fascinating. We surmise it is some kind of elaborate cycle of air cleansing. We do not know how this is achieved.”
“Steam.” Bracus remembered the heat escaping the pin-sized holes in the seam that connected the sphere with the tunnel.
“Indeed. The Evil Ones were quite advanced.” The president pressed his fingers to the throat slits on both sides of Bracus's neck, closed at present. He let the uncomfortable intimacy pass without rebuff, but not without effort. It was part of their history. As yet, no one knew why some had the slits and others did not. Females, for the most part, did not have them. Slit breathing was a sign that a man would become part of the Band. If you were born with the slits, you would be a part of the protection of his people. Slit-breathers were instinctively protective. It was part of the fiber of their being.
“We will plan for three weeks hence. There will be a new moon that night. With little light, it should be ideal to retrieve the female.”
Today's mission had been the last before acquisition. All the practice and planning were finally behind him. Bracus prepared to leave, the interior guards silently coming forward from walls illuminated by candles, preparing to escort the president to the first rendezvous point.
“Wait.”
Bracus turned.
“What do they look like? Up close.”
Bracus stood, thinking.
“They dress strangely.”
“We know it was the Princessʼ birthday. Perhaps that is traditional attire.”
Bracus shrugged. He was not sure if this was so. However, it made some sense as she normally wore plain garments, which covered her whole body. But not this day. Today, she had worn ribbons of winking gems in her hair.
“She is a tiny female, fragile, but fierce in expression. The males seem of adequate constitution.”
“Similar to our males?”
“Yes, but none that compare with the Band.”
“It is possible there is no environmental need for a Band inside the cocoon of their sphere.”
Bracus shrugged.
President Bowen pressed his fist to his heart. “Godspeed to a Goodman.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“Until then.”
“Yes.”
Bracus strode out. Leaving the president in the care of the central Band, he swept by Matthew and Stephen, the two other parts to their trio. His balance.
They jogged off into the night, melting into the border of the forest. Moonlight shone on their backs as the quivers beat lightly with their pace.
Bracus's mind was heavy with his duties. A terrible portent rode his consciousness. With the date in the palm of his hand, he should have felt reassured, but did not. He felt the promise of this meeting with the female lay under some vague threat he could not name. A shadow of disquiet laced it. He w
ould come back to this spot, when it was not required to do so, and watch her. Somehow, he felt she was in danger, and he could not make the feeling leave.
The three of them accelerated, throat slits fully open, catching the oxygen as they ran through the woods, swiftly moving toward home, toward their clan.
CHAPTER 6
Clara put her hands across her face, prepared to take a blow even knowing that Ada never beat her where it showed. The Queen prowled closer. In her left hand swung an emerald green decanter, which glistened wetly, bumping her hip.
Clara thought it made a fine weapon for bludgeoning.
When she neared Clara, Ava shoved her right hand upon Clara's stomach, pushing with drunken might. Clara fell on the wood floor. She looked up at Olive, who winced as she landed, trembling and angry in equal parts. But Olive knew her role, had always known her role.
“Insolent girl,” Queen Ada roared. “How like your father you've become. You must work the oyster fields. You must show your gratitude for the masses.” She swaggered away, steadying herself as she walked by Clara's bedpost, the same one she used to brace against the lacing of stays.
Clara stood, gingerly and covertly feeling her ribs, which she had landed on, feeling grateful she had not been abused further. She and Olive exchanged a look. Better that Ada not set her attention on Clara again.
No such luck. Ada turned, her purple skirts swirling about her legs. “You will do what I ask. You will not embarrass me in front of our subjects.”
Clara knew it was useless to defend herself but tried nonetheless, “My Queen…” Clara took a breath to continue. A rib squawked. “I like showing gratitude to our subjects, as I think they remain loyal and joyous when they are treated well.”
“Yes, you would,” Ada said with derision, her chest rising and falling, the liquor a wave of rotten fruit smell filling the room.
Ada came toward her with purpose now, swinging the decanter in such a way that Clara's eyes became mesmerized by it.
“Dear Guardian,” Olive whispered.
Claraʼs thoughts echoed Olive’s words.
Ada came closer, her hips swaying in time with the decanter, her dark eyes glittering with resolve. This might be something that Clara would not recover from. She was resigned to the Queen's drunken rages, kept them secret.
But Ada had not wielded an object before.
The chamber door burst open, causing all to jump, except Ada, who was as calm as the dead when deep in drink.
“Who enters?” Her tone said, who dares to enter?
“It is we, Queen Ada: King Otto and Prince Frederic.”
Clara looked away from the Queen to see the two monarchs and should not have. She felt the Queen's hand sink into her hair and was wrenched backward, the strand of pearls in her hair tearing. They broke free like birds scattered in the fields. A hundred shimmering gems bounced and rolled across the glossy floor, pooling around everyone's feet.
Clara's neck was bent at a tortuous angle as the Queen held her lips above Clara's ear. “Do not forget who is sovereign here, my daughter. Now get ye gone from my sight.”
With a mighty push, the Queen released Clara. She stumbled over the pearls, which ran like an iridescent stream on the burnished wood and tumbled into Olive's arms.
The king rushed over to dispatch assistance. “Do not touch her, King Otto. She needs help from no one. Do you, Princess?”
Leaning into Olive she whispered, “No.”
Ada's gaze narrowed. “Olive, sweet Olive, how you hate me. I see my abuse upon your face.” Olive lowered her eyes, never able to hide her expression from the Queen. “Best you not show your feelings, servant. Take her away.”
King Otto said, “Is this not her chamber?”
Prince Frederic stood beside his father, looking at Clara with a contemplative expression.
“It is.” She said it to the king but gave the full weight of her stare to Frederic. “Your son understands discipline, do you not?”
Frederic suffered another look at Clara, dismissing her. “Yes, I think Clara and I have an understanding of how things will be once we are joined.”
Clara fantasized a way for harm to befall him from that moment onward. A seed took root, germinating inside the dark recesses of her heart.
She could not be under this man's authority.
Her mother's drunken ire was something she bore because there was no choice. But his? She needed to formulate a plan and did not yet know what. She would confer with Charles.
The King gave her a look that may have been sympathy. However, he was weak. Her mother's pearls meant more than Clara's harm at the hands of the Queen and later, his own son.
“Let us take our leave of her chamber, Queen Ada. There is much for us to discuss. I have brought some of my most prized grapes that I wish for you to sample.”
Clara watched Ada's expression take on the familiar greed as she looked down at her decanter, its weight less now that she had stripped it of its contents. “Yes, I need not be here.” She swayed, and King Otto steadied her by grasping her elbow.
Clara backed away with Olive's arm around her waist. Olive was her touchstone. King Otto led Ada away, steadying her several times. With each step she took, Clara's breathing quieted.
Prince Frederic stalked to where she and Olive stood, and she felt Olive stiffen behind her. “Your hair, it is everywhere. You had better clean it up.” He reached out to stroke a piece that had been released when the Queen tore it free of its pearl bindings. Clara jerked away from his touch.
Frederic's hand fell away, his gaze darkening, and then his hands were suddenly around her ribcage, jerking her forward. He wrenched her out of Olive's embrace, against his body, and a small pained sound escaped her mouth. He smiled. His hands moved down lower, encircling her waist. “You will like my touch... very much.” He bent down to force his hated mouth against hers.
“Release her, Prince Frederic.” Charles's expression as he stood in the doorway was like contained thunder. He and Olive looked at each other, and she gave him helpless eyes.
Frederic shoved her away from him, and she shuddered. Charles would pay for that comment. Charles did not care as of yet. He suspected Frederic's character, but Clara had more than suspicion.
She had foreknowledge.
He turned to Charles. “Have a care, Mr. Pierce. Our interaction is none of your concern.” He spoke with quiet menace. He was showing restraint. Clara did not believe it. It was so unlike him.
Charles's hands were fisted. “If you were not Prince, I would beat you senseless.”
“Ah... but I am, am I not?” Prince Frederic said, a cruel smile sliding into place.
Charles's frustration was evident, his impotence clear. “Have you no honor? She is a woman, for Guardian's sake.”
“Yes, I am very aware, and she is soon to be mine.”
“She is not a possession... a thing to own!” Charles threw his hands up in the air.
Silence fell upon them. The only sound was of the steam sconces, their flickering flames along the chamber walls hissing their presence, and the timepiece on the wall, clicking the seconds as they passed into before.
Prince Frederic suddenly laughed, “I will let this interchange disappear. I can afford to be gracious with those beneath me. After all,” his gaze slid possessively over Clara, “soon, I will see to it that her eyes never behold you again.”
Stinging heat bit into Clara's eyes, and she knew they were tears burning for release.
“You cannot take away her companions.”
“You will not go away. You will simply be unwelcome in our kingdom.” Prince Frederic spread his palms away from his body.
Clara gasped. “We have not yet chosen where we may settle.” She felt her eyes brim and held them wide so those tears would not fall. Olive moved up beside her, clasping her hand.
Charles gave her an anguished look. He alone could intuit what near servitude it would be in this loveless match, the abuse she would suffer wi
th Frederic. Something unimagined but balancing on the chasm of her consciousness. Far worse than the Queen's drunken efforts.
Frederic gave a brilliant smile, tipping his hat at Clara and Olive, who stood stunned at his bizarre behavior then he gave a small bow to Charles.
Charles and Frederic stared at each other, one pale and one dark, evil encased in light.
Frederic walked out without a word, leaving the massive door ajar.
Clara glided over to her fainting couch and slowly lowered her body onto it. Silent tears glided down her face, partially covered by a curtain of hair. She watched dully as Olive, broom and receptacle in hand, gathered the fallen pearls that littered the floor like glittering tears.
A satin waistcoat appeared in her watery field of vision as Charles sat beside her. “Dearest Clara.” He placed a light hand at the base of her neck, wrapping it with long fingers that circled almost to the front of her throat. Such strength in that large hand, but what tenderness as he held her neck in his palm.
He pushed her head under his chin, and the sobs came, great, silent, hiccupping wails held quiet by habit. She could not get Frederic's wretched face out of her mind's eye. His smug patience, knowing it was a matter of time... a matter of when, not if.
She would not be powerless. Her father's teachings had not fallen on deaf ears. She had not built his empire to let it fall under by a Prince Frederic. Charles whispered sweet endearments into ears, stung by the night, a night that had been less celebration than survival.
“I cannot protect you... but somehow I must. He is dangerous. I fear he will hurt you.” Charles ran his thumb up and down her throat.
“Charles is correct. He is not a real Prince of his people, my lady. He wishes to marry for power, for the pearls. He wishes to be drunk like the Queen.” Olive lowered her voice to a whisper, tucking her voluminous skirts under her knees as she knelt before Clara. “Not by wine... by greed.”
She was so right. Dear Olive was absolutely right. They knew what was happening, but what to do with that knowledge?
“Refuse the crown,” Charles said suddenly.
Clara wiped her eyes and sat up straighter. “Whatever do you mean?”
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