by Kody Boye
The War Outside
The Beautiful Ones, Book 2
Kody Boye
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
About the Author
Other YA Novels by Kody boye
The War Outside
The Beautiful Ones, #2
By Kody Boye
Copyright © 2019. All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by KDS Cover Concepts
Edited by Holly-Ann Kasprzak
Formatting by Kody Boye
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical articles and reviews or works within the public domain.
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is coincidental.
One
Flashes of imagery assault me.
The Procession—
The train—
My arrival to the Glittering City—
Standing there, in that small room—
Watching, waiting, being told everything that would occur thereafter—
Then, Daniel: our meeting, our kiss, our wedding.
Wedding.
A bomb explodes in my conscience, and for a moment, I see smoke, feel blood running down my arms.
Then, just like that, I remember.
I am not in the midst of chaos.
No.
I am in my room, standing before one of the most powerful women in the whole country, and awaiting her sentence to the words I have just spoken.
I try not to tremble in what is undoubtedly the face of adversity, but find myself doing so anyway.
“You,” the woman begins, “think you would like to dedicate yourself to the war?”
“Yes ma’am,” I say. “I do.”
“That is quite a statement for someone who has been told that they are not allowed to interfere within political matters.”
“This isn’t political,” I reply, fully intent on standing my ground. “I don’t wish to sway a nation, and I don’t want to influence any aspect of the battle on either side.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “No,” I state. “If anything… I want to help.”
The First Lady lifts a brow, obviously unsure about what I have just said. “If you do not wish to sway the war, or offer influence, what is it you wish to do?”
I can’t be sure. I don’t know what purpose I would serve upon the battlefield as a mere girl of sixteen. I don’t know how to use a gun, so I can’t fight; and even if I wanted to, I’m sure they wouldn’t let me. I’m a commodity now—a walking treasure worth her weight in gold. Because of that, I can only think of one thing that I might do, and that is something I feel is dangerous unto itself.
So, with seemingly the weight of the world on my heart and shoulders, I straighten my posture and say, “I wish to raise morale.”
“And just how do you propose to do that?”
“I’m… not sure,” I reply, feeling once again the tug of emotions at my chest, the flicker of doubt upon my ribcage. “I’m… still trying to piece it all together.”
“You do not sound confident in your choice.”
“I am very confident, ma’am. Believe me.”
“That’s the thing, Mrs. Cross. I’m not sure I do believe you.”
“Why?”
“Because what reason would you have to want to raise morale? Or to even dedicate your Purpose to the war?”
“Because my father is out there.”
The First Lady merely stares at me—wide-eyed, mouth agape. When she catches her action, she lifts her hand to her chin and says, “I see” without much compassion within her voice. “It is easy to forget that you were once outside these walls.”
How? I wonder. How is it simply so easy to forget that people—that Beautiful Ones—are taken from beyond the walls of the Glittering City? To think it is outrageous enough, but to hear someone say it? It’s utterly offensive.
To keep myself from offering a biting comment in response, I tighten my jaw together and simply wait for her response, all the while knowing that, regardless of how I feel about the First Lady, it will be she who will bring my Designated Purpose to the attention of the Countess.
“You are aware,” the First Lady begins, “that your Designated Purpose will have to be undergo a review by committee.”
“Who would that be?” I ask.
“For one, the Countess would have to offer her blessing. For two, the Commandant would have to allow it. And finally: a judge would have to review a statement from you to validate the legality of it. You would be interjecting yourself within a tense conflict. There is no telling what benefits or repercussions it could have.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” The First Lady considers the electronic tablet upon which she has written and scribes an additional note before returning it to her pocket. She then says, “I would not get your hopes up about your Designated Purpose, Mrs. Cross. This venture may not even reach it past the Countess, let alone the Commandant or a judge. You are still newly-wed, and a woman without child. The only reason we are offering you the chance to choose your purpose now is because of your worth in our city. Because of that, I would advise that you begin to think of alternatives in the event that your request is denied.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No,” I say, wanting the woman to be gone more than anything. “There isn’t.”
The smile she offers is false—like platitudes given to a child when their wish will not truly be granted—and the slight nod of her head is even worse.
As she turns to make her way toward, then lets herself out the door, I find myself seething on the inside.
I have never liked the First Lady. I don’t believe I am necessarily supposed to. But the fact is: she dismissed my entire past with little more than a wave of her hand, as if it were dust floating in the wind.
My mother, my father, my village, my community, everything that has allowed me to become the person I am today—all were pushed aside like they were nothing.
The moment the door shuts behind her, I sigh, and will the tension to pool from my lungs like flames would from a dragon’s breath.
The knowledge that I have just exposed myself to the forces that be immediately sets me on edge. But with nothing to do, and no way to speed the process or the answer to my request along, I know that I am meant to suffer these cruel emotions, no matter how long they are meant to last.
Because of that, I decide to do what I feel will be the most appropriate thing.
Given that I am now a housewife, and am meant to act as one, I come to the conclusion that it will be in my best interests to learn how to be as domestic as possible. As such, I turn to face the bookcase that stands near the door and examine the items upon it. From volumes on cooking, to manuals on cleaning, to handbooks on sewing, washing clothes, and more, I scrutinize the bindings—or, mo
re appropriately: the foundations my future will be built upon—before pulling and carrying the manuscripts to the couch, fully intent on gleaning the necessary information from them.
At first, I leisurely work my way through the manuals and volumes—believing, in a manner of speaking, that this is what I should do, and am required to do as a Beautiful One of the Glittering City.
Shortly thereafter, I realize how foolish that is, and move to set one of the many books I’ve pilfered from the shelves down.
It seems, I start to think, then stop myself before I can finish.
I want to say that these actions are below me—that these chores, as simple and pedestrian as they happen to be, are not what I wish to dedicate my life to. Shortly thereafter, the foolishness of that thought strikes me—not because of its intent, but because of the meaning behind it.
I am not feeling this way because I don’t want to cook or clean. I am feeling this way because I feel I am too privileged to do so.
The thought is haunting, the prospect so damning that at first I don’t even want to believe it.
To think that I have become so self-centered in such a short amount of time is almost impossible to fathom.
No.
I shake my head.
I am not self-centered. I am not above this, nor am I in any way, shape or form, better than anyone who may be required to do these chores either for me or themselves. To think that is to reduce everyone who lives outside the Glittering City to mere peasants.
Though some may believe otherwise, I am not better than anyone else, especially not someone like my mother.
My mother—
I sigh as I consider what all—and, unfortunately, what little—she taught me to prepare for these days.
Always remain kind, considerate, and courteous, she always said, but never expected me to lift a hand while cooking, less I mar or scar my skin.
I want to believe that all her instruction was for the better—that, because of her coddling, I am in the position I am today. Regardless, I can’t help but feel a resentment toward her. I know so little, and can do so little as a result.
What would my father think if he saw me now? Would he be proud of the woman I have become? Or would he be disappointed?
As I attempt to push these feelings of inadequacy behind me, I lift my head to face the timepiece that rests on the wall beside the door and try to determine when Daniel will return from his errand.
He’s only been gone for a short amount of time. Perhaps he will return sooner rather than—
The sound of a key entering the lock enters my ears.
I am just about to rise when he comes around the corner—and looks upon me with a befuddled expression. “Hel… lo,” he says.
“Hello,” I reply, frowning at the way he’s allowed his word to trail off.
“You’re covered in books.”
“That’s obvious,” I say, then laugh as I look him up and down. He’d gone downstairs in his undershirt and denim pants, which leads me to believe he was not necessarily concerned about being spotted.
“Why are you reading?”
“Am I not supposed to?” I frown.
“No. It’s not that. It’s just…” He lifts one of the volumes from my side. “A Woman’s Guide to the Art of Cooking.”
I can’t help but blush.
Daniel lifts his eyes to face me and says, “You don’t know how to cook?”
“I… I don’t. I mean, I—”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Kelendra.”
“It’s just…” I sigh, and take a deep breath to reclaim what I’ve lost. “My mother, she… believed it to be too dangerous for me. For my skin. My future. She wouldn’t even let me help her prepare food, let alone cook it.”
“I see.” Daniel lowers the book back to the couch, and in doing so, falls to a knee to face me. “Why are you ashamed?”
“It’s that easy to see?” I ask.
He nods.
“I’m… ashamed because I know so little,” I say. “Because I know I’m not up to the standards that most of the girls here might be.”
“Who’s to say that they know how to cook? That their mothers didn’t shelter them as yours did you?”
“I… I don’t—” I purse my lips and expel yet another breath through my nostrils. “I suppose you’re right,” I then say. “I shouldn’t be judging myself.”
“No. You shouldn’t.” Daniel takes hold of my hands. “Besides,” he then adds. “Anything you can’t learn on your own my mother will surely teach you.”
“Is that who you went to call? Your mother?”
“No, actually. I had to call my employer to let them know what the situation was, and why I wouldn’t be coming in today.”
“Would the Revered Mother really keep you here that long? Considering how important your job is and all?”
“I don’t know. I mean, there’s other engineers—better engineers, I should say—so it’s not like I’ll really be missed when it comes down to it. Besides—it’s not like I could sneak out if I tried. The SADs stopped me as soon as I left the room.”
“So they’re out there?” I ask, lifting my head to look toward the doorway. “Right now?”
Daniel nods. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s bad enough knowing they’re out there. But to actually be surrounded by them? That’s something else.”
“I understand.”
“You would,” he smiles. “You’re practically a celebrity.”
“So are you,” I offer.
“Yeah, now that I’m married to you.”
The laugh he offers should make me smile. Unfortunately, it does little to discourage the feelings that I am still experiencing from my meeting with Lady Rosanna.
“Are you all right?” Daniel asks after his laugh fades away. “You’re quiet.”
“Am I not supposed to be?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. But I do feel like something’s wrong.”
“Not wrong exactly,” I say, then lower my eyes.
Daniel taps the underside of my chin with his index finger. I automatically lift my head in response. “What happened?” he asks. “Did someone come here before me?”
I nod.
“Who?” he asks.
“First Lady Rosanna.”
“You talked to the First Lady of the Glittering City?” Daniel asks. “What did she want?”
“Mostly to see how I was. I summoned for Mother Terra, but she was… indisposed.”
“So the First Lady came instead?”
“Yes.”
“That’s odd,” Daniel says. “From what I understand, the First Ladies don’t make house visits. Unless…” His eyes darken. “You designated your purpose. Didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I say.
“And? What was it?”
I don’t want to tell him. A part of me fears his reaction, another the truth spoken from my own lips. But I know I can’t lie, and for that reason, clear my throat and say, “The war.”
He blinks. “The war?” he then asks. “What are you—”
“I want to raise morale,” I offer.
“How?”
“In whatever way I can.”
“Kel—” he starts.
“Please don’t judge me. I’ve already gone through enough as it is.”
“Why the war, though? Is it because of what happened at our wedding? Or because of your father?”
“Yes.”
“Which is it?”
“I… I don’t…”
There is nothing for me to say, nothing for me to do, no real way I should act. Because of that insecurity, and due to those doubts, I bow my head, and find tears developing in the corners of my eyes in the process.
Sighing, Daniel leans forward to wrap his hands around my arms, and says, “Kelendra?”
“Yes?” I ask, lifting my eyes to face him.
“While I don’t claim to understand how you feel, I can imagine how
it must be for you—feeling lost, without purpose, trying your hardest to make a difference in the world.”
“How—”
“I thought I’d never be of worth,” he interjects. “Most of my peers are politicians now, fighting over who’s right and who’s wrong, who gets to say this and who gets to do that. I grew up with a bunch of high-brow elites who thought they were better than everyone else.”
“They can’t be smarter than you,” I say.
“Not book-smart, maybe. People smart, on the other hand?” He laughs. “They’re like snakes in a garden, just waiting to lash out at the unsuspecting. That’s why I’m so worried about you. If you decide to go through with this—and if you do get involved in the war—then… I don’t know how I’ll protect you.”
“So this isn’t even about me. It’s about you.”
He blinks, stunned. Realization dawns on his face; and after a moment of consideration, Daniel sighs and says, “Yeah. I… I think it is.”
I consider the books spread out around me, if only to keep my gaze from centering fully on him. He’s obviously troubled now that he’s been caught using his emotions to try and influence me, but he isn’t reacting like I thought he would. Men, my mother once said, are not good at being told they’re wrong. Daniel, on the other hand… he seems to be accepting it rather well. At least he hasn’t tried to argue with me.
Yet.
Fact of the matter is: he still has his chance to dig his heels in—to let loose the dogs of emotional war and try to keep me from doing what I truly want to. Guilt is an emotion easily harnessed, and once ensnared, it’s easy for the victim to fall prey to another’s whims.
With a shake of my head, I stand and begin to collect the books from around me.
“What’re you doing?” Daniel asks, stepping aside as I move toward the bookshelf.
“Putting these up,” I say. “I need notes. Records. Something that will let me understand how and why this thing started.”
