by Audrey Grey
And we forgot we ever loved the light.
~ Baroness Lillian Lockhart
Chapter Twenty-One
Reformation Headquarters teems with people in androgynous white frocks, hundreds of them, each planted in front of a large screen with a number beside it. Although I don’t see earphones, it is obvious each watcher can hear the screen in front of them.
As I watch, the number from the screen closest to me increases from 3,043,506 to 3,043,507. These must be the screens used to follow the Sleeper numbers attached to each Chosen. I try to imagine what it is like to have a million human beings piggybacked onto my mind. Seeing what I see. Feeling what I feel.
Being me.
As if reading my mind, Cage takes my elbow, whispering into my ear, “No worries, kitten, anything not for their sneaky little ears will be automatically wiped.”
We’re introduced to our guide, Lady Worsley, a short, priggish woman dressed in a black, corseted walking suit. Her severe bun stretches her eyebrows into sharp black peaks. Flame peeks from beneath the brim of her hat, surreptitiously scanning our surroundings. This is the hub of the Royalists’ propaganda effort and the office for Minister of Defense, General Cornelius Bloodwood.
Making Flame the proverbial fox in the henhouse.
Flame’s cunning gaze darts along the walls before settling on a large screen taking up the entire center wall. It’s a map, peppered and streaked with tiny stars meant to represent Sleepers.
And there are still too many dark spots.
We pass through a collection of corridors and rooms to a waiting room of sorts. It takes me a minute to orient myself because the entire west wall is a deep green valley, shaded by tall, lush mountains. The ceiling, a big, beautiful upside down bowl of blue, erupts in birdsong. I can almost feel the breeze on my face.
It is a place meant to make you forget. They are good at that. Minimizing fear means minimizing panic, my mother once said. It also reminds me although this side of the mountain is a bastion of highly controlled technology outlawed from the rest of the empire, the Island on the other side follows the Reformation Act. After all, the court must set an example.
But the Shadow Trials? I highly doubt those will follow protocol. What fun would that be?
“Calming, isn’t it?” The soft voice comes from a Bronze girl sitting against the opposite wall. Ashy-blond hair falls in sumptuous waves over a vibrant pale-blue gown, crowned with a stiff daffodil-yellow silk cape and embroidered with tulle trimmed with soft rosettes. Her face is oval-shaped and slightly plump, with a natural rosy tint to her lips and cheeks and rich brown eyes made for smiling.
“We once had a sitting room that made it appear you were in the clouds, but don’t tell anyone.” Beckoning me over, she offers a slender, boneless hand. “I’m Lady Merida Pope, and this”—she nudges the boy beside her—“is Lord Rhydian Pope, my cousin.”
The boy looks remarkably like Merida, with a slimmer face and darker eyes, and he wears a similarly colored day suit. He nods coolly in my direction.
I squeeze her hand. “I’m Everly . . . Lady Everly March.”
Merida’s eyes flutter over my hair. “That color is aces on you. Is it reconstructed?”
“Of course not,” I snap, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Aesthetic reconstruction is forbidden.”
The girl laughs, her eyes sparkling. “Please, Lady March, join us.”
I do as instructed.
“My father said the only crime in Royalist territory was being poor. Everything else was just a matter of price.”
“Merida!” Rhydian scolds.
“What? It’s true!” Merida protests. “Besides, every courtier I know had multiple reconstructions by the time they were old enough to attend the Emerald balls on the Island.”
Rhydian’s gaze darts behind me. That’s when I notice the other finalist sitting near the back. I stare—perhaps longer than polite. She is not as I expected. Neat black pageboy hair. Midnight-black blazer and tapered men’s trousers over a broomstick frame. The yellow-and-black-checkered tie that hangs from her neck matches her polished, steel-toed Oxfords. Startling red lips pull everything together.
Rhydian squeezes Merida’s hand, gently. “Mer, such speech might have been tolerated at Coventry, but not here. Promise me you will not forget that.”
Merida casts a dubious glance at the lone girl in the back. “Lady Teagan doesn’t give two Fienian denaris for what I’m saying.” One hand cupping her mouth, she whispers conspiratorially to me, “She’s a Subversive. The House of Aster must have drained their entire mining fortune getting her here.”
I do a double take. Except for the haircut and her clothes, she looks rather normal—not at all like the weak, genetically corrupt creature the Royalists make Subversives out to be.
I first heard the word when I was six, right after I kissed another girl on the lips, the same way I had seen my mother kiss my father. It was innocent, a childish whim, but that didn’t stop the other children in the park from spitting that word at me as if it was the worst insult imaginable.
My mother explained the very unlucky few were born with a sickness, a disease, really, that made them unable to live harmoniously in society. Unable to have families. Raise children. Be productive.
Lady Teagan catches my gaze and smiles a slow, sharp grin. There is something refreshing about her, an unapologetic this-is-me-take-it-or-leave-it vibe.
I want to return the smile. Maybe introduce myself. Instead I press my lips together and look at the wall. I cannot afford to ally myself with someone who stands out, who doesn’t know how to play the game.
Rhydian sighs, dragging my attention back to the conversation. “Just, promise, Mer, you will guard your speech?”
“Promise,” Merida says, looking anything but contrite as she winks at me.
Merida is the opposite of Lady Teagan. Soft, playful, with a childish joy that is infectious. In my old life, we would have been immediate friends. We might have talked about boys and fashion, shared clothes and secrets.
Now, however, just like Lady Teagan, she is of little value and I resolve to keep my distance.
The taciturn Lady Worsley returns to retrieve our attendants and luggage, trailed by a furtive man with a dark, slippery mustache, thick sideburns, and a bowler hat.
“The Censor,” Merida whispers as the man quietly assesses Rhydian’s suit, a look of deep concentration on his face. The man digs around the pockets, searching for weapons. Whipping a slim wand from his pocket, he runs it quickly over Rhydian, checking for banned devices, I imagine.
Without a word, the Censor moves on to Merida and then me. He takes longer with my poor dress, but finally moves on to Riser, who crosses his arms and glares hostilely at the little man.
Teagan is last. The Censor stops just short of her, his round little eyes blinking, as if he has found something unexpected. A tiny frown upsets his otherwise indifferent expression. Teagan brazenly glances up at him, sending him scuttling away muttering under his breath.
I hand over the small satchel with my meager belongings to Brogue. Before he leaves, he leans into me. “Make no mistake, Lady March, your life is now in danger. The only thing more wicked than a courtier is a banished one. Good luck.”
“What are we waiting here for?” I say, more to Rhydian than Merida, who is busy helping her attendant gather their large retinue of trunks.
Although Rhydian has a tranquil, composed face, his eyes are lost. It’s a different kind of sad from Riser’s haunted look. The kind that can’t be reconstructed away. As if he’s peddling furiously just above the surface and might drown any second. “They are going to plug us into the system.”
Right. As soon as they do, we will be open to upload. My stomach churns at the thought. “Will it take long?”
“I don’t think so,” Merida says, now finished with her belongings. “They also check us for bootleg Microplants.”
Riser and I share a glance. We are about to find out if Flame knows her stuff. The thoug
ht doesn’t provide much in the way of comfort.
Merida gives Riser a wary once-over. “Do you know him?”
“Lord Riser Thornbrook,” I say, frowning. “We met on the rail.”
“From what estate does he hail?” Merida asks.
The Five Circles of Hell, I think darkly. “Sadly, I believe his family lost everything after their fall from court, even their lands.”
“A rather savage creature, isn’t he?”
Oh, you have no idea.
As if he knows we are discussing him, Riser directs his sharp gaze at us. Unused to such ill manners, both Merida and Rhydian smile uneasily and glance away. I glare at him.
He grins devilishly back.
Lady Teagan is first, followed shortly afterward by Lady Merida and then her cousin. We wait in silence. Ten minutes pass. Half an hour. I am about to stand when my name is called.
As soon as I step into the room I am immersed inside a rainforest. Giant rubbery green leaves rustle all around me. Diverse, overlapping sounds of birds, monkeys, and other animals make a soothing blanket of noise. The air is humid and smells of flowers and earth and rain. It’s an amazing experience, really, considering the last surviving rainforest disappeared nearly a millennium ago.
I lay on a metal table, on my side. A woman instructs me to close my eyes. It’s imperative I stay calm and still. There’s the smell of alcohol, the cold feel of something being rubbed on my neck. A faint pinch, a dull pressure at the base of my skull, and it’s done.
Next, I roll onto my back and the woman runs a small wand over me. It buzzes with a static sound, blue light pulsing from its tip. I blink as it hovers just over my eyes. There’s a faint, alarming beep.
The woman’s forehead wrinkles, and she leans forward. Obviously Flame messed up. My heartbeat, displayed on a screen, begins to rapid-fire. Just before the woman can take another swipe, the wand unexplainably dies.
“That’s never happened before,” she says. “But we don’t have time to fix it.” She flashes me a troubled smile and nods toward the back door. “You may feel a brief tingling with the first upload, but you’ll get used to it.”
I find Merida and Rhydian waiting in the next room, along with Teagan.
“Well, I guess you passed,” Merida says, breaking into a congratulatory smile. She presses her fingers into the crook of my elbow. “I’m glad.”
Rhydian is not so cordial. He knows what I know. We are not friends. Quite the contrary. But he’s pleasant, at least, offering his congratulations with a tight-lipped smile and making polite but disinterested inquiries into my health and life. When it becomes clear by my guarded answers I’m not into pleasantries either, he seems relieved, retreating happily into a corner.
A different woman shows up with a clipboard. “Lady Teagan Aster III, please come with me.”
Already expecting it, Lady Teagan has stepped forward, a whole foot taller than the woman.
“Let me guess,” Teagan says, her voice more weary than ill-tempered, “my livery has offended thee?”
The woman presses her thin lips together, her face puckering as if she smells something rancid. “Subversive, your entire personage offends.”
“Right,” Teagan says. The way her face remains calm and detached tells me she’s used to this type of treatment. As I watch them disappear into another room, I find myself inexorably rooting for her.
Riser enters just as Lady Worsley comes to collect us. Her wooden-heeled shoes clap against the tile floor. As she leads us away, Merida turns to me, lifts her ashy-blond eyebrows, and somehow perfectly mimics her warped face. The act is so juvenile and unexpected I burst out laughing. Merida laughs too, a small hand clapping over her mouth to hide it.
Riser turns just enough so his one blue eye is visible. A warning. Keep on task. Don’t make friends. He’s right, so I lose my smile and follow the rest of the way in silence.
We literally run to keep up with Stern-Face. Despite her short legs, she manages a very brisk pace, and before I can orient myself, we are climbing the steps to the roof door.
When we get to the roof, a pleasant wind rolls over me, tearing at my jacket and hair. The sun sits low and fat on the horizon.
As we walk to the craft, I peer across the valley. There’s a small pass between the mountains, a thirty-foot-high barbed wire fence making it impenetrable. Writhing masses of people swell the pass like a river. The fence must be electrified because orange sparks burst from the fence whenever the crowd pushes too close. Other than a few sharp screams, their cries make a muffled din.
My eye catches on something darting down the road that leads to the gate—a wagon full of people.
Merida rifles through her patent leather satchel and hands me gold-plaited binoculars. “They say the Emperor sees rebels and Fienian Sympathizers in every corner. Each time they return from the space station, more courtiers are thrown to the wolves across the fence.”
The people in my lens come into focus. By their dress, I’d say they’re Silvers. Two Centurions march them, shackled, to the gate. It yawns open just enough for them to be forced through and then slams closed.
“Watch what will happen to those who don’t make the Culling,” Merida whispers.
I know what will happen, but I cannot look away. They disappear beneath the angry mob, their screams masked by the loud buzzing of the fence. Sparks burst wildly and then all goes quiet.
As I hand back the binoculars, I feel a renewed urgency to find the thing my father hid and win.
Whatever it takes.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The cloudcraft makes a light whirring noise. We pile in and find our safety belts. I have to admit, given my and Riser’s history together in high spaces, I try very hard not to look at the ground as we clear the roof and arc over the valley. It doesn’t help that the cloudcraft’s walls and floor are completely clear, as if we are floating inside a bubble. The walls are really screens, projecting images. That doesn’t make it any less daunting, though.
Surreal. That’s the word dancing on the tip of my tongue. Looking out, seeing miles of green pasture, steely-gray mountains, open air and unbroken sky, it’s like I am in another world. I can’t remember the last time I saw anything but carnage and ugly.
Right before we arc over the mountains, my stomach hollows and there’s this lighter than air feeling. I think for a second I might hurl, but then we stabilize.
The top of the mountain becomes empty space. Blue sky and rolling clouds. The massive lake that ensconces the Island unfurls beneath my fingertips, a silken fabric of greenish-blue, tossing little gems of sunlight off its surface. We drop low. Lower. My body tenses with the imagined impact. But at the last second we stabilize, barely missing the white gulls gliding low over the water.
Dense green woodland haloes the shore, fringed with the yellow-brown of the marshlands. Penumbria Forest. My body becomes heavy as we lift above the trees and glide for what seems like miles. The verdant, leafy rug disappears, and we cross a meadow, the cloudcraft’s shadow startling a group of white-chested stag.
Nestled deep within the distant rolling hills, and carved from the mountainside, a bone-white monstrosity shimmers beneath the sun. Laevus Court Palace.
My eyes pick through everything. The Mercurian hides in one of those forests, one of those rooms of stone. Really, it could be anywhere. And how am I supposed to find it? Even if I knew where to look, the castle and grounds will be teeming with suspicious Centurions and courtiers. And how am I supposed to concentrate on finding it when all my focus needs to be on surviving the Culling and the trials?
A shadow spills over the craft. HighClare Tower sprouts to our right, taller than seems possible, its pale stones dark with moss, the enormous black flag that flaps from its crown bearing the Emperor’s clawed phoenix.
Merida follows the tower with her eyes. “I was rather hoping they had torn it down,” she says softly, to no one in particular. She turns to me. “Have you been to court before, Lady March
?”
“Yes, when I was . . .” Nine. “A baby,” I finish, clearing my throat. “But I don’t remember anything about it, obviously.”
Merida traces the top of the dwindling tower with her fingertip. “I was six and Rhydian was seven when we were banished. I watched my Uncle, Rhydian’s father, hang from that spot right there, along with five others from House Pope.”
Rhydian looks up for the first time since we entered the craft. “My father was a conspirator and Fienian Sympathizer, so he received a traitor’s death.”
No one says a word after that. There’s a small bump as the craft settles in the middle of the cobblestone courtyard, next to the Deliverance Day Fountain, an impressive monument of marble, carved into the giant form of Emperor Laevus surrounded by one hundred creepy marble children.
When I was six, they began broadcasting the D-Day fountain’s progress over the rift screens. It took over three years and countless Bronzes to build it. Every hour on the hour water spurts from the children’s cupped hands, to count down the days until D-Day. Beneath it, basking in the fountain’s spray, are flotillas bobbing with couples feeding the swans under frilly parasols.
There’s a low hiss as the sides of the craft lift. Sundrenched air and the heady, sticky-sweet aroma of roses and warm grass fill the craft. My brain swims with the sounds of clattering hooves from a nearby carriage and swans trumpeting. My body, by now used to the gentle rocking of the craft, needs a second to adjust to the ground.
Merida and Rhydian exit first. I stare nervously out at the vibrant world that awaits. Is my mother here? Or is she above, passing her days on Hyperion? Of course she is. Relief eases the tension in my shoulders. I won’t have to see her yet.
Real or imagined, I feel a slight touch against my pinky finger, as if Riser, for the briefest of moments, is practicing the all too human gesture of reassurance.
Riser leaps out and turns to offer me his hand. “My Lady.”
His hand is warm and strong and surprisingly comforting, and he squeezes gently, perhaps lingering for a moment too long. But beneath the manners, his voice is cold. It’s obvious our last conversation on the rail has changed our friendship.
