Displaced (The Birthright Series Book 1)

by Bridget E. Baker

  I wish I’d come straight to her room and told her the truth. Why didn’t I trust her to fix everything? Mom always fixes everything.

  When the tears let up enough for me to form any kind of words, I hiccup, “I can’t. I can’t do it, Mom.”

  Her hands stroke my hair. “I know you can’t.”

  Wait, what? I straighten. “Huh?”

  “You won’t kill your friend, but everyone needs to believe you have.”

  5

  Her words are a single ray of sunlight after a terrible storm. Broken branches, downed trees, rubble and shattered glass, but I cling to the one isolated beam of hope.

  “What?” My voice cracks on that one word.

  “It’s the only way I could think to spare her life. She’ll go into intelligence like she wanted. I couldn’t spare her mother. She had to die publicly, or no one would ever believe we executed them both.” Mom presses a kiss to my forehead. “I couldn’t tell you, little dove. You’d have given it away. I thought about not telling you at all, not yet. People need to believe she’s gone, and you have no experience with dissembling. But I couldn’t let you believe she was dead, not when it was killing you in front of my eyes.” Mom’s voice drops to a whisper. “Not when you’d hate me for it.”

  I shake my head and wrap my arms around her waist. “I could never hate you.”

  “I am so sorry about how this has all transpired, but if you do exactly as I say, we can sneak her off to join my network.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I beg. “I’ll do anything, say anything.”

  “Lark will struggle,” Mom says.

  “I’ll do anything she needs. I’ll give her anything she wants.”

  Mom shakes her head. “You can’t do anything. As much as she needs help, as much as she’s hurting, this is her trial by fire. And you need to know, Chancy, that it may consume her. Some people emerge from their life trials cleansed of impurities, and some people burn to ash. When we help her escape, we’ve done everything we can for her. She’ll make it, or she’ll give up, and whatever the outcome, it’s not your fault.”

  I think of how I’d react if my mom died and I shudder. “I’d burn.”

  Mom strokes my hair. “You never know your own mettle until you’re tested, but I hope that’s decades into the future at least.”

  I can’t even contemplate my mom dying. She may be merciless, she may be fierce, she may even be cruel sometimes, but never to me. And she’s the best ruler Alamecha’s ever had. I’m so glad she’s still strong and healthy.

  “Now, we’d better actually try on a few gowns so I won’t have to attend my party naked.”

  “That would make quite a splash,” I say. “People might stop talking about Lyssa and Lark.” I choke up just saying their names aloud.

  “That’s a noble goal, but even that won’t wipe this slate clean.” Mom holds me for a few moments before standing up and crossing the room toward her vast walk-in closet. She turns the corner and disappears from my view, even the sound of her heartbeat fading to non-existence.

  I know we can’t cancel her party. I know that the rest of the world doesn’t care what punishments Mom doles out to her friends. I know that Mom can’t spare the time to sit in her room and sob, or call off her nine-hundredth birthday party.

  But I still think she should.

  Life can’t just march on after something like this. You can’t shake it off and pretend you didn’t just execute your oldest friend.

  When Mom emerges a moment later in a tight-fitting ivory gown with pink and gold trim that matches the décor of her room, I know I’m expected to give her feedback, but I keep seeing the replay in my mind: Mom’s sword connecting with Lyssa’s neck.

  I close my eyes.

  Mom raises her eyebrows. “Is it that bad?”

  I swallow. “No, it’s fine.”

  “So I should wear this tomorrow?”

  I inhale deeply through my nose. Who cares what she wears? Lyssa will be wearing a funeral shroud. “Um, if you want.”

  “You’re supposed to be helping me choose.”

  If Mom hadn’t killed her, Lyssa could offer her input too. A flare of anger consumes me, and I bite my lip. Mom was protecting me. Because I’m such a weak mess that I need protection. She did what she had to, in spite of the pain it surely caused her. “You look stunning in that,” I say, “but you wore it two years ago.”

  She frowns. “I wore the black Versace two years ago. I may be old, but I’m hardly senile.”

  “You wore the black Versace to your party two years back. But you wore that Vera Wang to Nastasia’s birthday two years and two months ago.”

  My mom tsks. “You’re right. Why’s it still in my closet?” She pivots and walks back inside. I hear her slide the gown down her body and toss it out onto the bedroom floor. I hop off the bench to snatch it up and walk across her room to the door that connects to my bedroom, Cookie Crisp on my heels. I throw it onto my bed, a miniature of my mom’s bed right down to the coloring of the silk duvet, and walk back, confusing Cookie. I’ve only been able to fit into Mom’s hand-me-downs for a year, but I love every one I’ve snagged.

  This time I flop backward on her enormous gold gilt bed to wait. I sink into the thickly embroidered duvet and try not to think about Lark, or Judica or Lyssa. I wish I could run an eraser over my brain so my heart would stop aching.

  “Maybe I could help Lark,” I say. “If you let me go to New York to live with Alora, I’d even be close to her. But I’ll need my own network at some point. Why not let Lark be my first operative? It might give her purpose, and I can be close to support her when she struggles.”

  “You can’t do anything out of the ordinary right now. Nothing that will draw attention.” Mom’s voice is muffled from inside the closet. “Besides. Running away from Judica won’t make anything better. Seven hundred years ago, Lenamecha gave birth to twin daughters, Senah and Denah. She thought it would be fine. It wasn’t.”

  I roll my eyes. “I know, Mom. Her death sparked the Hundred Years’ War, and that’s why the next two empresses with twin daughters both killed one immediately.”

  “The older girl always dies, but when I saw you, I couldn’t do it.” She pauses silently just inside the closet, and then steps out slowly, her dress rustling with every step as she makes her entrance. I guess after nine centuries of formal events, you develop quite a flair for the dramatic. Even without staging, the green silk ball gown with pink embroidery would be stunning. “What do you think?”

  I look her over as I ponder her question. Her curly, light brown hair is swept up into an elegant twist with no traces of gray. Her nearly indigo eyes sparkle with life. Crow’s feet, small wrinkles by each eye, are the only real sign that she has aged at all.

  “You look great, Mom,” I say. “You could easily still pass for six or seven hundred.”

  The lines around her eyes relax. It’s nice to talk about normal things. Until I remember what happened today and I think about Lark, shivering in a cell, waiting for me to kill her. And the fact that she’ll never see her mom again. And then I think about Lyssa, her hand on my shoulder, her light, airy laugh. A sound no one will ever hear again.

  Mom clears her throat. “This one’s bad too?”

  “I don’t know about that dress,” I finally say. “And if I’m being honest, this isn’t very fun, what with Lark waiting for me to behead her down below.” I drop my voice to a whisper. “And knowing Lyssa’s gone.”

  Mom sighs and sinks onto the bench. “I know.” She closes her eyes. “As soon as everyone has turned in for the night, we’ll go down and dismiss the guards. I’ll arrange for transport off the island shortly, and we’ll incinerate a goat in her place. This isn’t my first false execution, little dove. Lark will survive this, and right now, there’s nothing in her cell she could use to do herself harm. She’s physically as safe as she can be.”

  “Wait, you’ve done this before?” I thought I knew Mom so well. I’m beginning to wo
nder whether I know her at all. She’s really trying hard to protect me, and Lark. I need to do my part. I force myself to study her dress.

  “It’s awful for me too, you know, choosing something to wear to a celebration moments after losing my dearest friend.” Mom folds her hands in her lap. “But I have to pick something, and my gown sends a message. Everyone will have either witnessed or heard about what happened today. I can’t wear something that hides it, nor do I want killing my friend to be the focus of the evening.”

  The green gown swirls around her, hugging every curve, and fans out below her waist to a skirt that cascades in full swaths down to the carpet around her feet. While her figure looks amazing and the dress is to die for, the color isn’t the most flattering for her eye color and complexion, and emerald green feels... disconnected.

  “Are you planning to change your eyes or darken your skin tone for the party?”

  She grimaces. “I’m not. Not all of us can do that as easily as you, and it’s become even harder for me in the past few years.”

  I ignore her comment about things becoming harder. Mom’s not old. “Then what about the burgundy ball gown with the silver brocade? The Marchesa.” I slide down to the floor where Cookie’s curled into a fluffy ball and rub her back. “Because that color is almost...”

  “Like dried blood.”

  I nod. “You’d be addressing it without saying a word. Telling them you know what they’re thinking and you’re not afraid of it.”

  Mom frowns.

  “You didn’t like it though, right?” I rub Cookie’s tummy and my mom’s dog, Duchess, whines, so I rub her ears with my other hand.

  “It caught on my ring at the final fitting, and I worried a pull would destroy the delicate overlay. Last week Edward fixed the loose prong on my ring, and I realized that might have been the problem, not the dress. Just in case though...” Mom tugs and tugs on the ring she wears on her right middle finger. It finally slides off and she sets it on her nightstand.

  I gape. In almost eighteen years, I’ve never seen the ring off of her finger. I recall Edward complaining as he repaired the prong while it stayed in place. Mom suffered through moderately severe burns in the process, but they didn’t even discuss the possibility of her removing it.

  Mom tsks at me. “Don’t be so melodramatic. I’ve taken it off before, I just don’t do it often, and only in front of direct family.”

  “When? When have you ever taken it off?”

  She shrugs. “Plenty of times, but usually when no one else is around to see.”

  I stare at the ring. “Is it...?” I look up at my mom and then back down at the ring. The rainbow sparkle in the stone fades, and the stone darkens to a solid black.

  “It’s fine.” She looks at me fondly. “Everyone knows staridium sparkles when it’s in contact with someone with pure DNA, but very few people know it turns pitch black when it isn’t.”

  My mouth hangs open and I close it with a snap. “Is it magic?” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.

  Mom raises one eyebrow. “You know better than to ask me that. Humans are quick to label things magic, but really, they just don’t grasp how it operates. Staridium is the only stone of its kind, but it’s not magical.”

  When Mom walks back into her closet, my eyes go to the portraits hanging on either side of her closet door. One of Judica, one of me. The photo of my twin was taken last year during one of her training sessions. She’s holding a broadsword, her muscles straining, and she’s bringing it up and over her shoulder. The photographer captured her perfectly, her face so determined that it’s practically feral. Her hair is pulled back tightly, but a few stray strands stick to the sweat on her brow. Instead of looking unkempt, it looks fierce, like she’s been honed to as sharp an edge as her blade.

  My portrait hangs on the other side of the door. I’m sitting cross-legged in my favorite pair of jeans, barefoot in the shade of the huge banyan tree in Mom’s private courtyard. I’m hunched over a good book, so enthralled I didn’t realize the photographer was even there. My hair’s down, loose curls obscuring part of my face and eyes, almost covering the high cheekbones, square jaw, and aquiline nose Judica and I share. Mom chose photographs of each of us doing something we love, but it doesn’t paint a very flattering picture that I love to sit around indulging fantasies while Judica could hack the entire cast of Game of Thrones into bitesize bits.

  If you asked a hundred of my mom’s subjects which twin was born to rule based on these photographs, every single one of them would pick Judica.

  Including me.

  I hear rustling inside the closet as Mom changes gowns. I stand up to get a better look at the black stone in my mom’s ring. As I bend over it, I realize this is my chance. I’ll never be queen and I’ll never wear my mom’s ring by right, but a desperate desire grips me to watch it change from deepest black to a sparkling rainbow of colors on my finger. I want visual evidence that my blood is as pure as Judica’s, even if we don’t share any talents or even similar temperaments. I reach for it greedily.

  “Chancery?”

  My hand freezes and blood rushes to my face. Even worse, I know Mom senses my elevated heartbeat. “Yeah?”

  “What are you doing?”

  How’d she change clothes so fast? Her heart pounds steadily one step behind me. I yank my hand back and look up at her guiltily.

  Maybe some well-deserved flattery will distract her. Because if the last dress was beautiful, this one is breathtaking. “Oh, Mom, you have to wear that. Georgina and Keren outdid themselves.”

  She lightly touches the overlay on the gown. “You may be right.”

  My heart sinks when she reaches around me to pick up her ring. She holds it in her hand for a moment and then extends it toward me, the metal band clasped between her thumb and forefinger. The simple platinum band shines dully, encasing a black rock that looks flat and unappealing.

  This time it’s my turn to ask, “What are you doing?”

  “Go ahead and try it on,” she says. “It’s been an awful day, and I’d like to see it on you. I’ve only seen it on one other person’s finger in my lifetime, and that was many, many years ago.” She looks sad.

  “Your mom,” I guess.

  She nods. Since the youngest daughter inherits the throne, a new empress rarely has a chance to know her mother for very long. Mom was only 27 years old when her own mother died. It must have been hard for her to rule alone at such an early age.

  “Go ahead, little dove.” She waves it in my face.

  “Are you second guessing your decision to make Judica Heir?” I joke.

  “I’m not changing my mind.” Mom smiles to soften her words. “But I’ve come to realize how much Judica needs you. And one day, when I die, you’ll be her Heir. Don’t let titles determine your value.”

  “Mom.” I roll my eyes. “Judica will probably pick a Consort five minutes after she’s crowned and then have a child each year until she births a daughter.”

  Mom shakes her head. “Crass.”

  “I won’t be her heir for very long, okay? That’s my point.” I sit down, the ring forgotten. “Judica hates me, so whether she needs help from me or not, she’d never accept it.”

  “That’s a conversation for another day when we have more time.” My mom takes my hand gently and places the ring in it. “Try it on. No one else will ever know.”

  The ring is colder and heavier than I expected. Much heavier. I slide it on my right middle finger and look down at the stone. I always assumed it was carved carefully, like a diamond or other precious gem, to refract the light.

  It’s not.

  It’s jagged and uneven, and the rock is set so that the base of the stone rests on the back of my finger. It’s the size of a large grape and even though the cold base is touching my skin, the staridium remains black. Black as pitch. Black as sin. Black as death.

  My stomach sours.

  Why isn’t it lighting up? Where are the colors sparkl
ing across it to prove that I’ve got pure DNA? I look up at my mom, whose face is riveted to the rock in a way that is not reassuring. Even after a full five seconds, the stone is still utterly dark. Even if I’m not the Heir, it should respond to me, right? I mean, Mom’s only six generations removed from Eve, which makes me seventh generation. Plenty of other empresses are seventh generation, and their stones sparkle on their hands right now.

  A horrible thought grips me. What if our line somehow suffered a major deletion, generations early? We all know it’s inevitable. One day even our DNA, perfect, royal, evian DNA, will falter.

  Suddenly I’m angry. I may not be as vicious as Judica, and I may not be my mother’s Heir, but I’m not damaged. I’m as good as Judica. I glance up at the portraits. Looking at them, it finally hits me. I’m not as good as she is. Maybe I really am deficient. We may be twins, we may even look identical, but perhaps there’s something wrong with me.

  I want to read instead of fight, and I love baby animals. I’ve always binged on human television, books and movies. I’m not good enough, not strong enough, and I’m not fierce enough. I’m glaring at Judica’s portrait, about to yank the cursed ring off my finger, and I’m fighting the urge to hurl it to the ground, when I feel something. Something strange.

  There’s a pressure inside my head, like my ears need to pop, like there will be a spark the next time I touch something. I smell ozone. And then a second later, like a lightning strike, like an explosion, like fireworks on the Fourth of July, the rock flashes. The room is bright with a blinding light, like the force of the sun for a single instant before my vision goes dark and a flash of heat explodes outward from where I’m standing.

  I blink several times while my retinas heal and realize that all the lights in Mom’s room have gone out. If sunlight wasn’t shining through the stained glass in her big bay windows, the only light in the room would come from the ongoing pulses of bright, angry light emanating from the stone on my finger. Well, that and the flames currently licking up the side of Judica’s portrait.