“What in the—”
She signals Duchess to stay, and says, “Let’s go.”
I rush after her, nearly bumping into her backside before she begins to jog downward. I shudder when the bookcase slides shut behind us, closing off the last of the light from Mom’s bedroom. Now the corridor is completely black. I follow my mother’s heartbeat, its steady, slow buh-bump reassuring in the complete darkness. It’s so quiet down here that I can make out the heartbeat of some tiny animal, like a bird, or ugh. I shudder. Maybe a mouse or a rat. It’s beating much quicker than Mom’s heartbeat, and very near.
I speed up, and stumble over a rock. It’s bad timing, because Mom stops short. I bump into the back of her, and she takes my hand and places it on a rod next to me. She’s been walking along with the guidance of a handrail, and I move much easier with that in my grip, even if I still feel like I can hear the mouse.
“There are normally low lights, but that EMP you set off killed them all. Move quietly, or the guards will hear. We need to wait until Frederick takes over for them. He’s going to be the witness for the execution.”
“You’re the Empress,” I whisper. “Why is all the secrecy necessary? Why not just free Lark? She had nothing to do with her mother keeping her here, and you certainly already punished Lyssa.”
“You’ll learn someday that what you can do and what you should do aren’t always the same. I know in my heart I should force you to execute your friend, but I also know what that would do to you and to us. I’m not willing to face it. But if my people see me as lenient, well, I can’t have that, either. Sometimes it’s more judicious to fly under the radar. Empresses always have so many options open that it’s often hard to choose. But after a few centuries, it’s easier to know.”
Mom stops in front of me, and there’s just enough light that I can see her tilt her head slightly. She’s listening, her face pressed to a wall.
Feet on the other side of the wall scuffle around, and then guards shuffle out, presumably to make their reports. This is our window. Mom places her hand on a rectangular box I can barely see, but nothing happens.
Mom swears under her breath and my jaw drops in the dark. My mother never swears. Ever.
“Of course your EMP wiped out the sensor for the door. That means we’re going to have to do this the hard way.”
Mom turns a corner and begins shifting stones in the dark.
“What’s the plan?”
“We could have marched in and announced we were executing Lark. But it would have drawn attention, and it would have been harder to move her, and practically impossible to transport the goat we’re using as cover. Sneaking down to free her lets you say goodbye, and makes this all simpler. But that door should have slid out of the way, and it can’t because the board is fried. Luckily, there’s an alternate method.”
“That’s good news.”
“The bad news is that we have to shift all these stones to access it.”
I crouch down and follow her lead, shifting heavy stone blocks out of the way one at a time. Once we’ve cleared a two-by-two area, Mom stoops and crawls through on her stomach. I try not to think about the mouse when I follow Mom into a utility closet that services the holding cells in the basement. Once we step into the center of the cell matrix, it’s clear that someone has lit the old wall sconces. It’s nice to be able to see.
Since we’ve only got one prisoner at present, it’s easy to know where to go. Lark’s heart thumps along steadily on the third cell on the right, just a little faster than it should. I can’t believe I never realized she was half-human. Mom beelines for her cell, with me following close behind.
At the sound of our approach, Lark stands.
Two fingernails on her right hand are broken and one is ragged, like she was prying at stones too, even though there aren’t any in her cell. Her always pristine hair is rucked up on the right side, as though she’s run her hand through it twenty times in the last few minutes. Which she probably has, because her mother’s dead. Even though I’ve been thinking of it all day, the realization still strikes me like a slap to the cheek.
Lark’s eyes widen when she sees me and she stumbles back a step.
Good. If she’s worried I’m here to kill her, it means she still wants to live, at least a little bit. That’s better than I expected based on her reaction earlier.
“Lark, we don’t have much time,” Mom says. “You think Chancy’s here to execute you, but she’s not.”
Mother uses her handprint on the cell door, and it works. These electronics have been replaced. I watch Mom wipe the history on the keypad so there won’t be a record of Lark’s release.
“You need to follow me out right now. Frederick will come inside and monitor the fake execution.” Mom’s voice is so low I can barely hear her.
“Wait, what?” Lark glances my way.
“I assume I’ll be killing the goat you mentioned, Mother?”
Mom nods, and Lark shoots through the door and collapses into my arms, sobbing silently on my shoulder. I wrap my arms around her and drag air into my lungs to keep from crying, too.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
My best friend squeezes me again, so tightly I can barely breathe, and then she lets me go and nods at me. I expected her to yell at my Mom, or sob uncontrollably and have to be carried out. But she’s doesn’t. The Lark in front of me is a warrior. She’s been trained for this moment since birth by her mother. Of course she has.
Mom hurries back to the utility closet and pushes down on an old, rather dingy looking bottle of bleach. A panel opens and she presses her palm to it again. The secret panel reopens.
“Tell your friend goodbye,” Mom says. “Frederick will be here any minute.”
“Where am I going?” Lark asks.
“I’m sending you to meet one of my deputies, the head of my network in Austin,” Mom says. “Her name is Marselle. She’s going to mentor you, and once you’ve grieved and she thinks you’re ready, she’ll send you in for your first field assignment.” Mom narrows her eyes. “I killed your mother. Can you swear loyalty to me? I must trust my agents one hundred and fifty percent. Sparing you is a tremendous risk.”
Lark’s lips tighten and her heartbeat accelerates.
Mom might kill her anyway, or have Marselle do it if her loyalty isn’t unquestionable My stomach twists.
“What about me?” I ask. “Do you blame me?”
Lark’s face falls and she takes my hand. “Of course I don’t blame you, not for any of it. You took a huge risk for me this morning.”
I spin to face Mom. “I’ll need my own network. I’d like Lark to be my first asset.”
Mom’s eyes widen. “You will need your own. Where would you send her?”
“Not Austin,” I say. “I’d send her to Alora in New York. I trust Alora to train Lark. And you know, of all people, Alora won’t care that she’s half-human.”
Mom frowns, but she knows my older sister loves humans more than she should. “Fine.”
I whisper. “Can you promise to be loyal to me, one hundred and fifty percent?”
Tears well in Lark’s eyes. “A thousand percent.” She hugs me again. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
“If there’s any way I can swing it, I may move to New York yet. Don’t give up on having me around.”
Bootsteps and hooves sound down the hall. “Frederick is coming,” Mom says. “Time to go.”
Lark bobs her head and squeezes my hand before she lets go and crosses to where Mom’s waiting. I want to collapse on the floor and sob again, but I can’t do that. I have to execute an innocent animal. Ugh.
I turn to face Frederick. He’s holding the lead rope on a dove gray goat with one black leg and two black ears. It looks as scared as I feel, but its mouth is bound with a cord so it can’t bleat. When I glance back, Mom and Lark are gone without a trace. Frederick hands me a sword without saying a word.
“How can you possibly testify that you s
aw me execute Lark?”
Frederick bobs his dark head at the goat. “I named her Lark.”
Of course he did, five minutes ago. I tighten my grip on the sword and I think about spilling Lark’s blood this morning, about my mother decapitating Lyssa, and about Judica stabbing me in the gut. My stomach turns and my heart quakes. Poor Lark the goat’s eyes dart from me to Frederick and back again, clearly terrified.
I can’t do it.
I hold the sword toward Frederick. He shakes his head. “You have to do it.”
“I can’t, okay? Why can’t you do it?”
His eyes are sad. “I’ve known you for your entire life, Chancery. I’ve cared about you every day, and I’ve seen how happy you make your mother. Serving her has been my life’s work. But it’s time for you to clean a toilet, for once in your life.”
“Excuse me?” I lift my chin. What do toilets have to do with this?
“Your life has been blessed. Safe. Clean and perfect. But real life isn’t like that. Normal people have to clean toilets, even when we don’t want to. This is partially your fault. If you’d told your mother this morning what you knew, if you’d trusted her, she could have spared Lyssa and Lark. But you tried to fix it yourself, and Lyssa’s dead. Feel the weight of that mistake, and then clean this up yourself so I can tell people I watched you behead Lark without lying. Do the uncomfortable thing to keep your friend safe.”
I blink back tears, tighten my hands on the sword and lift it up. I put it back down. I will never understand how evians can kill, can maim, can attack, can inflict pain on others with impunity. I adjust my steps to avoid killing beetles, ants, anything. I insisted the cleaning staff leave a birds’ nest with three baby sparrows alone, even though they pooped all over the floor for weeks. I didn’t actually clean up after them, but I would have.
But this isn’t about me.
It’s about Lark. And I need to do this for her. So I grip the hilt, my palms sweaty, and bring it up over my head. I swing it down, closing my eyes at the last second. The blade cleaves through poor Lark the goat’s neck, barely slowing as it severs her spine. I suppress a shudder when the warm blood spatters my arm.
When I open my eyes, Frederick’s grin is self-satisfied, like he’s taught me an important lesson. I wish I could slap his smug face. It’s atrocious that savagery is a life lesson for us. I hate it. I don’t hand him the sword. I don’t thank him, or even ask what he’s planning to do to dispose of Lark the goat’s body. I walk up the steps to the entrance of the dungeon, dragging the blood-stained sword behind me, leaving a trail of gore and staining my pants badly in the process.
Dozens of people line the hallway as I leave, some headed toward the throne room, some headed for the guest wing. They all freeze when I emerge, staring at my bloody sword and clothing. I wipe the tears from my face with my free hand, and my fingers come away red. I didn’t even feel any of it hit my face.
“Lark is dead.” My voice is flat. No one stops me on my way to my room.
I peel my bloody clothes off and toss them in the corner. If Mom had adhered to her own rules, they’d be stained with Lark’s blood, not a goat’s. Because ruling evians is the worst job in the world. For the last seventeen years, I’ve secretly felt lesser because Mom didn’t pick me. Inferior, because Mom didn’t think I was good enough to rule. And now that she wants me to be the one making these ghastly decisions, I realize too late that I was wrong all along.
I want to take it all back. I’d tell Mom about my discovery with Lark and never touch that detestable stone. But for all my perfect DNA, I can’t reverse time. I can’t undo what’s been done, no matter how desperately I wish I could.
10
The next morning, my newly nine-hundred-year-old mom makes time to train with me. First, we go back down to the bunker and practice with her ring again. I’m better, but not by much. I manage to send a few short bursts of heat only, in between a handful of fireballs, and then I let loose a dozen controlled EMPs that short out some iPods Mom had brought in from Kauai.
“Better call it a morning,” she says.
“Why?” I ask. “I’m finally figuring it out.”
“This fire extinguisher is empty,” Mom says.
Neither of us wants to count on my ability to suck the flames back in like I did yesterday in her closet. I haven’t been able to replicate it since.
We return to the private courtyard outside our adjoining rooms to work on my normal melodics training. We’re already running late for the normal daily routine, and with the party we can’t afford to be, but Mom makes time anyway. We run through the cues we’ve been working on quickly, and I’m smiling by the time Mom stops the music.
“You’re ready,” she says.
“For what?” I ask. “Breakfast? Because I’m absolutely starving.”
She smiles. “You’re ready to go off book.”
I shake my head. “You said it takes twenty years at least. That means I have almost a decade to go since I started at five.”
“You’ve always shortchanged yourself, little dove. You let other people’s expectations interfere with your progress. You aren’t like anyone else on Earth. You’re ready now, and it’s good that you are, because change is upon us.”
“What does that mean?” I ask. “It sounds like a movie script. Except if you said something that corny, you’d be sure to die in the next scene. At your age, you should probably be asking yourself, ‘Does this sound like something someone in a Greek tragedy would say?’ before you speak.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m being serious. You’re ready to fight without musical cues, and we’ll start this afternoon, before my party.” Mom turns and walks toward the table in the corner of the courtyard, which is already covered with food for breakfast.
“Perfect,” I mutter, just loudly enough for her to hear. “I was thinking a little swordplay would be just the thing to get me ready to entertain all your guests.”
When we reach the table, I dig into my food. I polish off a stack of French toast, a pile of pancakes, half a pound of bacon, and I’m sliding the fried egg off my loco moco when Mom clears her throat.
“Chancery.”
“Oh come on, Mom. It’s so much better without the egg.”
“You can choose which egg to eat. Any type you’d like is fine.”
I glance between my options. Chef Angel put a boiled egg on a stand next to my plate, a fried egg on top of my loco moco, and a huge blob of scrambled eggs on a salad plate. “You do know that a chicken pooped out every single one of these. Have you been around chickens? They’re gross.”
“I didn’t realize you were an expert on poultry.”
“Besides, it’s like I’m eating their baby. Even if you like chickens, that’s still disturbing.”
Mom sighs. “The eggs we eat haven’t even been fertilized. They could never become chicks.”
I groan. “Mom, seriously. Ease up on the egg pushing.”
“Fine, we don’t have to talk about it, but you have to pick one and eat it. I’m done with your theatrics. They’re good for you, and you’ll learn to eat them. Not everything in life is fun.”
I stare at the one thing I hate even more than evian politics: a boiled egg. It sits there trying to look innocent with its slimy white exterior, but I know it’s hiding a bulbous, chalky yolk. I shudder. I finally groan and pinch off a piece of a fried egg for Cookie.
“You have to eat it,” Mom says.
“I know, but Cookie hasn’t tasted it yet, to make sure it’s fine.” That’s the official reason everyone in the royal line has a dog—they taste our food. But honestly, there aren’t many kinds of poison that can hurt an evian. Even so, I use the excuse to delay consuming my eggs whenever I can.
Mom’s still staring pointedly, so I’m about to take my first bite of the fried egg when my mom’s chamberlain, Larena, breezes through the door. She gives us a report on the progress of the repairs, which went on throughout the night. I take that chance to fe
ed the rest of the egg to Cookie under the table. Mom doesn’t bat an eye.
Larena leaves and I beam at her. “All done?”
“Chancery,” she says, “you aren’t invisible because I’m talking to someone. I saw what you did.”
“What? I’m supposed to give Cookie the first bite.”
“Which implies you would take a second, or a third bite.” My mom cocks one eyebrow.
“The fried ones are so gross,” I whine, “especially the inside. The yolk is usually runny, or if not, it’s rubbery.”
“So eat the boiled one.”
“That’s even worse. The yolk is mealy.”
Mom slams her hand down on the table and I jump.
“What is going on Mom? You usually think this is funny.” I take a good look at her and notice faint circles under her eyes, so faint that it’s almost like they’ve been disguised by something.
“Mom, don’t take this the wrong way, but are you wearing makeup? You don’t look so hot this morning.”
“Happy birthday to you, too.”
“It’s not my birthday.” I ignore her joke because I’m genuinely concerned. And because this gets the conversation off my egg eating... or not eating.
“Next year,” she says, “I plan to institute a new birthday policy: no age jokes.”
“Mom, I’m not joking. You don’t usually look a day over six hundred. But today you look... tired. Did you sleep at all last night?”
“Not really,” she says. “I have too much on my mind to sleep.”
“Like what? I know you’re worried about the stone and all that, but maybe I can help. I’ve been thinking about it, and I still think going to live with Alora is my best bet. Your prophecies don’t say how exactly the reuniting queen will do what she does. Judica knows what I can do, so why can’t I go do what I want, let the better twin rule when it comes to that, and then she can call me in if she needs me. I’ll be like a pinch hitter. That’s someone who bats for someone else when—”
Displaced (The Birthright Series Book 1) Page 11
