Three of Truslow’s Krona exit the third vehicle and walk stiffly over mud puddles toward us. Soldiers come out from the capitol, open the gates, and hurry to intercept their leader as he boldly opens his door.
We don’t give him a chance to speak first. Harmon yells a threat and pulls the rod parts from his robe, mumbling what sounds like incantations. He snaps them together and holds the long pole high and nods toward me. I hold my hand out to Teague who puts a box in it the size of a robin’s nest. The Krona stop walking. Truslow is now fully out in the open. All of our people remain a respectful distance, heads down, arms hidden under their robes as if they are putting large-knuckled fingers on imaginary triggers or blades.
It is now that I should say the words Harmon had me practice, but I hesitate and Truslow speaks instead. “Dalton Battista again? Haven’t you gotten it through your head yet? There’s nothing you can threaten me with that my Krona won’t stop.”
Of course that’s not true. He blusters. He shoves aside the lead Krona and demands something from him. The man reaches into his belt sack and produces a paper. Truslow grabs it and waves the single sheet.
“The only reason you are still alive is because of what is written on this page. I stole it from your grandfather’s archive … before I let him die.”
I cringe at the word grandfather and begin to sweat. I had stolen four pages when I was sixteen and Barrett had stolen the rest of the ledgers last night. We pored over them all night long, four of us, and were encouraged by the prophetic lines in the first ledger’s opening page. The first page, that is, after the torn away ones. A page that was numbered six.
My hands cause the box to tremble. I know what Harmon told me it could do, but now I have my doubts.
“Cat got your tongue?” Truslow waves his arms at his soldiers. “Move these vermin out of here.”
“Say it now,” Harmon prods me.
“Alabaster riches,” I say, without conviction or authority in my voice. Truslow’s head jerks back and he looks at each of the Krona in turn and then scowls at me.
“What is this? Some kind of mind-reading trick? It’s not a very good one. It was no secret that I went to the southern border to accept a treaty gift of black alabaster for my wife. Very rare.”
My skin goes cold. Everything fits so perfectly.
“Bacterial rashes,” I pronounce the syllables slowly, as if I’m arranging each letter as it drops off my tongue. Harmon presses the bottom of the rod into the top of the box and twists. The lid releases and the box opens to reveal two compartments, one filled with a white powder and the other with a fine black soot. I take a handful of the black ash and throw it into the air. It floats like smoke and disperses on invisible air currents.
The Krona are the first to react. Their skin erupts in boils and abscesses. They stare at the backs of their hands, watch the sores progress. One scratches at his neck, another begins to weep, the third clutches at Truslow’s arm then searches his belt sacks for a remedy.
The soldiers are next. The guards groan, scratch, cry out. The capitol doors open and people stream out. Some I know. A woman. Jamie. Lydia. Several secretaries. Staff. The initial screams and cries change to whimpers and moans. But Reds are not infected. Only Blues.
I look around at the crowd and spot the Blue sympathizers. I see Reds among the capitol workers. It appears that this plague is hitting randomly, when in fact it miraculously spares my people. The Executive President is last to feel the effects. The sores spread across his skin in a wave.
I expect him to yell out All right! Stop this madness. All the Reds can go. But he hardens his heart, withstands the agony. Even as he looks toward his wife, his son, his daughter-in-law-to-be, he doesn’t waver.
I can’t stand the suffering. The woman next to Lydia, the one I so long believed was my mother, will not endure the misery much longer. I scoop a handful of the white powder and toss it to the breeze. I find my voice. “You are stubborn, Mr. Executive President. You can make all the treaties you want. South, west, east. But Ronel waits for us in the north and you have underestimated his power. You still set yourself against his people and will not let them go. In six hours there will be an acid rain followed by a hailstorm the likes of which this land has never known. Give an order for all to be inside or those who do not seek shelter will die, whether they are Blues or not.”
I’ve never spoken at such length. My last words echo in my own ears and fade among the sobs.
A small voice breaks the moment with a cry of relief. The painful boils are shrinking and the people that were infected first find the curse lessening.
I give Barrett the lowest of whispered commands to go rescue Lydia. He moves away from me and slips off his robe, hands it off to Mira, and integrates himself into the cluster of capitol staff.
“These people have two minutes to leave the grounds,” Truslow shouts to his soldiers, “then shoot them!” He pushes the Krona out of his way and lunges back into the armored vehicle. I see him pat at his face, relieved, no doubt, that his skin no longer stings.
I hear a Krona complain, “Why doesn’t he just kill that kid?”
Another says quite softly, “You know why. You read that page, didn’t you? He gave it to me to hide when he was President of Defense. That page is why he lifted the execution order on Dalton Battista as soon as he took office. Truslow is afraid of him and quite rightfully so. It’s not superstition, not when so many prophecies are coming true.”
* * *
Lydia hid her face with her hands as if she was recovering from the boils like every Blue. Jamie rested his hand on her back and guided her up the steps. He glanced back to see Barrett close behind and gave him an irritated nod. He’d been happy that Lydia came to breakfast without her chaperon, but he could see that Barrett was now going to stick to her like a fly on a dead dog.
“Did you notice anything strange?” Jamie asked as they passed the threshold and headed back to the dining room.
“Other than these awful sores?” Lydia lowered one hand. “Are they gone?”
Jamie bobbed his head. “I mean, they only seemed to show up on Blues. I know which soldiers are Red–they were fine. Maybe it was hypnosis or something.”
Lydia shrugged. “That old guy next to Dalton Battista had purple blotches. He’s a Red. One of their leaders, I think.”
Jamie drew his brows together. “I didn’t notice that.” He thought for a moment more. “Well, maybe this next threat will apply to Reds as well as Blues. Acid rain and hail? Kind of hard to make it hail only on Blue homes. Impossible, really. Especially in June.” He pulled out her chair for her and they resumed their meal.
Jamie’s stepmother took her seat on Lydia’s left. She mumbled apologies to Lydia as she wiped away her tears. “I’m so sorry, dear. Dalton was such a nice boy. I don’t understand why he’s doing this.” She turned her head and mumbled under her breath. Lydia could barely make out the muttered lament–something like my little boy, why does he hate me? With a shiver Lydia realized exactly who this woman was: Olivia Battista Truslow.
* * *
When he finally had five minutes to spare, the Executive President’s introduction to Lydia and her chaperon was filmed by a capitol aide. It went smoothly, all formalities were observed, and the ten-second video of the happy couple receiving an executive handshake and a hug would be displayed on the electrical billboards that still functioned. Lydia looked sleek and feminine in an orange and red belted morning-gown that Mrs. Truslow had brought to her room.
“I feel a little rushed,” Lydia said as Jamie led her away from his father’s office. Barrett followed a healthy ten feet behind them. “Less than two days to get ready.”
Jamie gestured at Barrett to stop and stay back. He cornered Lydia into a door well and spoke softly, “I’m sorry about the timing. It’s because of the law that takes effect–they’re re-instituting a ton of marriage laws. I promise … I promise that we’ll have time to get to know each other better before, you
know, before–” He leaned in for their first kiss and didn’t feel her hand upon his chest until her nails bit through the fabric.
“Not here,” she whispered back.
Jamie straightened to feel Barrett’s hand on his shoulder. A smile, only half friendly, was plastered on Barrett’s face.
“Maybe you shouldn’t see the bride again before the ceremony.”
“I’d like to take her out for a ride to the–”
Barrett cut him off. “Out? With that warning of acid rain?”
“Look. I know Dalton, okay? He’s a good guy. He’s just, well, I don’t know what he’s up to, but there’s not going to be any rain, or hail for that matter.”
Barrett huffed. “And you’re so sure because you didn’t see the bloody water? The rodents? The flies, the fire ants, those painful sores? Don’t be stupid, man.”
He had crossed a line and he knew it immediately. Lydia grabbed his elbow and pushed him aside. “He didn’t mean to say you’re stupid, Jamie. He’s just protecting me. We can go for a ride, if you want.”
She gave Barrett a piercing look and he took a couple of steps back. She tucked her arm into Jamie’s. “Where did you want to go and what kind of vehicle would we go in?”
“Actually, no vehicle. Horses. You’ll have to change.”
* * *
Barrett and Jamie stood outside Lydia’s door. Barrett alternated between glaring at Jamie and presenting a phony smile. They said nothing. Bear could hear voices from this floor of the building as if his special gemfry hearing was as accurate as tuning in a radio signal. He pinpointed the sounds from inside Lydia’s room, noting the faint metallic clicks of a zipper followed by Lydia’s whispered message just for him: “Bear, I’ve never ridden a horse. I don’t know what to do. But I want to get far away from here before the acid rain hits. So keep a look out for shelter. Maybe we can get separated from him. Knock on my door if you hear all this.”
Barrett stepped up to the door and gave two quick knuckle taps. “Ready?”
The door swung open and Lydia stood there wearing her own clothes, the ones she had worn under last night’s blue silken dress. Jamie frowned. “My stepmother should have picked something more, uh, never mind, you’re fine.”
Jamie took her hand and led her down the hallway and to the stairs. “I asked two soldiers, personal friends, to lend us their horses. They should be right outside.”
“Only two? What about Barrett?”
“Oh, you don’t mind walking, do you?” Jamie gave Barrett a victor’s smirk. “Or Lydia could ride double with me.”
“I can walk.” Barrett was quick to answer. He doubted he’d have any trouble keeping up with a horse. Speed was not an issue, but staying in disguise was.
* * *
“You’re doing great, Lydia. Are you comfortable enough to try a canter?” Jamie glanced down at Barrett. “You can stay here. We’ll canter the horses to that old building and back.”
Lydia eyed the distance. It was a long ways off. She was about to agree when a drop of rain, the predicted acidic rain, scorched her mount’s rear. The animal took off running and Lydia hung on as well as she could. Jamie urged his horse to follow. More rain drops began to pelt the horses and riders. The stinging pains were no more than pinpricks at first and then the hail began.
They passed the old building at a full gallop. Jamie expertly brought his horse back under control and edged as close to Lydia as he dared. “Pull back! Pull back on the reins!” He shouted whoa over and over and reached out to grab her reins just as a ball of hail the size of a rock hit the back of his hand and another one hit him hard on his head. He slumped over his horse’s neck and almost fell off.
Barrett had no problem keeping up with the racing horses. He had spotted the perfect cover for them. He ran up on the other side of Lydia’s horse and took hold of the leather, slowing both their gaits down and leading the horse to an underpass.
“Whoa. Easy.”
When Lydia was safe he started hollering at Jamie. “Over here.”
An unbelievably large chunk of ice hit Jamie’s horse in the head and the horse buckled and fell. Jamie rolled off, threw his arms over his head for protection and sprinted to the underpass, leaping over nearly boulder-sized hail in the process.
Lydia dismounted and dropped the reins. She fell into an awkward embrace with Barrett, breathing thanks into his ear. Jamie reached them and fell to his knees. Blood dripped down his arms; a gash on his forehead sent more blood dripping down his face.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” Jamie answered. He lifted his eyes and wiped at his face, smearing blood. He eyed Barrett, a troublesome suspicion adding to his headache.
“Look at your horse,” Lydia cried.
The poor thing was lying still. Large chunks of hail hit then rolled off the corpse and piled up in a gruesome outline around the body. Lydia’s horse nickered.
* * *
The western edge of Exodia stands rimmed by hills too steep to build or farm though I can imagine someone walking serenely behind a flock of sheep here. Crazy thoughts, especially when I picture Lydia instead of Kassandra.
Harmon and I came here after we collected the third and fourth machines he brought from Ronel. This apparatus seems almost futuristic, a weather weapon that seeds the clouds and turns our predicted spate of hailstones to fruition. Harmon tells me there are greater wonders than this in Ronel’s camp.
We watch as the second finger-sized rocket races to the sky, bursts through the clouds and disappears. There’s low thunder, but Harmon doesn’t react and so I guess it’s a rumbling only audible to me. And to Barrett.
I trust him to keep Lydia safe inside the capitol. I try very hard not to think of Jamie. I used to know him pretty well and because of that I’m anxious for Lydia. These pangs of jealousy are peppered with guilt as well. If I can leave Exodia with Lydia there’s something I’ll confess to her.
Harmon nudges me. “Look.”
I see where he’s pointing. A wave of devastation surges over the city, pounding down those who didn’t heed the warnings. Truslow may have refused to alert the city, but Reds have worked out a way of signaling one another. Blue friends would’ve heard. Should’ve stayed inside.
I listen. Screams and shouts pierce my heart. “Do you hear that?” I look to Harmon and he shakes his head.
A century old cell tower topples and sends a quaking boom to our ears. “Wow, I heard that.” Harmon only hears the loudest of earth’s complaints against the hailstones. He readies another of the small rockets, but I stop him.
“No, that’s enough,” I say. “Truslow should get the message. But just in case he balks again let’s set up that last piece of equipment.”
* * *
The frozen hazards have melted by the time we reach the capitol building. People are venturing out into the streets again, dragging bodies away, tending to the injured, fixing roofs, staring at the damage. Not too many Reds surround us for support. No matter.
We make our demand at the gate to see the Executive President. They tell us no. Both the guards are Reds and they warn us of an arrest warrant for Bram O’Shea. I laugh.
And then I choke on my laughter as I see the strangest sight: Lydia and Barrett leading a horse. The rider is holding an arm over his eyes. It’s Jamie.
The guards rush over, let them through. Lydia and Barrett keep their lips tight, trying not to look at Harmon and me as if we’re a nuisance–scum, dirty Reds. They are good actors.
And so am I. “Jamie, are you all right?”
He eyes me, seems surprised that I’d speak to him.
“Dalton. Your little trick killed my horse, nearly killed me.”
Selfish. It’s what he doesn’t say that angers me.
Harmon riles, too, and speaks for me, “You knew. You heard the warning. Why would you take her outside with the threat of deadly hail?”
“Guards, bring them inside. My father has a banishment order alread
y signed. And grab that stick from him before he turns the ground into fire ants again.”
I hand the rod over with a grunt. Harmon twisted the end off before we left the hillside where the last machine sits primed and ready. The detonator dangles from his belt sack’s cord as if it’s a tassel decoration.
Barrett ties the horse up to a sign post and takes Lydia’s arm. I hope they plan on running, but Jamie squashes that idea by taking her other arm and jerking her toward the door. There’s something in his eyes I can’t decipher.
The guards are rough with us. More acting. The one who carries the rod pokes at my back and Harmon’s, too, as we reach the entrance. I sense Harmon ready to react.
We’re hustled inside where another soldier, a Blue one, stands at attention and Jamie, sounding too much like his father, gives him orders–orders to aim his weapon at Lydia.
“So, Dalton, what little trick are you planning next?”
I hesitate, keep my eyes from flickering to Lydia and finally say, “Lights out.”
Harmon closes his hand around the device and waits for me to say his name.
“Talk to your father,” I say. “Make him understand that he has to let us go or it’ll be your life that’s lost, not hers.”
A flash of fear comes and goes across his face. I’m surprised to see a look of strength, of resolve, replace it.
“I followed you that day,” Jamie says. He nods toward Lydia. “You think I don’t know she’s really a Red?” His laugh is as cruel as his father’s. I’ve underestimated him. I know which long ago day he means. I glance at Harmon.
“She’s not a Red,” Barrett steps in front of her. He would take a bullet for her. “What are you talking about? Do you need to see her tattoo? This is ridiculous.”
Jamie shakes his head. “I climbed the fence that day. I saw you spot her. I followed you both. When my father became Executive President he promised me he’d change the marriage law for one day, just one day, so that I could have her.”
His facial muscles twitch his mouth into a sneer. No one moves.
“I’ll be twenty tomorrow,” he drawls. “That’s the day this particular arranged marriage will be legal. It’ll be lights out for you, not me, Dalton.”
Exodia Page 18
