The Essence

by Kimberly Derting

  Standing at the top of the steps, the gravity of what I was about to do, of the changes I was asking of my people, stole my breath. I took a moment to absorb the meaning of the phrase “my people” as I looked down upon them, the faces of those who’d gathered to watch me, to support me. And those who didn’t.

  There were dissenters among the crowd, that much I knew. I’d heard their calls of malcontent—boos and hisses and shouts of indignation—as I’d made my way past them. Yet they couldn’t deter me. I couldn’t help feeling good about what I was doing. I now ruled a country where such opposition was permitted. Openly and freely.

  Unlike Sabara, I would never send someone to the gallows for harboring an opinion, much less for sharing it.

  This was a new dawn in Ludania—a New Equality for all. It couldn’t be helped that not all agreed.

  A podium awaited me, and I hesitated as I approached it. I was about to give my first public statement, short though it might be.

  Sydney stepped to the side, and Zafir and Brook fell back.

  I took my place as, below me, a military transport came to a stop on the street.

  They were here.

  “Good morning,” I declared, drawing all eyes to me as I began to speak. “Today, I stand before you, not as your queen or as a vendor’s daughter, but as a citizen of Ludania.”

  I cleared my throat, determined not to sound timid or frightened, grateful no one knew how my palms perspired. “For some, times of change can be trying. But these times can also present great opportunity, a chance for us to show what we’re made of, to show our dignity and fortitude. A chance for us to grow.”

  My gaze roamed over the expectant faces that stared back at me, and my confidence swelled. “This is one of those opportunities. This is our moment to show the world that we don’t have to be burdened by the limitations of a class system that no longer works. That we can work together as citizens of one country . . . as one people . . . with one language.” I gripped the sides of the wooden stand. “I’m not asking you to forsake your heritage, to turn your back on the traditions you’ve grown up with. What I’m asking is that we, as citizens of Ludania, learn to use language not as a divider, but rather to unite us. To make us whole.

  “On this momentous day, we will continue the process of abolishing the laws that have divided our people for centuries. The students of this school—and schools across our nation—will no longer look upon one another as vendors, servants, counsel, or outcasts, but instead as classmates.” I raised my fist in the air. “This is my pledge to you.”

  For a moment there was silence, and I wondered if I should say something more, if it wasn’t enough of a statement. My heart replaced the words in my throat, choking me with uncertainty and regret.

  Then a rumble went up, moving through the crowd with a life of its own, as cheers and shouts rose to a thunderous roar. Colorful bits of torn paper were thrown, tossed high into the air, and looked very much like feathers as they were carried on the breeze. My heart soared with them, those tiny scraps, and I was certain my skin glowed brighter and burned hotter as I stood there, watching it all.

  As the cries died down, the door to the vehicle opened on the street below, releasing the first of the children who’d been transported for their first day at the Academy. That was when the cries of opposition began.

  Almost louder, it seemed, than the cheers of hope. And they came in every flavor of language: Termani, Parshon, Englaise.

  “Go back to your own schools. . . .”

  “Servants don’t belong here. . . .”

  “You’re not our kind. . . .”

  “Death to the queen!”

  I held my breath, bracing for trouble as I scanned the crowds. I searched face after face, not sure what I expected to find. I could feel both Zafir and Brook right at my back now, as if they too, sensed danger.

  Then I saw the first boy, small and timid-looking, making his way down the sidewalk toward the school. Toward me.

  I moved away from the podium and hovered at the top step. I went down one and then another.

  Brook stopped me. “What are you doing? You can’t go down there now,” she hissed under her breath.

  “It’s okay. He’s afraid.” I met him halfway down the steps, and by the time I did, there were a dozen more children behind him, all wearing varied expressions of eagerness, reticence, hopefulness, and fear. This was all new to them, all frightening and exciting at the same time.

  I knew how they felt.

  I leaned down to the little boy who’d been brave enough to go first. “What’s your name?” I asked, staring into his wide, brown eyes.

  He ducked his head, keeping his gaze averted, and I was reminded once more how things used to be.

  “It’s okay,” I told him. “You’re safe here.”

  Slowly he lifted his chin, until he was eye to eye with me. His voice was just as small as his stature. “Phoenix, Your Majesty. My name’s Phoenix.”

  I rose, and held out my hand for him. “Welcome to the Academy, Phoenix. Glad you could make it.”

  The Academy was only my initial stop, but it was the longest of my tour through the city. My day had been rigidly planned, and each stop timed carefully. I would stay here throughout the morning classes so I could assess how the changes were being implemented, and then I would be escorted to Capitol Hall, so I could see how the New Equality was being handled by the city’s officials.

  The first thing I was aware of as I walked through the hallways, was that other than the fact that it was a school, the Academy was nothing like School 33.

  Here, the students were assigned individual storage lockers, a place where they could store their books—books that were new, the pages undamaged and held together by unbroken bindings—rather than lugging them in their overstuffed book bags from class to class. They had supplies like paper, pens, ink, paints, and canvases. They had instruments for their music units, and all manner of equipment for games and sport. The desks, too, were unmarred by years of use and disrepair, and all were perfectly matched and aligned in neat rows. The walls were freshly painted, clean and pristine.

  Everything sparkled. Everything shone as if it were new. As if the school had been fashioned from the very wallets of prosperity.

  But the greatest difference of all had nothing to do with the building or the trappings of wealth, it had to do with time—the changes made since Sabara no longer ruled.

  Now, there was no daily pledge. No formal recitation made to honor the queen.

  To honor me.

  It was strange, the void its absence created at the beginning of the school day, and we all—even the instructor of the class I sat in on—awkwardly traversed that space as if, at any moment, the city’s loudspeakers might crackle to life once more, filling the hallways and the streets outside with the ominously familiar words. I could feel the students’ curious eyes falling upon me more times than I could count. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice, but it was impossible to ignore entirely. It weighed on me, and I hoped that soon the strangeness of it would pass. That soon the people would find that normalcy I so wanted for them.

  I turned my gaze to Sydney, whose class this was, and I smiled.

  It will be okay, I told myself, acting as if I didn’t see Zafir looming in my periphery. As if I didn’t know Brook was right behind me, guarding my back rather than taking notes as other kids her age were.

  I’d expected to be swarmed the moment I’d stepped into the Academy, to be overwhelmed by questions and eager admiration, even if I didn’t necessarily want that sort of attention. So it had been sort of strange, the bubble that formed around us instead. Either because of who I was, or because of Zafir’s intimidating scowl, most of the students made an effort to steer clear of us, giving us an unnecessarily wide berth. Even going so far as to avoid making eye-contact with me altogether.

  I was something of a pariah. Like an exile who’d been banished to her own personal version of the Scablands.
r />   But there were a few students who went out of their way to try to make me feel welcome, to make me feel . . . special. In particular, one determined girl called Delta, younger than me by only a year or two. She’d been assigned to escort my entourage between each class hour, asking if we needed anything, if I knew where I was to go next, if I was enjoying myself.

  Zafir jumped a little each time she appeared, as if startled by her enthusiasm. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him so unnerved.

  “I don’t trust her,” he warned between clenched teeth when she scurried away through the lunchtime crowd to get me an apple I’d never actually requested. I’d simply commented that hers looked delicious. I was certain she would have offered it to me if she hadn’t already taken a bite.

  “She’s harmless, Zafir. Just trying to be helpful. It’s sweet, really.”

  “Don’t confuse sweet with cloying. The latter can be difficult to swallow.”

  Brook sat down beside me, carrying a tray overfilled with two bowls of stew and a plate of steamed potatoes. Since Zafir and I already had our food, I assumed it was all for her. She skewered one of the potatoes with her fork and dunked it into the stew. “The girl?” she asked. When Zafir nodded, she said, “I don’t trust her,” she announced, right before stuffing the entire potato in her mouth.

  Sydney joined us then, her own plate filled with fresh vegetables and a strip of herbed whitefish. That was another thing different about the Academy; they served food here, prepared to order.

  Brook curled her lip at Sydney’s light fare but held her comments, probably because her mouth was too full.

  “So? How do you think it’s going?” Sydney breathed in a hopeful tone. I almost hated to answer her question . . . especially in front of Brook and Zafir.

  I was grateful to see the new system working. To see kids who’d once been divided, schooled under the same roof, and those born to parents of the Serving class attending school at all.

  To hear Englaise spoken everywhere.

  But I wondered how long the protesters would remain out front. I wondered how long they’d remain peaceful.

  I shrugged. “It’s fine,” I answered. “It’ll be . . . an adjustment.”

  “What’s it like?” Sydney asked, smiling reticently. “Living in the palace, I mean. Being the queen.”

  It was an interesting question, and I thought about it as I pushed my fork through my bowl. “It’s . . . an adjustment,” I said again, smiling self-consciously.

  Brook nudged me, winking conspiratorially. “Yeah, an adjustment,” she repeated, as if it were some sort of inside joke. It wasn’t, and she was the only one at the table grinning.

  Sydney frowned at her, and I wondered if she thought Brook was somehow unhinged. I was starting to wonder myself.

  “It’s weird,” I went on. “There are parts I like, things that are easier . . . especially for my family. Others . . .” I lifted a piece of seasoned beef from my stew and thought of my riding lessons. “Others I can do without. But I like what I’m able to do, the changes I can make.” I tasted the meat, savoring the flavor, simpler than the foods we had at the palace, closer to those my parents had prepared in their restaurant. “What are people saying? About me? About the way things have changed?”

  Brook leaned closer now, and the color in Sydney’s cheeks bloomed. Her shoulders lifted as I held my breath, worried about what she had to say. “Mostly, it’s good,” she finally replied. “Mostly, they’re relieved not to have to carry their Passports wherever they go, or to live in fear of lifting their eyes at the wrong moment. The gallows were torn down during the last lunar cycle, and the Central Square is now a place of music and dance, where street performers gather.” Her gaze dropped to her plate then. “Surely you know that others aren’t as pleased with the new order of things. My mother says their reach is marginal. But she says that even marginal can be damaging when strategically placed.”

  I thought about that, about Brook’s father, and his small band of followers. Marginal was probably a good way to describe them.

  Strategic was probably better.

  Delta came back, carrying a crisp, red apple in both of her hands, holding it out to me as if bearing a gift. Her smile was so infectious, I nearly giggled as I took it.

  “Please, Your Majesty, if there’s anything else I can get you, anything at all . . .” Her offer dangled between us.

  “You really don’t have to” was all I said, not wanting to be waited on here, of all places. “And, please,” I insisted. “Call me Charlie.”

  “Pssh,” she scoffed, waving her hand at me. “I could never.” And then she skipped away, a satisfied smiled on her face.

  Inwardly, I sighed. I would be glad to get back to the palace, to the life I was becoming familiar with. To my routine and my family.

  Zafir reached down and snatched the apple that I held halfway to my mouth. I turned in time to see him chucking it into the trash. “Sorry, Your Majesty. You can’t be too careful.”

  I hadn’t meant to slip away from Zafir and the others.

  Or maybe I had. Probably, I had.

  All I’d really wanted was to have a few moments of peace before leaving for Capitol Hall. . . . A few moments during which I could collect myself and gather my thoughts. It didn’t really matter, though, I supposed as I stood in front of the washroom mirror examining my reflection: my silvered hair, my wide blue eyes, my skin—so pale and luminous, casting a light of its own. I doubted I’d have long before they realized where I’d gone to.

  I could remember, when I was little, staring at my reflection for hours and wishing I looked like Brooklynn. Wishing I had her dark hair and dark eyes. Wishing that my skin was the color of baked honey rather than colorless milk.

  She could never be you, I heard a dusky voice whisper. She could never contain the kind of power you contain.

  My fingers gripped the edge of the sink “Not now, not now, not now . . .” I dropped my head, repeating the words as I willed Sabara away.

  Closing my eyes, I counted.

  One. I took a breath and held it, trying to find the strength to crush her.

  Two. I imagined shoving her, pushing until she was buried deep inside of me once more.

  Three. I let the air out slowly and opened my eyes again, blinking against the harsh overhead light.

  But the face staring back at me from the mirror was no longer my own. It belonged to a woman with wild red hair and red-hot eyes. Her skin was the only likeness between us: white as alabaster.

  I startled, my hands—and hers—flying to cover my face.

  But before I could breathe, or even blink, she was gone. It was me again, staring back from the other side of the glass.

  Only me.

  I trembled, no longer sure I could trust myself. No longer certain my eyes hadn’t deceived me.

  And then I heard her voice again. Trust me. Trust . . . us.

  There is no us, I insisted silently, biting my lip until it bled between my teeth. I felt frustration uncoil, and this time I knew it was my own.

  That couldn’t have been her. That couldn’t have been Sabara in the mirror staring back at me.

  Sabara was dead.

  “You’re dead!” I shouted, my voice determined and angry, daring my reflection to shift once more. Daring my eyes to see her.

  I don’t know what I thought would happen in that moment, but what I didn’t expect was for the world around me to disintegrate into utter pandemonium.

  It was the blast that came first, rumbling the floor beneath me and splintering the mirror into a million tiny shards until my reflection was unrecognizable, even to myself. Instinctively, my arm shot up to cover my face as I crouched low. My fingertips clawed the edge of the porcelain sink for support. Above me, the electric lights flickered and blinked.

  For the briefest moment, as my heart hammered painfully, I thought the worst of it had passed with that single explosion, and I allowed hope to fill me as I breathed again.

&n
bsp; But then a second blast ripped the air, and everything around me went black, the power failing at last. From above, I was showered with broken ceiling tiles, sharp and unforgiving. I ducked beneath the lip of the sink, squeezing my eyes closed against the dust that choked me as I tasted my own stomach acid rising in the back of my throat.

  Over the ringing in my ears, I heard screams and shouts, cries for help that filled the hallways beyond the closed door, reverberating in frantic discord.

  My eyes widened as I was suddenly aware that the bathroom wasn’t completely cloaked in blackness, not in the way it should be.

  Pale light sparked from my skin, turning me into a beacon of sorts . . . A living, breathing beacon. I searched the rubble around me, trying to gain my bearings, and realized that there was a second source of light, faint but visible, coming from just beneath the closed door.

  Scrambling toward it on my hands and knees, I moved recklessly over fallen debris, razor-edged pieces that nicked and abraded my palms. I dropped onto my stomach as a third explosion shook the ground like an earthquake, and this time I heard something else as well: the unmistakable sounds of gunfire.

  I couldn’t stop myself from wondering whose weapons those were. Who was firing upon whom.

  The door, when I finally reached it, was warm . . . hot, even. And I worried about what that might mean, about what I would be walking into if I tried to go out there. But I couldn’t stay here, cowering in the washroom. It might end up being my tomb if I didn’t at least try to escape.

  More screams found their way to my side of the door, piercing me, and I held my breath, bracing myself as I decided to go for it. I had to.

  I used the handle to drag myself up, and I eased the door open. Outside, the hallways were blanketed in gloom, and the acrid taste of smoke choked me and singed the hairs inside my nose. I tugged at the hem of my shirt, lifting it to cover my mouth. But I couldn’t stop moving; I had to get out of there.