DENVER, COLORADO.
1937 HOURS.
24°F.
I ARRIVE IN THE CAPITAL BY TRAIN (STATION 42B) IN THE midst of a snowstorm, where a crowd has gathered on the train platform to see me. I peer at them through my frosted window as we slow to a standstill. Even though it’s freezing cold outside, these civilians are crowded behind a makeshift metal railing, pushing and shoving one another as if Lincoln or some other celebrity singer had just arrived. No less than two capital military patrols push back against them. Their muffled shouts reach me.
“Get back! Everyone’s to move behind the barriers. Behind the barriers! Anyone with a camera will be arrested on sight.”
It’s odd. Most of the civilians here seem poor. Helping Day must have given me a good reputation in the slum sectors. I rub at the thin wires of the paper clip ring on my finger. A habit I’ve already developed.
Thomas walks over to my aisle and leans over the seats to talk to the soldiers sitting alongside me. “Take her to the door,” he says. “Quickly.” His eyes flicker to me and then over the outfit I’m wearing (yellow prison vest, thin white collar shirt). He acts as though the conversation we had last night in the interrogation room never happened. I just concentrate on my lap. His face makes me sick to my stomach. “She’ll be cold out there,” he says to his men. “Make sure she has a coat.”
The soldiers point their guns at me (Model XM-2500, 700m range, smart rounds, can shoot through two layers of cement), then haul me to my feet. During the train ride, I’d watched these two soldiers with such intensity that their nerves must be completely shot by now.
My hand shackles clank together. With guns like that, one hit and I’d likely die of blood loss no matter where on my torso the bullet struck me. They probably think I’m planning a way to grab a gun from them when they’re not paying attention. (A ridiculous assumption, because with my shackles on I have no way of firing the rifle correctly.)
Now they lead me down the aisle and to the end of our train car, where four more soldiers wait at the open door that leads down to the station platform. A gust of cold wind hits us and I suck in my breath sharply. I’ve been near the warfront once, back when Metias and I went on our only mission together, but that was West Texas in the summer. I’ve never set foot in a city buried in snow like this. Thomas heads to the front of our little procession and motions for one of the soldiers to drape a coat over me. I take it gratefully.
The crowd (about ninety to a hundred people) goes completely silent when they see my bright yellow vest, and as I make my way down the steps I can feel their attention burning through me like a heat lamp. Most are shivering, thin and pale with threadbare clothes that can’t possibly keep them warm in this weather, wearing shoes riddled with holes. I can’t understand it. Despite the cold, they still came out here to see me get off a train—and who knows how long they’ve been waiting. Suddenly I feel guilty for accepting the coat.
We make it to the end of the platform and nearly into the station’s lobby when I hear one of the onlookers shouting. I spin around before the soldiers can stop me.
“Is Day alive?” a boy calls out. He’s probably older than I am, barely out of his teens, but so skinny and short that he could pass for my age if one didn’t pay attention to his face.
I lift my head and smile. Then a guard hits him across the face with the butt of his rifle, and my own soldiers grab my arms and force me back around. The crowd breaks into an uproar; shouts instantly fill the air. In the midst of it all, I hear a few call out, “Day lives! Day lives!”
“Keep moving,” Thomas barks. We push into the lobby and I feel the cold air cut abruptly off as the door shuts behind us.
I didn’t say anything, but my smile was enough. Yes. Day is alive. I’m sure the Patriots will appreciate my enforcing this rumor for them.
We make our way through the station and into a trio of waiting jeeps. As we leave the station and head onto an arching freeway, I can’t help gaping at the city that’s streaming past my window. You usually need a good reason to come to Denver. No one but native civilians are allowed in without specific permission. The fact that I’m here and getting a glimpse of the city’s interior is unusual. Everything’s smothered under a blanket of white—but even through the snow I can see the faint outline of a vast dark wall that traps Denver like giant levees against floodwaters. The Armor. I read about it during grade school, of course, but to see it with my own eyes is something different. The skyscrapers here are so tall that they disappear into the fog of snow-laden clouds, each terraced level covered in thick sheets of snow, each side secured with giant metal support beams. Between buildings, I catch glimpses of the Capitol Tower. Now and then I see spotlights sweeping through the air and helicopters circling the skyscrapers. At one point, four fighter jets streak by above us. I pause to admire them for a moment (they’re X-92 Reapers, experimental aircrafts that haven’t gone into production outside the capital yet; but they must have passed their test runs if the engineers trust them to soar right over the center of downtown Denver). The capital is every bit the military city Vegas is, and is even more intimidating than I’d imagined.
Thomas’s voice snaps me back to reality. “We’re taking you to Colburn Hall,” he says from the jeep’s front passenger seat. “It’s a dining hall in the Capital Plaza where the Senators sometimes convene for banquets. The Elector dines there frequently.”
Colburn? From what I’ve heard, that’s a very fancy meeting spot, especially considering how I was originally meant to stay at the Denver penitentiary. This must all be new info for Thomas, too. I don’t think he’s ever been inside the capital, but like a good soldier, he doesn’t waste any time gawking at the scenery. I find myself anxious to see what the Capital Plaza’s like—if it’s as large as I’ve imagined. “From there my patrol will leave you behind, and you’ll be passed along to one of Commander DeSoto’s patrols.” Razor’s patrols, I add to myself. “The Elector will meet you in the Hall’s royal chamber. I suggest you behave appropriately.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I reply, smiling coldly at Thomas’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “I’ll be sure to give him my best curtsy.” In reality, though, I’m starting to feel nervous. The Elector is someone I’ve been taught to revere since birth, someone I thought I’d never hesitate to give my life for. Even now, even after everything I know about the Republic, I still feel that deep-rooted commitment trying to resurface, a familiar blanket I want to wrap myself with. Strange. I didn’t feel this when I heard about the Elector’s death, or when I saw Anden’s first televised speech. It’s been hidden until now, when I’m only a few hours from seeing him in person.
I’m not the prized prodigy I was when we first met. What will he think of me?
* * *
COLBURN HALL, ROYAL DINING CHAMBER.
It echoes in here. I sit alone at one end of a long table (twelve feet of dark cherrywood, hand-carved legs, ornate gold trim probably painted on with a fine-detail millimeter brush), my back straight against the chair’s red velvet cushioning. Far against the opposite wall, a fireplace crackles and pops, with a giant portrait of the new Elector hanging above it, and eight gold lamps light the sides of the chamber. Capital patrol soldiers are everywhere—fifty-two line the walls, shoulder to shoulder, and six stand at attention to either side of me. It’s still bitterly cold outside, but in here it’s warm enough for the servants to have clothed me in a light dress and thin leather boots. My hair has been washed, dried, and brushed, and it falls straight and shining down to the middle of my back. It’s been adorned with strands of tiny cultivated pearls (easily worth two thousand Notes apiece). At first I admire them with ginger touches—but then I recall the poor people gathered at the train station in their threadbare clothes, and I pull my fingers away from my hair, disgusted with myself. Another servant had dabbed translucent powder across my eyelids so they gleam in the low firelight. My dress, a creamy white accented by stormy grays, flows down to my feet in layers of chiffon. The inner corset makes me short of breath. An expensive dress, no doubt; fifty thousand Notes? Sixty?
The only things that seem out of place in this picture are the heavy metal shackles that bind my ankles and wrists, chaining me down to my chair.
A half hour passes before another soldier (wearing the distinctive black-and-red coat of the capital’s patrols) enters the chamber. This one holds the door open, stands at attention, and lifts his chin. “Our glorious Elector Primo is in the building,” he announces. “Please rise.”
He tries to look like he’s talking to no one in particular, but I’m the only one sitting. I push up from my chair and stand with a clink of my chains.
Five more minutes pass. Then, just as I’m starting to wonder whether anyone’s going to come at all, a young man steps quietly through the door and nods to the soldiers at the entrance. The guards snap to a salute. I can’t salute with these shackled hands, and I can’t bow or curtsy properly either—so I just stay the way I am and face the Elector.
Anden looks almost exactly like he did when I first met him at the celebratory ball—tall and regal and sophisticated, his dark hair tidy, his evening coat a handsome charcoal gray with gold pilot stripes on the sleeves and gold epaulettes on the shoulders. His green eyes are solemn, though, and there’s a very slight slouch to his shoulders, as if a new weight had settled there. It seems as though his father’s death has affected him after all.
“Sit, please,” he says, holding a white gloved hand (condor flight gloves) out in my direction. His voice is very soft, but still carries in the large room. “I hope you’ve been comfortable, Ms. Iparis.”
I do as he says. “I have. Thank you.”
Once Anden has seated himself at the other end of the table and the soldiers have all gone back to their regular stances, he speaks again. “I received word that you requested to see me in person. I imagine you don’t mind wearing the clothes I’ve provided.” He pauses here for a split second, just enough time for a coy smile to light up his features. “I thought you might not want to spend dinner in a prison uniform.”
There’s something patronizing about his tone that grates on my nerves. How dare he dress me like a doll? an indignant part of me thinks. At the same time, I’m impressed by his air of command, his ownership of his new status. He has suddenly come into power, a great deal of it, and he wears it so confidently that my old feelings of loyalty press heavily against my chest. The uncertainty he’d once had is quickly disappearing. This man was born to rule. Anden seems to have developed an attraction to you, Razor had told me. So I tilt my face down and look up at him through my lashes. “Why are you treating me so well? I thought I was an enemy of the state now.”
“I would be ashamed to treat our Republic’s most famous prodigy like a prisoner,” he says as he carefully straightens his forks, knives, and champagne glass into perfect alignment. “You don’t find this unpleasant, do you?”
“Not at all.” I glance around the chamber again, memorizing the positions of the lamps, the wall décor, the location of each soldier, and the weapons they carry. The elaborate elegance of this encounter makes me realize that Anden hasn’t arranged the dress and the dinner just to be flirtatious. He wants news about how well he’s treating me to leak to the public, I think. He wants people to know that the new Elector is taking good care of Day’s savior. My initial distaste wavers—this new thought intrigues me. Anden must be very aware of his poor public reputation. Perhaps he’s hoping for the people’s support. If that’s the case, then he’s taking pains to do something that our last Elector cared little about. It also makes me wonder: If Anden is actually looking for public approval, what does he think of Day? He certainly won’t win people over by announcing a manhunt for the Republic’s most celebrated criminal.
Two servants bring out trays of food (a salad with real strawberries, and exquisitely roasted pork belly with hearts of palm), while two others place fresh white cloth napkins across our laps and pour champagne into our glasses. These servants are from the upper class (they walk with the signature precision of the elite), although probably not of the rank that my family had.
Then the most curious thing happens.
The servant pouring Anden’s champagne brings the bottle too close to his glass. It tips over, and the liquid spills all over the tablecloth, then the glass rolls off the table and shatters on the floor.
The servant lets out a squeak and drops to her hands and knees. Red curls tumble out of the neat bun tied behind her head; a few strands fall across her face. I notice how dainty and perfect her hands are—definitely an upper-class girl. “So sorry, Elector,” she says over and over. “So sorry. I’ll have the cloth changed right away and get you a new glass.”
I don’t know what I expected Anden to do. Scold her? Give her a stern warning? Frown, at least? But to my shock, he pushes back his chair, stands up, and holds out his hand to her. The girl seems to have frozen. Her brown eyes go wide, and her lips tremble. In one motion Anden leans down, takes both her hands in his, and pulls her up. “It’s just a glass of champagne,” he says lightly. “Don’t cut yourself.” Anden waves a hand at one of the soldiers near the door. “A broom and tray, please. Thank you.”
The soldier nods in a hurry. “Of course, Elector.”
While the servant rushes away for a new glass and a janitor comes in to sweep the broken one safely away, Anden takes his seat again with all the grace of royalty. He picks up a fork and knife with impeccable etiquette, then cuts a small piece of pork. “So tell me, Agent Iparis. Why did you want to see me in person? And what happened on the evening of Day’s execution?”
I follow his lead, picking up my own fork and knife and cutting into my meat. The chains on my wrists are exactly long enough for me to eat, as if someone had taken the trouble to measure them out. I push the surprise of the champagne incident out of my mind and start planting the story that Razor made up for me. “I did help Day escape his execution, and the Patriots helped me. But after it was over, they wouldn’t let me go. It seemed like I’d finally gotten away from them when your guards arrested me.”
Anden blinks slowly. I wonder if he believes anything I’m saying. “You’ve been with the Patriots for the last two weeks?” he says after I’ve finished chewing a slice of pork. The food’s exquisite; the meat so tender, it practically melts in my mouth.
“Yes.”
“I see.” Anden’s voice tightens with distrust. He dabs his mouth with a cloth napkin, then puts his silverware down and leans back. “So. Day is alive, or he was when you left him? Is he also working with the Patriots?”
“When I left, he was. I don’t know about now.”
“Why is he working with them, when he always avoided them in the past?”
I shrug a little, trying to feign puzzlement. “He needs help finding his brother, and he’s indebted to the Patriots for fixing his leg. He had an infected bullet wound from . . . all this.”
Anden pauses long enough to take a small sip of champagne. “Why did you help him escape?”
I flex my wrist so that the cuffs don’t leave imprints against my skin. My shackles clank loudly against each other. “Because he didn’t kill my brother.”
“Captain Metias Iparis.” The sound of my brother’s full name sends a wave of anguish through me. Does he know how my brother died? “I’m sorry for your loss.” Anden bows his head a little, an unexpected sign of respect that makes a lump rise in my throat.
“I remember reading about your brother when I was younger, you know,” he continues. “I read about his grades in school, how well he performed on his Trial, and especially how good he was with comps.”
I spear a strawberry, chew it thoughtfully, then swallow. “I never knew my brother had such an esteemed fan.”
“I wasn’t a fan of him, per se, although he was certainly impressive.” Anden picks up his new champagne glass and sips. “I was a fan of you.”
Remember, be obvious. Make him think you’re flattered. And attracted to him. He is handsome, for sure—so I try to focus on that. The light from the wall lamps catches the wavy edges of his hair, making it shine; his olive skin has a warm, golden glow; his eyes are rich with the color of spring leaves. Gradually I feel a blush growing on my cheeks. Good, keep going. He’s some mix of Latin blood, but the ever-so-slight slant of his large eyes and the delicateness of his brow reveal a hint of Asian heritage. Like Day. Suddenly, my attention scatters, and all I can see is me and Day kissing in that Vegas bathroom. I remember his bare chest, his lips against my neck, his intoxicating defiance that makes Anden pale by comparison. The subtle blush on my cheeks flares into bright heat.
The Elector tilts his head to the side and smiles. I take a deep breath and compose myself. Thank goodness I still managed to get the reaction I was aiming for.
“Have you thought about why the Republic has been so lenient, given your betrayal of the state?” Anden says, toying idly with his fork. “Anyone else would already have been executed. But not you.” He straightens in his chair. “The Republic has been watching you since you scored that perfect fifteen hundred on your Trial. I’ve heard about your grades, and your performance in Drake’s afternoon drills. Several Congressmen nominated you for political assignment before you even finished your freshman year at Drake. But they ultimately decided to assign you to the military instead, because your personality has ‘officer’ written all over it. You’re a celebrity in the inner circles. Your being convicted of disloyalty would be a tremendous loss to the Republic.”
Does Anden know the truth of how my parents and Metias were killed? That their disloyalty cost them their lives? Does the Republic value me so much that they’re hesitant to execute me despite my recent crime and traitorous family ties? “How did you see me around the Drake campus?” I say. “I don’t remember hearing that you visited the university.”
Anden cuts into a heart of palm on his plate. “Oh no. You wouldn’t have heard it.”
I give him a quizzical frown. “Were you . . . a student at Drake while I was there?”
Anden nods. “The administration kept my identity a secret. I was seventeen—a sophomore—when you came to Drake at twelve. We all heard a lot about you, obviously—and your antics.” He grins at that, and his eyes sparkle mischievously.
The Elector’s son had been walking amongst the rest of us at Drake, and I didn’t even know it. My chest swells with pride at the thought of the Republic’s leader taking notice of me on campus. Then I shake my head, guilty for liking the attention. “Well, I hope not everything you heard was bad.”
Anden reveals a dimple in his left cheek when he laughs. It’s a soothing sound. “No. Not everything.”
Even I have to smile. “My grades were good, but I’m pretty sure my dean’s secretary is happy I won’t be haunting her office anymore.”
“Miss Whitaker?” Anden shakes his head. For a moment he drops his formal façade, ignoring etiquette by slouching back in his chair and making a circular gesture with his fork. “I’d been called in to her office too, which was funny because she had no idea who I was. I’d gotten into trouble for switching out the heavy practice rifles in the gym for foam ones.”
“That was you?” I exclaim. I remember that incident well. Freshman year, drill class. The foam rifles had looked so real. When the students had bent down in unison to pick up what they thought were heavy guns, they’d all yanked the foam ones up so hard that half the students toppled over backward from the force. The memory gets a real laugh out of me. “That was brilliant. The drill captain was so mad.”
“Everyone needs to get in trouble at least once in college, right?” Anden smirks and drums his fingers against his champagne glass. “You always seemed to cause the most trouble, though. Didn’t you force one of your classes to evacuate?”
“Yes. Republic History Three-oh-two.” I try to rub my neck in momentary embarrassment, but my shackles stop me. “The senior sitting next to me said I wouldn’t be able to hit the fire alarm lever with his training gun.”
“Ah. I can see you’ve always made good choices.”
“I was a junior. Still kind of immature, I admit,” I reply.
“I disagree. All things considered, I’d say you were well beyond your years.” He smiles, and my cheeks turn pink again. “You have the poise of someone much older than fifteen. I was glad to finally meet you at the celebratory ball that night.”
Am I really sitting here, eating dinner and reminiscing about good old Academy days with the Elector Primo? Surreal. I’m stunned by how easy it is to talk to him, this discussion of familiar things in a time when so much strangeness surrounds my life, a conversation where I can’t accidentally offend anyone with an offhand class-related remark.
Then I remember why I’m really here. The food in my mouth turns to ash. This is all for Day. Resentment floods through me, even though I’m wrong for feeling it. Am I? I wonder if I’m really ready to murder someone for his sake.
A soldier peeks through the chamber entrance. He salutes Anden, then clears his throat uncomfortably as he realizes that he must’ve cut the Elector off in the middle of our conversation. Anden gives him a good-natured smile and waves him in. “Sir, Senator Baruse Kamion wants a word with you,” the soldier says.
“Tell the Senator I’m busy,” Anden replies. “I’ll contact him after my dinner.”
“I’m afraid he insisted that you speak to him now. It’s about the, ah . . .” The soldier considers me, then hurries over to whisper in Anden’s ear. I still catch some of it, though. “The stadiums. He wants to give . . . message . . . should end your dinner right away.”
Anden raises an eyebrow. “Is that what he said? Well. I’ll decide when my own dinner ends,” he says. “Deliver that message back to Senator Kamion whenever you see fit. Tell him that the next Senator to send me an impertinent message will answer to me directly.”
The soldier salutes vigorously, his chest puffed out a little at the thought of delivering a message like this to a Senator. “Yes, sir. Right away.”
“What’s your name, soldier?” Anden asks before he can leave.
“Lieutenant Felipe Garza, sir.”
Anden smiles. “Thank you, Lieutenant Garza,” he says. “I will remember this favor.”
The soldier tries to keep a straight face, but I can see pride in his eyes and the smile right below the surface. He bows to Anden. “Elector, you honor me. Thank you, sir.” Then he steps out.
I observe the exchange with fascination. Razor had been right about one thing—there is definitely tension between the Senate and their new Elector. But Anden is no fool. He’s been in power for less than a week, and already he’s doing exactly what he should be: trying to cement the military’s loyalty to him. I wonder what else he’s doing to win their trust. The Republic army had been fiercely faithful to his father; in fact, that loyalty was probably what made the late Elector so powerful. Anden knows this, and he’s making his move as early as possible. The Senate’s complaints are useless against a military that backs Anden without question.
But they don’t back Anden without question, I remind myself. There’s Razor, and his men. Traitors in the military’s ranks are moving into place.
“So.” Anden delicately cuts another slice of pork. “You brought me all the way here to tell me that you helped a criminal escape?”
For a moment there’s no sound except the clinking of Anden’s fork against his plate. Razor’s instructions echo in my mind—the things I need to say, the order I need to say them in. “No . . . I came here to tell you about an assassination plot against you.”
Anden puts his fork down and holds two slender fingers up in the direction of the soldiers. “Leave us.”
“Elector, sir,” one of them starts to say. “We’re not to leave you alone.”
Anden pulls a gun from his belt (an elegant black model I’ve never seen before) and places it on the table next to his plate. “It’s all right, Captain,” he says. “I’ll be quite safe. Now, please, everyone. Leave us.”
The woman Anden called Captain gestures to her soldiers, and they file silently from the room. Even the six guards standing next to me leave. I am alone in this chamber with the Elector himself, separated by twelve feet of cherrywood.
Anden leans both of his elbows on the table and tents his fingers together. “You came here to warn me?”
“I did.”
“But I heard you were caught in Vegas. Why didn’t you turn yourself in?”
“I was on my way here, to the capital. I wanted to get to Denver before turning myself in so I’d have a better chance of talking to you. I definitely wasn’t planning to be arrested by a random patrol in Vegas.”
“And how did you get away from the Patriots?” Anden gives me a hesitant, skeptical look. “Where are they now? Surely they must be pursuing you.”
I pause, lower my eyes, and clear my throat. “I hopped a Vegas-bound train the night I managed to get away.”
Anden stays quiet for a moment, then puts down his fork and dabs his mouth. I’m not sure if he believes my escape story or not. “And what were their plans for you, if you hadn’t gotten away?”
Keep it vague for now. “I don’t know all the details about what they had planned for me,” I reply. “But I do know they’re planning some sort of attack at one of your morale-boosting stops along the warfront, and that I was supposed to help them. Lamar, Westwick, and Burlington were places they mentioned. The Patriots have people in place too, Anden—people here in your inner circle.”
I know I’m taking a risk by using his first name, but I’m trying to keep our new rapport going. Anden doesn’t seem to notice—he just leans over his plate and studies me. “How do you know this?” he says. “Do the Patriots realize you know? Is Day involved in all this too?”
I shake my head. “I was never supposed to find out. I haven’t spoken to Day since I left.”
“Would you say that you’re friends with him?”
A bit of an odd question. Maybe he wants to find Day? “Yes,” I reply, trying not to distract myself with memories of Day’s hands entwined in my hair. “He has his reasons for staying—I have mine for leaving. But yes, I think so.”
Anden nods his thanks. “You said there are people in my inner circle that I need to know about. Who?”
I put my fork down and lean forward across the table. “There are two soldiers in your personal guard who are going to make an attempt.”
Anden blanches. “My guards are carefully chosen for me. Very carefully.”
“And who chooses them?” I cross my arms. My hair falls over one shoulder, and I can see the pearls gleaming from the corner of my eye. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. Investigate. Either I’m right, and you won’t be dead, or I’m wrong, and then I’ll be dead.”
To my surprise, Anden gets out of his chair, straightens, and walks over to my end of the table. He sits in the chair next to mine and scoots it closer to me. I blink as he studies my face.
“June.” His voice is so soft, barely above a whisper. “I want to trust you . . . and I want you to trust me.”
He knows I’m hiding something. He can see through my deception, and he wants me to know it. Anden leans against the table and tucks his hands into his trouser pockets. “When my father died,” he begins, saying each word slowly and very quietly, as if he were treading dangerous waters, “I was completely alone. I sat at his bedside as he passed. Still, I’m grateful for it—I never had that chance with my mother. I know how it feels, June, being the only one left.”
My throat tightens painfully. Win his trust. That’s my role, my sole reason for being here. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I whisper. “And about your mother.”
Anden inclines his head, accepting my condolences. “My mother was the Senate’s Princeps. My father never once talked about her . . . but I’m glad they’re together now.”
I’d heard rumors about the late Princeps. How she’d died of some autoimmune disease right after giving birth. Only the Elector can name a leader for the Senate—so there hasn’t been one in two decades, not since Anden’s mother died. I try to forget the comfort I’d felt while talking to him about Drake, but it’s harder to do than I thought. Think of Day. I remind myself how excited he’d been about the Patriots’ plan, and about a new Republic. “I’m glad your parents are at peace,” I say. “I do understand how it feels to lose loved ones.”
Anden contemplates my words with two fingers pressed to his lips. His jaw looks tight and uncomfortable. He may have taken ownership of his role, but he’s still a boy, I realize. His father cut a fearsome figure, but Anden? He’s not strong enough to hold this country together by himself. Suddenly I’m reminded of the early nights after Metias’s murder, when I wept until the dark hours before dawn with my brother’s lifeless face burned into my thoughts. Does Anden have the same sleepless nights? What must it feel like to lose a father that you aren’t allowed to publicly mourn, however evil that father was? Did Anden love him?
I wait as he watches me, my dinner long forgotten. After what feels like hours, Anden lowers his hands and sighs. “It’s no secret that he’d been ill for a long time. When you’ve been waiting for a loved one to die . . . for years . . .” He winces visibly here, allowing me to see very naked pain. “Well, I’m sure it is a different feeling from when that passing comes . . . unexpectedly.” He looks up at me right as he says the last word.
I’m not sure whether he’s referring to my parents or to Metias—perhaps to both—but the way he says it leaves little doubt in my mind. He’s trying to say that he knows what happened to my family. And that he disapproves.
“I know what your experience with assumptions is. Some people think I poisoned my father, so I could take his place.”
It’s almost like he’s trying to talk to me in code. You’d once assumed that Day had killed your brother. That your parents’ deaths were accidents. But now you know the truth.
“The people of the Republic assume that I’m their enemy. That I’m the same man my father was. That I don’t want this country to change. They think I’m an empty figurehead, a puppet who simply inherited a throne through my father’s will.” After a brief hesitation, he turns his eyes on me with an intensity that takes my breath away. “I’m not. But if I stay alone . . . if I remain the only one left, then I can’t change anything. If I stay alone, I am the same as my father.”
No wonder he wanted to have this dinner with me. Something groundbreaking is stirring in Anden. And he needs me. He doesn’t have the people’s support, and he doesn’t have the Senate’s. He needs someone to win over the people for him. And the two people in the Republic with the most power over the people . . . are me and Day.
The turn in this conversation confuses me. Anden isn’t—doesn’t seem to be—the man the Patriots described; a figurehead standing in the way of a glorious revolution. If he actually wants to win over the people, if Anden is telling the truth . . . why would the Patriots want him dead? Maybe I’m missing something. Maybe there’s something about Anden that Razor knows and that I don’t.
“Can I trust you?” Anden says. His expression has changed into something earnest, with lifted eyebrows and widened eyes.
I lift my chin and meet his gaze. Can I trust him? I’m not sure, but for now, I whisper the safe answer. “Yes.”
Anden straightens and pushes away from the table. I can’t quite tell if he believes me. “We’ll keep this between us. I’ll tell my guards about your warning. I hope we find your pair of traitors.” Anden smiles at me, then tilts his head and smiles. “If we do find them, June, I’d like for us to talk again. We seem to have a lot in common.” His words make my cheeks burn.
And that’s it. “Please, finish dinner at your leisure. My soldiers will bring you back to your cell quarters when you’re ready.”
I murmur a quiet thanks. Anden turns away and heads out of the chamber as soldiers file back inside, the echoing clatter of their boots breaking the silence that had permeated this space only moments earlier. I turn my head down and pretend to pick at the rest of my food. There’s more to Anden than I’d first thought. Only now do I realize that my breath is coming out shorter than usual, and that my heart is racing. Can I trust Anden? Or do I trust Razor? I steady myself against the edge of the table. Whatever the truth is, I’ll have to play this all very carefully.
* * *
After dinner, instead of being taken to a typical prison cell, I’m delivered to a clean, luxurious apartment, a carpeted chamber with thick double doors and a large, soft bed. There are no windows. Aside from the bed, there’s no furniture in the room at all, nothing for me to pick up and turn into a weapon. The only decoration is the ever-present portrait of Anden, embedded into the plaster of one wall. I locate the security cam immediately—it’s right above the double doors, a small, subtle knob in the ceiling. A half-dozen guards stand ready outside.
I doze fitfully throughout the night. Soldiers rotate shifts. Early in the morning a guard taps me awake. “So far, so good,” she whispers. “Remember who the enemy is.” Then she steps out of the chamber and a new guard replaces her.
I dress silently in a warm velvet nightgown, my senses now on high alert, my hands shaking ever so slightly. The shackles on my wrists clank softly. I couldn’t have been sure before, but now I know that the Patriots are watching my every step. Razor’s soldiers are slowly getting into position and closing in. I might never see that guard again—but now I study the face of every soldier around me, wondering who is loyal, and who is a Patriot.