Blood Crown Page 11

  “The Eastern forces are being kept close to home—close to the Capital ship, while the rebellion is bringing the battle to the Mind. Easterners, Westerners—it doesn’t matter. We are human. And we will crush the metal mind into dust beneath our shoes before we ever let them annihilate the human race.”

  While he speaks he curls a fist into a tight hammer, bringing it up to shake near his chin, then pummeling it down into his open palm. He looks fierce and deadly and utterly convinced of his position.

  “And your appearance here on my ship, when the Mind were here—that was the rebellion’s doing?”

  He frowns at me, a tiny crease appearing between his dark brows. “Yes. We had them on the run but when I discovered Galen remained on the Capital, I thought I could . . . eliminate him.”

  “Eliminate him?” Dillon bursts out. “The man’s an android. An Elite. No ordinary man could best him.” He finishes with a scoffing, dry laugh.

  Nic doesn’t answer right away. Instead he rolls forward onto his toes and tucks his chin down. I see him glance at me, but figure he thinks his gaze is hidden behind his hair which has flopped forward. “Of course. Of course I stood no real chance against him.”

  Dillon harrumphs.

  For the next thirty minutes or so, the four of us sit in silence while Dillon exercises on the far side of the room near the door to what Galen called “the bridge”. Nic watches him with a smirk while Minn and I generally try to avoid eye contact with anyone but each other. When Dillon tries a one handed push-up, Nic laughs out loud.

  “You think it’s so easy?” Dillon growls. “Then why don’t you give it a go?”

  Nic frowns and shakes his head in a sharp movement, but Dillon won’t let it drop. I can sense Nic’s growing frustration and when he glances at me and catches me watching him, his pale face blossoms into red. He jumps to his feet. “Fine,” he snaps.

  He stares down on Dillon who eventually stops making a fool of himself and wisely sits back, scooting until he’s resting against the wall. When Nic finally drops to the floor, he’s so abrupt that it startles me. He moves through a complicated series of exercises that clearly demonstrate his skill—and something else.

  Maybe Minn and Dillon will excuse Nic’s actions as just those of a well-trained soldier. Certainly they have never had an opportunity to meet any soldiers beyond the guards who, compared to Nic, were sadly lacking. But I know the truth—they could never compare, because no normal human could compare. Nic is special. Nic is like me.

  After his display, Dillon growls and lies down, turning his back on us. “I need to grab a few minutes of shut eye.” Seconds later Minn yawns.

  “Maybe you should sleep, too. It’ll be another six hours before we reach New Oregon,” I say.

  She bobs her head and slips from her chair. She chooses a dark corner far away from the rest of us and curls into a ball on the floor. It isn’t long before I discern her breathing has slipped into the relaxed rhythm of sleep.

  “I know what you are.” I keep my gaze fixed on the view outside the windows—basically an endless canvass of black—but I feel Nic freeze where he sits in the chair next to me. Feel him hold his breath. I can almost feel his mind processing my words and selecting how best to respond. “Well, maybe not what you are. But I know what you’re not.”

  “And what am I not?” His voice is tight, like it’s stretched too thin and will snap at any moment.

  I am silent for a long time while I try to decide how to talk about something I barely understand about myself, let alone another person.

  “Well. You’re not human.”

  His bark of laughter feels like a slap across my face. “I assure you, I am quite human.” He flips his wrist in the direction of Dillon. “Maybe you just haven’t had the opportunity to observe a real man and so you don’t know what to expect.”

  “Oh, and I suppose I should expect all men to be like you?”

  “Of course not all men are as superior as me.”

  “Of course. Because surely not all men are as arrogant and irritating as you.”

  His left eyebrow rises and he purses his lips. His blue eyes dance with merriment, but I fail to see anything funny. He is so infuriating it’s all I can do to keep from punching him in the mouth.

  “You find me irritating.” It isn’t a question. It is a flat, unreadable statement.

  “You’ve done nothing but evade my answers and demonstrate your arrogance to myself and my friends. Yes. You are irritating.”

  Dimples appear beneath each corner of his lips as he frowns and peers at the floor. His fingers grip, white-knuckle, on the armrests before he stretches them out, like he’s making a conscious effort to release any outward appearance of tension.

  “I’m truly sorry you feel that way. I—it was not my intention to imply I am superior to you or to your . . . friends.” He glances at me, and for a moment I think . . . well, I’m not sure what I think because whatever it is disappears so quickly I only know that I feel disappointed.

  “If you have questions, I’ll do my best to answer them.” It isn’t the answer I expected, but I am glad for it nonetheless.

  “I have a lifetime of questions.” I sigh. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.

  After several heartbeats of quiet, when I’ve resigned myself to the usual loneliness, Nic begins to speak, his voice low and quiet. In the silence of the room, in my heart, his words ring like a gong.

  “I could tell you about yourself.”

  “Myself? How would you know anything about me?” I lift my chin, angle my face to get a clearer view of him and so I see, without equivocation this time, a look of regret, maybe even sorrow, flicker across his features and settle in his eyes.

  “You are my—my princess,” he stutters. “I grew up knowing everything there was to know about you. Which, I’ll admit, isn’t much considering you disappeared from public view when you were only ten . . . but perhaps it’s what came before that you’re most in need of.”

  I keep my face emotionless, refusing to let this person see the way my heart leaps then hammers in my chest. I want nothing more than to know what he knows. “Well, it would help pass the time.”

  His lips quirk into a half smile and he drops his chin again, so his hair flops over his eyes. I have a sudden and disquieting desire to run my fingers through it, to push it back from his forehead. A thought, maybe a memory, flicks across my mind’s eye— I see a boy, standing restlessly at his father’s side. He is dressed in great finery, as elegant and royal as my own father. He doesn’t look at all like the boy I used to play with. I don’t want to be there. Don’t want to hear the words I am there to hear.

  “It will be over soon,” Archibald whispers in my ear. “Just say the words as I taught you.”

  I resist the urge to grip his hand. I am to stand tall and still, as royal as my mother. I glance to where she sits in the straight-backed throne on my right. She is elegant and beautiful. Much more beautiful than Nicolai’s mother who seems to wear a permanent scowl on her face. I fight to school my features so I will look lovely and serene like my mother—I don’t ever want to appear as fierce and unkind as Her Royal Highness Karenina, Nicolai’s mother.

  Archibald pokes my shoulder and my mouth pops open. I almost speak but then I realize it is not yet my turn. First, I must wait for my father’s words.

  “As we agreed, the time is upon us to forge a union between our two great nations. Your Son of the East. My Daughter of the West. A people strengthened and fortified against our enemies which press on either side.”

  I don’t know anything about enemies. I think we live in a time of peace. I want to ask Archibald what he means, but I know enough to keep my mouth shut.

  “It is as we agreed, yes.” Nicolai’s father is very large and bushy. I wonder if they had to create a new throne for him to sit in, or if all the Eastern Kings were big so they made the original throne extra-large, too. “My son will take the hand of your daughter, and together they will
rule humankind.”

  “Together they will rule,” my father and mother intone in unison with the Eastern rulers.

  “Now,” whispers Archibald, giving me a little nudge on the back.

  “Kind sir,” I begin. I am too quiet. Too unsure. I square my shoulders and clear my throat. “Kind sir. It will be my honor to share my kingdom, my castle, my body and my bed with your son. I will serve him all the days of my life. Indeed, my life will not truly begin until I am Bonded to him.” I don’t know what is meant by body and bed. The kingdom is all the people of the West, from New Trinidad to New Alaska and every ship-state in between. My castle is the Capital ship, the place that has, and ever will be, my home, whether I live on Nicolai’s Capital or not. But my body and bed? I don’t know how those things could belong to anyone but me, but Archibald has told me he will answer those questions when the time comes, but it hasn’t arrived yet.

  Nicolai stares at me while I speak, his cheeks turning a burnished red beneath his flop of black hair. I like it, because for the first time he looks like a boy, like my friend. When he speaks he does not falter as I had, but glares at me, like he hates every single word. I don’t know why he is so angry with me. I want to grab his hand and run and hide in one of our favorite places but Archibald’s hand on my shoulder restrains me. I have to fight to keep the tears from my eyes.

  “Kind sir, I pledge my kingdom, my castle, my fist and my heart to your daughter. I will fight for her and all your people. I will claim them as my own. Together we will rule mankind. Together we will paint a new future for our people.”

  He doesn’t look like he wants do anything with me, let alone paint. He looks like he's completely forgotten how to have fun. I sigh. I don’t like this new Nicolai. At least not with that frown on his face.

  “It is well,” the King of the East says.

  “It is well,” Father replies.

  “Do you want me to tell you, or not?” Nic’s voice cuts through the static in my brain and yanks me back to the present.

  A present in which my parents are dead, Archibald has left me, and before me sits the very arrogant Nicolai who never wanted me in the first place. Except, he is denying who he is. Probably because there is no way he wants to be saddled with the Daughter of the West. Otherwise, why try to hide his identity? Why not claim what is apparently his to claim?

  He watches me too closely, his eyes narrowed to slits. I sigh—a bad habit I’ve never been able to break, though Archibald tried to rid me of it. “Fine. Tell me.”

  I expect him to say what a brat I was. How spoiled. Because I remember now that I’d been just that. A spoiled little princess in every sense of the word. Oh, how much has changed. But he doesn’t need to know that. He never needs to know how I’ve spent the last nine years. My gut twists at that truth. It has been so long. Too long.

  But Nic surprises me. With a low, soft voice that pulls my attention, draws me to him, he begins to tell a story. “I—I remember when your birth was announced all over the news. I remember because they made a great fuss over you—not only in the West but in the East as well. My own father—uh, well, he said it was a good thing you’d been born a girl because now maybe the uh, West would align itself with the East. Maybe a union could be made between the, uh, heir to the Eastern throne and the princess in the West—to you.”

  I think about stopping him. About telling him I know who he is, that I remember the day we made our vows to one another, but there is power in knowledge—that much I know. I will wait him out and see if, or when, he’ll ever admit his identity.

  “You were a pretty little thing. You had the loveliest lips . . .” He glances at me, at my lips, his neck blazing red against the starched black color of his uniform. “You know, for a baby. Plus, they always showed you in the most flattering way. It wouldn’t do to have you crying on universal TV.” He tries for a laugh, but it sounds dry in his throat. I am busy thinking about all these things I’ve forgotten—the TV that always filtered information, propaganda for the thrones, for the Mind. I’d forgotten the way my mother fussed over me, always insisting I be dressed in frills and lace, the picture perfect princess at all times and in all places.

  “I remember the way your mother smiled down on you, the way her face seemed to soften when she looked at you.”

  “She did?” I don’t remember much of my mother.

  “I remember because the way she seemed to love you was so different from the way my mother regarded me.” His chin snaps up at that and his mouth clicks shut. “I only mean, we were laborers, of course. My mother was too busy to dote on me.”

  “Of course,” I murmur, again wondering why he insists on the ruse. I am more and more certain he wishes to remain hidden so I don’t lay claim to him. He’d rather give up his own thrown than Bond with me.

  “You were very naughty,” Nic says. His voice is higher now, giving way to merriment, and I realize he’s decided to avoid talking about things that are too close to his heart. “There were many airings where you had escaped from your Servant. Many times when the cameras—directly downloaded from your Servant sometimes—caught you in some place you were not meant to go. Like the Servants’ quarters, the control room, or riding up and down the transport.

  “There was even one time when your Servant found you with your hand pressed flat against the side of the ship—the outside wall of the hull. Your hand shone with threads of white light, like digital code running up and down your hand and wrist, and all around your hand, the ship’s wall shimmered and swam, like liquid. Your Servant became very angry with you and turned the cameras off immediately, but the newsters speculated for days over what it might have meant.” He looks pointedly at my hand now, which rests on the console in front of me. I snatch it away and hide it in my lap, my hands twisting together.

  “Can you still do that?”

  “What?” I try to push the very thought away from me, as if by denying it inside my own head, I will deny it ever happened at all.

  “Communicate with the ship that way. Change its physical make-up just by touching it.”

  “No.” I say it, but it seems the lie echoes around me, reflecting back from every surface.

  Nic watches me. Analyzing. Judging. I’m positive he can read the lie in me as I can in him.

  I jump to my feet. “I need to check on the others.”

  Nic stands too, tugging on his jacket and squaring his shoulders. “I’ve always wanted to see inside the Capital. May I join you?”

  “No,” I snap. It is harsh, I am too harsh. I think of taking back the words, of letting him join me, but I can’t. It feels like they have already floated too far away for me to recall them. A moment later I turn on my heel and step into the transport. I keep my back to the room, and to Nic, until after the wall has coalesced and my decent to the housing decks has begun.

  I don’t go anywhere near the levels where the support staff are housed. Instead I change my mind and go up to the only two levels above the control deck. To the royal living quarters. To home.

  I step off the transport and into a dark corridor. “Lights?” For some reason I whisper, almost as if I might be intruding on someone, the rightful owners of this place. Soft light flickers to life from dozens of sconces high on the wall. The elegant pattern in the rug at my feet comes alive too, as lights embedded in the fiber are activated, adding a sense of magic to the design. In front of the elevator a straight back, cushioned chair, lies on its side, one of its legs broken into jagged pieces.

  Directly in front of the transport, behind the chair, a doorway beckons. Beyond the doorway all I can see is a wide entryway. With care I step forward and into the corridor, beyond the chair and into the room.

  The floor inside the apartment is made of a gleaming white material my mind names marble and I know had been mined from Earth more than a thousand years ago. My feet make no sound, but I know that once, long ago, I’d enjoyed dancing on this floor and listening to the clatter my shoes made. There isn’t a shred
of dust on the floor or anywhere else, the ship’s air circulation ensuring that even after nine years, the air and every surface is clean.

  I move further in and turn toward the room that lies to the left—and stifle a gasp as the scene comes into view. Two skeletons in limp, faded clothing sit in a chair by the large fireplace. One figure is bent at the waist, hunched over the body in his arms. A large knife protrudes from his back.

  My heart racing, I move closer. They were my parents, I am sure of it. Their rich clothing, the golden slippers on my mother’s feet, and a large, opulent ring that lies near my father’s shoes tell me the story.

  She died in his arms.

  The reality of my past, the truth of this moment—that he loved her, that she found comfort in his embrace—drives me to my knees where the tears I’ve withheld my entire life finally find their release.

  A warm hand on my back draws me to the present. At first I think I’ve imagined the touch as my eyes fall once more on my parents’ remains, but it is him. Nicolai, my once-betrothed. The man who claims to be a stranger.

  My body instinctively wants to lean back against him, to take comfort from him, but I resist.

  I clear my throat, and when I speak it carries the raspiness of tears. “What are you doing here?” The words are abrupt, but there is no malice in them. I feel so tired, and suddenly I think it would be easier to be who I used to be—an outcast, an outsider—than to bear the weight of my family’s history.

  “I’m sorry, Serantha.”

  At the sound of that name, everything in me stills, as if listening for something beyond my hearing. Serantha. I could let Sera, and everything she was, go. I could be princess, queen. I could be strong and capable, I could lead.