The Queen of Traitors
Page 21
DO RIGHT.
Montes’s words linger with me even as we slide into the car that will take us to the press conference.
What is right?
I don’t know anymore.
I glance over at the king, who’s flipping through a stack of papers one of his aides gave him.
He is so sure of everything, and I am sure of nothing. I can’t tell which is the worse fate—to question everything, to be paralyzed by indecision, or to question nothing and move through the world blind to any other way of existing save for your own.
My thoughts are whisked from me as we leave the palace grounds. This is the first time since the king retrieved me that I see the world outside.
I place my hand against the window. Fields of weeds and wild grass float by. Wherever we are, it’s far from any broken city. A morning mist clings to the ground, but with each passing minute it dissipates a little more.
“Where are we?”
I don’t expect Montes to answer. He didn’t last time. So I’m surprised when he does.
“We’re in what used to be known as England.”
I remember England from the history books. It was one of the first countries to fall. By the time my father and I flew to Geneva for the peace talks, the Northern Isles were one of King Montes Lazuli’s most secure regions. The Resistance didn’t have a great foothold there, which might be one of the reasons why the king and I are currently here.
It strikes me all over again how intent Montes is on keeping me safe. It’s been this way since he learned of my cancer. The thought leaves my throat dry.
I grab a water bottle nestled in the center console of the car and take a drink of it before going back to staring out the window.
Nearly an hour goes by in that car. Sometimes we pass through villages that look completely unaffected by the king’s war, and twice we pass through bigger towns that show only the barest hints of repair—scaffolding along the sides of some buildings and a temporary wall erected around a block. This might just be general maintenance. It’s been so long since I’ve seen how normal cities function that I can’t be sure.
When we reach the city, everything gleams. If there was once war here, the evidence has been painted and rebuilt away. People here stand by the side of the road, waving as we go by. They actually appear … excited to see the king’s procession of vehicles.
That’s a first.
The car slows to a stop in front of what appears to be an enormous coliseum. We’re shuffled past the waiting throngs of people, down a series of halls, and out to an outdoor stage.
“This is all you now,” the king says. He peels away from me while the organizers direct me from the wings of the stage towards the podium.
I almost stagger back when I catch a glimpse of the crowd. There are thousands of them. The seats are all full. It’s a far cry from the last speech I gave.
Covered in blood, my body shaking. My father was dead and I had to inform the WUN.
The crowd roars as they catch sight of me.
These aren’t the same people who waited for me to disembark all that time ago. These people are foreigners with entirely separate histories. This new world of mine has been theirs for far longer. What could they possibly want from me? What would I want from me?
A leader. A real one. The world doesn’t trust Montes.
They continue to cheer as I approach the dais. Their applause is a terrible, terrible sound because it’s a lie. I’ve killed their comrades, their sons and daughters, their friends and neighbors.
I draw in a shuddering breath at the podium, and it echoes from the speakers. Montes stands only a handful of feet away, back in the shadows hidden off to the side of the stage, but we might as well be separated by oceans.
My eyes find the teleprompter. Just as quickly, they leave it. If I’m going to give a speech, the words will be my own.
I clear my throat. “I’m honored that you’ve cheered for me, given that most of you have seen the footage of me stepping onto former WUN soil.”
Any remaining noise dies out at that, and I can see PR people gesturing wildly to cut off my mike.
I curl my hands over the edge of the podium and bow my head. The pain is right there. All I have to do is give it a little attention and I’ll fall apart. Luckily for me, I have no interest in indulging it. I’ve spent the better part of a decade too busy surviving to afford the luxury of living inside my sadness. I won’t start today.
“Several months ago, you were my enemy and my husband, the king, was the one man I most wanted to see dead.”
More wild gesturing comes from the wings of the stage, but Montes must be refusing their requests because no one comes to drag me off.
“I was born in Washington D.C., the daughter of an American congressman. When I was ten, I watched my mother die. The aerial attack came from the sky. A few years later, a nuclear blast wiped out my city. Aside from my father, everyone I’d known and loved was gone in an instant.”
My words are met with utter silence.
“I’m telling you this because many of you have similar stories. They might be older, but they’re no less painful.”
The ominous silence turns to murmuring. People are listening, some nodding.
“I may have married the king, but I am not him. I am one of you. I hurt like you, I love like you, and I can die like you.”
The words flow out of me. I don’t know if anything I’m saying finds its mark, but this is the best I have to offer.
“I’ve seen what war does to a place. It brings out the worst in us. But the war is over. It’s time for us to not simply survive, but to thrive …”
The crowd’s talking and shifting. People point to the erected screens and I follow their gazes.
I see myself, my face angled slightly away from the camera. Dripping from my nose is a line of blood. I reach up and touch it, staring at my fingers.
The noise of the crowd rises. People are shouting, and they’re repeating one word over and over—
Plague.
CHAPTER 11
Serenity
“IT’S GOING TO be okay.”
Five words every soldier fears.
You can rephrase them, elaborate on them, parse them down, but the meaning is always the same: you’re fucked.
It doesn’t help that the royal physician—Dr. Goldstein, the man who administered the antidote to my memory loss—says this while wearing a hazmat suit. He’s already swabbed my cheek and taken a sample of my blood for testing, and now he’s cleansing my arm for a shot.
Montes’s words linger with me even as we slide into the car that will take us to the press conference.
What is right?
I don’t know anymore.
I glance over at the king, who’s flipping through a stack of papers one of his aides gave him.
He is so sure of everything, and I am sure of nothing. I can’t tell which is the worse fate—to question everything, to be paralyzed by indecision, or to question nothing and move through the world blind to any other way of existing save for your own.
My thoughts are whisked from me as we leave the palace grounds. This is the first time since the king retrieved me that I see the world outside.
I place my hand against the window. Fields of weeds and wild grass float by. Wherever we are, it’s far from any broken city. A morning mist clings to the ground, but with each passing minute it dissipates a little more.
“Where are we?”
I don’t expect Montes to answer. He didn’t last time. So I’m surprised when he does.
“We’re in what used to be known as England.”
I remember England from the history books. It was one of the first countries to fall. By the time my father and I flew to Geneva for the peace talks, the Northern Isles were one of King Montes Lazuli’s most secure regions. The Resistance didn’t have a great foothold there, which might be one of the reasons why the king and I are currently here.
It strikes me all over again how intent Montes is on keeping me safe. It’s been this way since he learned of my cancer. The thought leaves my throat dry.
I grab a water bottle nestled in the center console of the car and take a drink of it before going back to staring out the window.
Nearly an hour goes by in that car. Sometimes we pass through villages that look completely unaffected by the king’s war, and twice we pass through bigger towns that show only the barest hints of repair—scaffolding along the sides of some buildings and a temporary wall erected around a block. This might just be general maintenance. It’s been so long since I’ve seen how normal cities function that I can’t be sure.
When we reach the city, everything gleams. If there was once war here, the evidence has been painted and rebuilt away. People here stand by the side of the road, waving as we go by. They actually appear … excited to see the king’s procession of vehicles.
That’s a first.
The car slows to a stop in front of what appears to be an enormous coliseum. We’re shuffled past the waiting throngs of people, down a series of halls, and out to an outdoor stage.
“This is all you now,” the king says. He peels away from me while the organizers direct me from the wings of the stage towards the podium.
I almost stagger back when I catch a glimpse of the crowd. There are thousands of them. The seats are all full. It’s a far cry from the last speech I gave.
Covered in blood, my body shaking. My father was dead and I had to inform the WUN.
The crowd roars as they catch sight of me.
These aren’t the same people who waited for me to disembark all that time ago. These people are foreigners with entirely separate histories. This new world of mine has been theirs for far longer. What could they possibly want from me? What would I want from me?
A leader. A real one. The world doesn’t trust Montes.
They continue to cheer as I approach the dais. Their applause is a terrible, terrible sound because it’s a lie. I’ve killed their comrades, their sons and daughters, their friends and neighbors.
I draw in a shuddering breath at the podium, and it echoes from the speakers. Montes stands only a handful of feet away, back in the shadows hidden off to the side of the stage, but we might as well be separated by oceans.
My eyes find the teleprompter. Just as quickly, they leave it. If I’m going to give a speech, the words will be my own.
I clear my throat. “I’m honored that you’ve cheered for me, given that most of you have seen the footage of me stepping onto former WUN soil.”
Any remaining noise dies out at that, and I can see PR people gesturing wildly to cut off my mike.
I curl my hands over the edge of the podium and bow my head. The pain is right there. All I have to do is give it a little attention and I’ll fall apart. Luckily for me, I have no interest in indulging it. I’ve spent the better part of a decade too busy surviving to afford the luxury of living inside my sadness. I won’t start today.
“Several months ago, you were my enemy and my husband, the king, was the one man I most wanted to see dead.”
More wild gesturing comes from the wings of the stage, but Montes must be refusing their requests because no one comes to drag me off.
“I was born in Washington D.C., the daughter of an American congressman. When I was ten, I watched my mother die. The aerial attack came from the sky. A few years later, a nuclear blast wiped out my city. Aside from my father, everyone I’d known and loved was gone in an instant.”
My words are met with utter silence.
“I’m telling you this because many of you have similar stories. They might be older, but they’re no less painful.”
The ominous silence turns to murmuring. People are listening, some nodding.
“I may have married the king, but I am not him. I am one of you. I hurt like you, I love like you, and I can die like you.”
The words flow out of me. I don’t know if anything I’m saying finds its mark, but this is the best I have to offer.
“I’ve seen what war does to a place. It brings out the worst in us. But the war is over. It’s time for us to not simply survive, but to thrive …”
The crowd’s talking and shifting. People point to the erected screens and I follow their gazes.
I see myself, my face angled slightly away from the camera. Dripping from my nose is a line of blood. I reach up and touch it, staring at my fingers.
The noise of the crowd rises. People are shouting, and they’re repeating one word over and over—
Plague.
CHAPTER 11
Serenity
“IT’S GOING TO be okay.”
Five words every soldier fears.
You can rephrase them, elaborate on them, parse them down, but the meaning is always the same: you’re fucked.
It doesn’t help that the royal physician—Dr. Goldstein, the man who administered the antidote to my memory loss—says this while wearing a hazmat suit. He’s already swabbed my cheek and taken a sample of my blood for testing, and now he’s cleansing my arm for a shot.
