The Queen of Traitors
Page 31
I can’t say anything to that. Our world is one of hard choices and bloodshed.
“After you detonated the nukes across the WUN,” I say, “Estes began destabilizing many of the neighboring regions.”
When I was just the daughter of an emissary, Estes had been one of the thorns in the WUN’s side. He often pulled aggressive maneuvers on his allies rather than trying to come together and provide a united front against the Eastern Empire.
“That’s because he was working for me the entire time.”
Montes’s words aren’t surprising, but they are disheartening.
“So you would have a sellout—a traitor to his comrades—holding the seat of Southern WUN.”
“South America,” Montes corrects.
“What would you have me do?” he asks, leaning forward.
He really wants my advice, this man who’s taken over the world.
“You have better experience with bad men than I do.” He convenes with a whole room of them on a daily basis. “Perhaps you can handle Estes. But I’d listen to what the people here want.”
“My reports indicate he’s a favorite amongst the people.”
I know all about Montes’s reports. They’d serve more use as kindling than as information.
“Fear and love wear similar faces,” I say.
“Not on you.”
This is hedging too close to subjects I don’t want to talk about. “You’ve never seen love on my face,” I say, staring him down.
“I thought you and I were beyond the lies.” He holds my gaze.
My fingers dig into my arm rests. I’m itching to unholster my gun, but not because I’m angry. Heaven help me, it’s because Montes might be right and I can’t bear that he of all people lured something as soft as love out of me.
Montes lifts a cup of coffee to his lips. After he sets it down, he says, “I will take what you say into account. For now, let’s keep our friends close and our enemies closer.”
“I already am, Montes.” And that really is the problem.
CHAPTER 16
Serenity
THE WORLD WE descend into is rapturous. There’s no other word to describe it. From the sky, the world is a blanket of lush green. I know this place was hit hard by the king, but it’s hard to appreciate the destruction from my vantage point.
The king’s eyes are trained on mine as we step out of the plane. I’ve come across photos of jungles and the tropics, and long ago, before the war, my parents had taken me on vacations, but faded memories and two-dimensional images are nothing compared to this.
The air is a hot breath against my face; the humidity sticks to my skin. Beyond the tarmac, shrubs and trees press in, their stalks and leaves swaying in the light breeze. I can smell brine in the air. It’s like war and corruption never touched this place. I know that’s not true, but nature paints a pretty picture.
A small contingent waits for us. I scan the group for Estes or anyone else I might recognize, but these are just more of the king’s aides and soldiers stationed here to guard us. They shuffle us into a sleek black car, and then as quickly as we arrive, we leave.
The damage to this place becomes apparent on our drive. It’s not so much the broken buildings that tell the story of war. No, it’s more subtle and insidious than that. It’s the vines that grow between the skeletal remains of houses, the side streets that have been all but smothered by the plants.
Goosebumps prickle along my skin. Mother Nature is the apex predator here.
We crest a hill, and I see the deep blue ocean spread out before us. The king’s managed to find one of the few places on the western hemisphere whose beauty is unsullied by war.
But it’s like overripe fruit. To the eyes, everything’s fine, but there’s a sickness that’s settled just beneath the surface.
It’s no surprise when the car pulls up in front of a seaside mansion. What is surprising is the place’s seclusion. We have no neighbors, and I already know we will be hosting no meetings here. It’s not the kind of home that demands an audience, it’s the kind made for secret rendezvous—or so I assume. I have no other point of reference save for my imagination.
“This seems a little underwhelming for your taste,” I say, stepping out of the car.
He gets up behind me, and his lips press against my ear. “I’m not doing this for me.”
I don’t bother keeping the skepticism from my voice. “You thought I would appreciate the seaside getaway?”
“I thought you’d appreciate not having to worry about assassination attempts—and banal conversations with politicians and their wives.”
I study Montes as he passes me. Thoughtful is not a word I would use to describe him—nor is caring—and yet both seem to motivate him when it comes to me.
“You and I both know we’ll still have to participate in banal conversations, seaside getaway or no,” I say, following him inside. Politics really only gets exciting when people are stirring up trouble. Otherwise the legislation can put you to sleep.
“Yes, but this way I won’t have to constantly worry about you shooting those that piss you off.”
“Do their lives really matter that much to you?” I ask.
He pauses in the living room. This may be no palace, but each lavish detail—from the painted tile to the carved mantle to the marbled archways—indicates just how expensive this place is.
“Not in the least. But I prefer to burn bridges on my terms, not yours.”
I shake my head and wander through the kitchen. I head over to the stovetop and flick a burner on, watching the flames bloom in a ring. Instant fire. Does the king have any idea just how precious this one thing is? Turf wars have been started over less.
Stirring utensils hang along the wall. Jars of oils and seasonings sit on display in fancy glass containers. The line between food and art is blurry here.
For years now, meals are a morbid occasion for me. Everyone must eat to live, but when the food and water are in short supply and what’s left is riddled with radiation, it feels a bit like Russian roulette. Will today’s meal be the one that poisons your system? It’s the reminder that while we stave off death for the day, we’re always beckoning it closer.
But here in this place, food appears to be a joyous occasion. One that celebrates life and gluttony. I envy the lifestyle even as I reject it.
“After you detonated the nukes across the WUN,” I say, “Estes began destabilizing many of the neighboring regions.”
When I was just the daughter of an emissary, Estes had been one of the thorns in the WUN’s side. He often pulled aggressive maneuvers on his allies rather than trying to come together and provide a united front against the Eastern Empire.
“That’s because he was working for me the entire time.”
Montes’s words aren’t surprising, but they are disheartening.
“So you would have a sellout—a traitor to his comrades—holding the seat of Southern WUN.”
“South America,” Montes corrects.
“What would you have me do?” he asks, leaning forward.
He really wants my advice, this man who’s taken over the world.
“You have better experience with bad men than I do.” He convenes with a whole room of them on a daily basis. “Perhaps you can handle Estes. But I’d listen to what the people here want.”
“My reports indicate he’s a favorite amongst the people.”
I know all about Montes’s reports. They’d serve more use as kindling than as information.
“Fear and love wear similar faces,” I say.
“Not on you.”
This is hedging too close to subjects I don’t want to talk about. “You’ve never seen love on my face,” I say, staring him down.
“I thought you and I were beyond the lies.” He holds my gaze.
My fingers dig into my arm rests. I’m itching to unholster my gun, but not because I’m angry. Heaven help me, it’s because Montes might be right and I can’t bear that he of all people lured something as soft as love out of me.
Montes lifts a cup of coffee to his lips. After he sets it down, he says, “I will take what you say into account. For now, let’s keep our friends close and our enemies closer.”
“I already am, Montes.” And that really is the problem.
CHAPTER 16
Serenity
THE WORLD WE descend into is rapturous. There’s no other word to describe it. From the sky, the world is a blanket of lush green. I know this place was hit hard by the king, but it’s hard to appreciate the destruction from my vantage point.
The king’s eyes are trained on mine as we step out of the plane. I’ve come across photos of jungles and the tropics, and long ago, before the war, my parents had taken me on vacations, but faded memories and two-dimensional images are nothing compared to this.
The air is a hot breath against my face; the humidity sticks to my skin. Beyond the tarmac, shrubs and trees press in, their stalks and leaves swaying in the light breeze. I can smell brine in the air. It’s like war and corruption never touched this place. I know that’s not true, but nature paints a pretty picture.
A small contingent waits for us. I scan the group for Estes or anyone else I might recognize, but these are just more of the king’s aides and soldiers stationed here to guard us. They shuffle us into a sleek black car, and then as quickly as we arrive, we leave.
The damage to this place becomes apparent on our drive. It’s not so much the broken buildings that tell the story of war. No, it’s more subtle and insidious than that. It’s the vines that grow between the skeletal remains of houses, the side streets that have been all but smothered by the plants.
Goosebumps prickle along my skin. Mother Nature is the apex predator here.
We crest a hill, and I see the deep blue ocean spread out before us. The king’s managed to find one of the few places on the western hemisphere whose beauty is unsullied by war.
But it’s like overripe fruit. To the eyes, everything’s fine, but there’s a sickness that’s settled just beneath the surface.
It’s no surprise when the car pulls up in front of a seaside mansion. What is surprising is the place’s seclusion. We have no neighbors, and I already know we will be hosting no meetings here. It’s not the kind of home that demands an audience, it’s the kind made for secret rendezvous—or so I assume. I have no other point of reference save for my imagination.
“This seems a little underwhelming for your taste,” I say, stepping out of the car.
He gets up behind me, and his lips press against my ear. “I’m not doing this for me.”
I don’t bother keeping the skepticism from my voice. “You thought I would appreciate the seaside getaway?”
“I thought you’d appreciate not having to worry about assassination attempts—and banal conversations with politicians and their wives.”
I study Montes as he passes me. Thoughtful is not a word I would use to describe him—nor is caring—and yet both seem to motivate him when it comes to me.
“You and I both know we’ll still have to participate in banal conversations, seaside getaway or no,” I say, following him inside. Politics really only gets exciting when people are stirring up trouble. Otherwise the legislation can put you to sleep.
“Yes, but this way I won’t have to constantly worry about you shooting those that piss you off.”
“Do their lives really matter that much to you?” I ask.
He pauses in the living room. This may be no palace, but each lavish detail—from the painted tile to the carved mantle to the marbled archways—indicates just how expensive this place is.
“Not in the least. But I prefer to burn bridges on my terms, not yours.”
I shake my head and wander through the kitchen. I head over to the stovetop and flick a burner on, watching the flames bloom in a ring. Instant fire. Does the king have any idea just how precious this one thing is? Turf wars have been started over less.
Stirring utensils hang along the wall. Jars of oils and seasonings sit on display in fancy glass containers. The line between food and art is blurry here.
For years now, meals are a morbid occasion for me. Everyone must eat to live, but when the food and water are in short supply and what’s left is riddled with radiation, it feels a bit like Russian roulette. Will today’s meal be the one that poisons your system? It’s the reminder that while we stave off death for the day, we’re always beckoning it closer.
But here in this place, food appears to be a joyous occasion. One that celebrates life and gluttony. I envy the lifestyle even as I reject it.
