MARGARET K. McELDERRY BOOKS
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people,
or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and
incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to
actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Kimberly Derting
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
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The text for this book is set in Avenir.
Manufactured in the United States of America
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Derting, Kimberly.
The pledge / Kimberly Derting. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In a dystopian kingdom where the classes are separated
by the languages they speak, Charlaina “Charlie” Hart has a secret gift
that is revealed when she meets a mysterious young man named Max.
ISBN 978-1-4424-2201-8 (hc)
ISBN 978-1-4424-2203-2 (eBook)
[1. Fantasy. 2. Language and languages—Fiction.
3. Social classes—Fiction. 4. Ability—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.D4468Ple 2011
[Fic]—dc22
2010053773
To Abby, Connor, and Amanda.
You know why.
Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PART I
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER I
THE QUEEN
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
MAX
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
XANDER
MAX
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
PART II
CHAPTER XII
THE QUEEN
MAX
CHAPTER XIII
THE QUEEN
MAX
CHAPTER XIV
XANDER
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
THE QUEEN
CHAPTER XX
THE QUEEN
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
THE QUEEN
CHAPTER XXV
MAX
CHAPTER XXVI
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Each book has its own cast of “characters” who deserve special thanks. For this book, I have to start off by thanking one particular woman who, when I met her, shared heart-wrenching stories of her early childhood years in WWII Germany. Marie Lucas, somewhere in your reminiscing you sparked the very beginnings of what would eventually become The Pledge. Thank you for telling me stories about a frightened little girl who was awakened in the night by air-raid sirens and was then thrown over the fences by her older sisters so they could hide in the mineshafts outside of town until the fighting had passed. And thank you, too, for telling me about the battered little rag doll you treasured. You are the original Angelina.
As always, I have to thank my fearless and tireless agent, Laura Rennert. Thank you for being on my side.
And to my incredible editor, Gretchen Hirsch, for believing in me not once, but twice, and for being intuitive and patient and brilliant. I truly love working with you.
To the Smart Chicks, for letting me sit with the cool kids. To Jenny Jeffries and Shelli Johannes-Wells: thanks for staying up late to read for me. To Erin Gross and Heidi Bennett: thank you for being such great cheerleaders. To everyone at the Debs and the Tenners: thank you for making me feel sane in this crazy publishing world! And to my wonderful friends Jacqueline Sander, Tamara McDonald, and Carol Hildebrand, for helping me plan such fabulous launch parties for my books. (Seriously, I think the three of you should open your own business . . . or at least charge me for your services.)
To my husband, Josh, for being my first beta-reader, my patient advisor, and a sympathetic shoulder all rolled up in one. To my children, for being willing to eat fast food again and again and again. To my mom, for constantly telling me I could do anything . . . and genuinely meaning it. And to my dad, for always making me laugh when I need it most.
And a special thank-you to my brother, Scot, who I’ve both loved and hated over the years (as most sisters do), but who has taught me the incredible value of having siblings. There’s no one I would rather have shared my childhood with . . . I love you!
PROLOGUE
142 YEARS AFTER THE
REVOLUTION OF SOVEREIGNS
The air crackled like a gathering thunderstorm the moment the girl entered the chamber. She was just a child, but her presence changed everything.
With effort, the queen turned her head on her pillow as she watched the little girl pad into the chamber on slippered feet. The child kept her chin tucked tightly against her chest ahus
Maybe the queen’s guards weren’t even aware of the charge in the air, but she was suddenly conscious of the blood coursing through her veins, the quickening of her pulse, and the sound of each breath that she took—no longer ragged and wheezing.
She turned her attention to the men who’d escorted the child. “Leave us,” she declared in a voice that had once been filled with authority but now came out hoarse and papery.
They had no reason to question the command; certainly the girl would be safe with her own mother.
The child jumped at the sound of the door closing behind her, her eyes widening, but she still refused to meet her mother’s stare.
“Princess Sabara,” the queen said softly, in her quietest voice, trying to gain the young girl’s trust. In her daughter’s six short years, the queen had spent little time with her, leaving her in the care of governesses, nurses, and tutors. “Come closer, my darling.”
The girl’s feet shuffled forward, but her eyes remained fastened on the floor—a trait reserved for the lower classes, her mother noted bitterly. Six was young, maybe too young, but she’d delayed for as long as she could. The queen was young too; her body should have had many good years remaining, but now she lay sick and dying, and she could no longer afford to wait. Besides, she’d been grooming the girl for this day.
When the girl reached her bedside, the queen held out her hand, tipping the child’s small chin upward and forcing the young princess to meet her eyes. “You’re the eldest girl child born to me,” she explained—a story she’d told the child dozens of times already, reminding her of just how special she was. How important. “But we’ve talked about this, haven’t we? You’re not afraid, are you?”
The little girl shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears as they darted nervously one way and then the other.
“I need you to be brave, Sabara. Can you be brave for me? Are you ready?”
And then the girl’s shoulders stiffened as she steadied herself, finding her queen’s eyes at last. “Yes, Mamma, I’m ready.”
The queen smiled. The girl was ready; young but ready
.
She will be a beauty in her time, the queen thought, studying the girl’s smooth porcelain skin and her soft, shining eyes. She will be strong and powerful and feared, a force to be reckoned with. Men will fall at her feet . . .
. . . and she will crush them.
She will be a great queen.
She took a shaky breath. It was time.
She reached for the girl, clutching the child’s tiny fingers in hers, the smile evaporating from her lips as she concentrated on the task at hand.
She ushered forth her soul, that part deep inside of her that made her who she was. Her Essence. She could feel it coiling tightly inside of her, still full of life in ways that her body no longer was.
“I need you to say the words, Sabara.” It was nearly a plea, and she hoped the girl didn’t realize how badly she needed her, how desperate she was for this to work.
The little girl’s gaze remained fastened to the queen, and her chin inched up a notch as she spoke the words they’d rehearsed. “Take me, Mamma. Take me instead.”
The queen inhaled sharply, the muscles of her hand seizing around the girl’s as she closed her eyes. It wasn’t pain she felt. In fact, it was closer to pleasure as her Essence unfurled, misting and swirling like a dense fog as it spread through her, breaking free from its constraints at last.
She heard the child gasp, and then felt her struggle, trying to free her fingers from her mother’s grip. But it didn’t matter now; it was too late. She’d already said the words.
The overwhelming sense of ecstasy nearly shattered her, and then dulled, fading again as her Essence settled into a new space, curling into itself once more. Finding peace at long last.
She kept her eyes squeezed tight, not ready yet to open them, not ready to know whether the transfer had worked or not. And then she heard the faintest of sounds, a soft gurgling. Followed by nothing.
A deafening silence.
Slowly—so very slowly—she opened her eyes to see what it was . . .
. . . and found herself standing at the side of the bed, staring into the empty eyes of the dead queen. Eyes that had once belonged to her.
I
81 YEARS LATER
223 YEARS AFTER THE
REVOLUTION OF SOVEREIGNS
I gritted my teeth as Mr. Grayson’s voice grew louder and louder, until there was no mistaking that he meant for the people in the congested street to hear him, despite the fact that he knew full well they couldn’t understand a single word he spoke.
It was the same thing every day. I was forced to listen to his shameless bigotry simply because his shop stood across the crowded marketplace from my parents’ restaurant. He didn’t bother disguising his contempt for the refugees that flooded our city, bringing with them their “poverty and disease.”
And he did it right in front of them, smiling falsely to their faces while they filed past his shop, displaying wares he hoped to sell them. Of course, they had no real way of knowing—other than his scornful tone—that the shopkeeper mocked and ridiculed them since he spoke in Parshon, and they were obviously not vendors. They were the impoverished, sharing the downcast gazes of the Serving class. Yet even as the merchant called them names they couldn’t understand, they never glanced up. It wasn’t permitted.
Only when he finally addressed them in the universal language of Englaise did their eyes li CtheEARS stand, theft to meet his. “I have many fine fabrics,” he boasted in an effort to draw their attention, and hopefully their wallets. “Silks and wools of the finest quality.” And beneath his breath, but still loud enough to be heard, “And remnants and dirty scrap pieces as well.”
I glanced across the swell of tired faces crowding the market at this hour and saw Aron looking back at me. I narrowed my eyes to a glare, a wicked smile touching the corners of my lips. Your father’s an ass, I mouthed.
Even though he couldn’t hear what I said, he understood my meaning and grinned back at me, shocks of sand-colored hair standing up all over his head. I know, he mouthed back, a deep dimple digging its way through his left cheek. His warm golden eyes sparkled.
My mother poked her elbow into my ribs. “I saw that, young lady. Watch your language.”
I sighed, turning away from Aron. “Don’t worry, I always watch my language.”
“You know what I mean. I don’t want to hear that kind of talk from you, especially in front of your sister. You’re better than that.”
I stalked inside, taking shelter from the glare of the morning sun. My little sister sat at one of the empty tables, her legs swinging back and forth as she bobbed her head and pretended to feed the threadbare doll perched on the table in front of her.
“First of all, she didn’t hear it,” I protested. “No one did. And, apparently, I’m not better than that.” I raised my eyebrows as my mom went back to wiping down the tables. “Besides, he is an ass.”
“Charlaina Hart!” My mom’s voice—and her words—shifted to the throaty mutterings of Parshon, just as they always did when she lost her patience with me. She reached out and snapped me on the leg with her towel. “She’s four; she’s not hard of hearing!” She threw a glance toward my sister, whose silver-blond hair gleamed in the sunlight pouring in through the windows.
My little sister never even looked up; she was accustomed to my mouth.
“Maybe when Angelina’s old enough for school, she’ll learn better manners than you have.”
I bristled against my mother’s words. I hated when she said things like that; we both knew Angelina wouldn’t be going to school. Unless she found her voice soon, she wouldn’t be permitted to attend.
But instead of arguing, I shrugged stiffly. “Like you said, she’s only four,” I answered in Englaise.
“Just get out of here before you’re late. And don’t forget: we need you to work after school, so don’t go home.” She said this as if it were unusual. I worked every day after school. “Oh, and make sure Aron walks with you; there are a lot of new people in the city, and I’d feel better if the two of you stayed together.”
I stuffed my schoolbooks into my worn satchel before dropping down in front of Angelina as she silently played with her dolly. I kissed her on her cheek, secretly slipping a piece of candy into her already sticky palm. “Don’t tell Mommy, B#821 Mommy,&8221; I whispered close to her ear, wisps of her hair tickling my nose, “or I won’t be able to sneak you any more. Okay?”
My sister nodded at me, her blue eyes clear and wide and trusting, but she didn’t say anything. She never said anything.
My mother stopped me before I could go. “Charlaina, you have your Passport, don’t you?” It was an unnecessary question, but one she asked daily, every time I left her sight.
I tugged at the leather strap around my neck, revealing the ID card tucked within my shirt. The plastic coating was as warm and familiar to me as my own skin.
Then I winked at Angelina, reminding her one last time that we had a secret to keep, before I hurried out the door and into the congested streets.
I raised my hand above my head, waving to Aron as I passed his father’s shop, signaling that he should meet me in our usual spot: the plaza on the other side of the marketplace.
I pressed my way through the bodies, remembering a time—before the threat of a new revolution—when the streets were not so crowded, when the marketplace was simply a place for commerce, filled with the smells of smoked meats and leather and soaps and oils. Those smells were still here, but now they were mingled with the scent of unwashed bodies and desperation, as the market became a refuge for the country’s unwanted, those poor souls of the Serving class who’d been forced from their homes when trade lines had been cut off by the rebel forces. When those they served could no longer afford to keep them.
They flocked to our city for the promise of food and water and medical care.
Yet we could scarcely house them.
The monotone voice coming from the loudspeakers above our heads was so familiar I might not
have noticed it if the timing weren’t so uncanny: “ALL UNREGISTERED IMMIGRANTS MUST REPORT TO CAPITOL HALL.”
I clutched the strap of my bag and kept my head low as I pushed ahead.
When I finally emerged from the stream of bodies, I saw Aron already standing in front of the fountain in the plaza, waiting for me. For him it was always a race.
“Whatever,” I muttered, unable to keep the grin from my lips as I handed him my book bag. “I refuse to say it.”
He took my heavy load without complaint, beaming back at me. “Fine, Charlie, I’ll say it: I win.” Then he reached into his own bag, which was slung across his shoulder. Behind us, the water from the fountain trickled musically. “Here,” he said, handing me a fold of soft black fabric. “I brought you something. It’s silk.”
As my fingers closed around the smooth material, I gasped. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. Silk, I repeated in my head. I knew the word but had never actually touched the fabric before. I squeezed it in my hand, rubbing it with my fingertips, admiring the way it was almost sheer and the way the sun reflected back from it. Then I turned to Aron, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s too much.” I tried to give it back to him.
He shoved my hand away, scoffing, “Please. My dad was going to throw it in the scrap bin. You’re sm B bin217;re sall enough; you can use the pieces to make a new dress or something.”
I glanced down at my scuffed black boots and the dull gray cotton dress I wore, plain and loose-fitting like a sack. I tried to imagine what this fabric would feel like pressed against my skin: like water, I thought, cool and slippery.