“You couldn’t see very well because you were behind us, but the guys were reading the paper as they approached,” I explain. “They were probably given their orders late, were trying to catch up to the situation, perhaps hadn’t read far enough yet, or maybe were just so surprised to see us that they overreacted.”
“Unlucky for them,” Trevor says, resting a foot on one of the dead guards.
“Can you not do that?” Tawni says, motioning toward his foot, her nose crinkled with disgust.
Grinning, Trevor moves his foot from the guard.
I say, “Adele and Roc might already be closing in on the throne room. We’ve got to go.”
“Hopefully all the other guards got the memo and they just let us through,” Trevor says.
“Don’t count on it,” I say.
Although we now know that the guards have been ordered to let us make it all the way through to my father, I still check both ends of the hall before slipping out of the room. You never know who might not be in the loop, like the two dead behemoths we just left in our wake. I go left, determined to make up as much time as possible, running soft-footed down the corridor. Reaching the end, I go left again, followed by a right at the end of the next line of guest rooms. Three quarters of the way to the end of the next hall is the opening to a wide staircase that descends directly beside my father’s favorite room in all of the buildings: the throne room.
I gaze over the balcony, try to see past the curving edge of the spiral staircase, listen intently. I don’t see or hear anything. In fact, it’s so quiet you could hear a pebble drop from the treads of one’s boot. A trap. It would have felt like one even if we didn’t have the paper to prove it.
Could Adele and Roc already have fallen into my father’s well-laid web? The plan is for the first team to arrive at the throne room to wait only five minutes and then go in, in case the other team has already been captured. But maybe they arrived only a few minutes earlier and are still hiding below, waiting for us before breaching the final obstacle on our quest to change the future history of the Tri-Realms. If so, will we be able to sneak back into the night and save the conclusion of our mission for another day?
A lot of questions. A lot of doubt. I descend the stairs quietly.
One curve, two; the third—and last—curve. The foyer outside the throne room is empty. Waiting for Trevor and Tawni to catch up, I quickly check behind the base of the staircase, hoping against hope that they’re waiting for us there. Empty. I stare at the splinters of light radiating out from the seven-layered crystal chandelier above me, welcoming the spark of head pain that results from looking directly into the bright light.
“Either they’re not here yet, or they’ve gone in,” I say.
“Do you want to wait?” Trevor says, surprising me. Typically he’s more of the shoot-now-consider-alternatives-later type of person. His cautiousness shows his different-but-equal concern for our friends.
“But what if they’re already in there?” Tawni says. “They’ll need backup.”
Both pairs of eyes are on me, leaving me to make the decision. If they’re in there, my father may kill them immediately, either to enrage me or simply because he has no use for them. Waiting could mean their deaths. Too risky.
“We’re going in,” I say, breaking the wait-five-minutes plan, and potentially making the biggest mistake of my life.
Trevor says, “We’re with you.” Tawni just nods, biting her bottom lip.
I open the door, which doesn’t lead straight into the throne room; no, that would be way too ordinary for my father. Instead, it opens to an outer ring that surrounds my father’s sanctuary. Every twenty or so feet there’s a break in the raw-cut stone wall, giving multiple entrances (and multiple exits) to the place my father spends much of his time.
Voices echo through the chamber. My father’s voice: loud and firm and relentless.
“Kill them all,” he barks.
“Sir, if we do that there will be no one left to pay your taxes and support our way of life.” One of his advisors. By the sound of his screechy voice it’s a guy who I’ve only ever known as Sanders.
“To hell with taxes!” the President roars. “I want the blood of all those who oppose me!”
“This time we’ll get all the rebels,” Sanders promises. “We’ll round everyone up, interrogate them, pit them against each other by threatening their friends and family, make them talk. Anyone who is even remotely a threat to you will be shot.”
“Hmm, I like the way you think, Sanders. That must be why I keep you around. It’s certainly not because of the timbre of your voice.” My father’s laugh is gruff and out of place. Continuing to listen, I lead Trevor and Tawni along the wall to the first entranceway.
“I suppose we can do it your way, so long as we kill enough of the lesser dwellers to ensure their future cooperation.”
We reach the gap and I peek around the corner. A single light is illuminated, highlighting my father’s plush oak chair in the center of the room. Near him stands Sanders, a pitifully skinny man with a heart that’s equally shriveled. He gestures with his hands, like he’s giving a speech to an audience much larger than one.
“Yes, yes, of course. We’ll send a message in the strongest of terms that treachery will not be tolerated in the Tri-Realms.”
My father leans back in his chair, rubs his hands thoughtfully against the red velvet armrests. Sighs. “Yes, that should do just fine. Give the orders to carry out the plan as you suggested.”
“Thank you, my President,” Sanders says reverently, his voice grating my eardrum like cheese. He turns to go, making directly for our gap.
“Send in the generals on your way out,” my father orders behind him.
He stops for just a moment to say, “As you wish,” before continuing his path toward us. I frantically scan the space outside of the lighted area, looking and listening for any signs that this truly is a trap. Hidden guards, unable to stay still for long periods of time, perhaps scraping a toe on the floor, breathing heavily, letting a cough slip from the back of the throat. I see nothing. I hear nothing.
Surrounding the heart of the throne room are black pillars, not required to hold up the ceiling, but instead intended to give the room a solid beauty. Naturally, my father’s idea. The pillars also make great places to hide. Sanders passes between the pillars on his way to the gap, looking more at his feet than up, probably still reliving and relishing my father’s acceptance of his plan.
I pull back behind the wall, wait for the moment Sanders rounds the bend, his skeleton-like face diminishing further as it falls under shadow. I grab him by the throat, crush his voice box so he can’t make a sound, hiss in his ear, “One noise and you die, understand?”
His already buggy eyes protrude even further from his head, and he nods. His silence saves his life, but not his consciousness. I release him, punch him so hard in the head he’ll feel it for days, catch him lightly in my arms, and then set him down in the outer passage. At least he won’t be inviting the generals in anytime soon.
To Tawni, I say, “We’ll enter first. You come in behind us and duck behind one of the pillars. Stay there.” She nods vigorously.
To Trevor, I raise a fist. He raises his own and bumps it firmly against mine. Game time. Adele and Roc don’t appear to be here, but they may have been captured and taken away already. Either way, I have to find out, question my father. And if it turns out not to be a trap, hopefully kill him, too.
I enter the throne room, not trying to hide my presence, striding toward my father as if I belong there, as if I never left, as if he’s expecting me, which he might be. Trevor’s with me every step of the way and I sense when Tawni moves in behind us, ducks off to one side.
My father, who’s looking at his lap, suddenly looks up, as if sensing our presence. His face lights up with a smile that’s as big as it is fake. “Ahh, Tristan, you made it after all!” he booms.
I eye him warily. “How did you know?”
He laughs. “Are you really so arrogant to think you could enter my kingdom without me knowing? When you killed some of my soldiers you should have killed all of them.”
The men who killed Ram. The ones knocked out but not dead. Although it’s cost us the element of surprise, I know we did the right thing letting them live.
“I was beginning to think you wouldn’t have the guts to show,” my father says.
“It was never guts that I lacked,” I say, trying to control my sudden desire to launch myself at the man who created me, jam my sword into his heart; that is, assuming the space within his left breast contains an organ and isn’t just a black and empty cavity.
“Mmm, really?” he says, running a hand through his short blond hair. The last time I saw him there were salt-and-pepper flecks of gray on his scalp, and deep lines on his face. I took it as a sign that even the most powerful man in the Tri-Realms can’t fight against time. But now the gray is gone and his face is as smooth as a twenty-year-old’s, tan and chiseled. Hair coloring, wrinkle treatments, tanning beds: my father can even thwart the signs of time. “Last I checked, you would run and hide when I put your mother in her place.”
I immediately feel my blood pressure rise, my head go hot, not from embarrassment but from pure anger, rising to a boil. Through my teeth, I say, “Don’t speak of my mother. She is everything you’re not. Good, pure, gentle, caring. You were never worthy of her.”
“Ha ha ha ha!” my father bellows. “You are so much like her it’s scary. But you misspoke. You said ‘She is everything you’re not.’ I believe you meant was.”
I freeze, my anger falling away like a warm coat, leaving me naked and cold. I shiver. There’s a pit in my stomach. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Surely you noticed your mother’s not around anymore,” my father mocks. A sudden awareness floods through me, causing my muscles to ache, my bones to feel bruised. It’s as if I’ve swallowed shards of glass, which are now cutting me apart from the inside.
“What did you do to her?!” I roar, the anger returning, white-hot and hungry. I take a step toward him.
“Temper, temper, Tristan. What did I teach you about controlling your anger?” He readjusts his sitting position, leans back more casually, one leg crossed over the other. “Where were we? Ah, yes, your mother. She did something very naughty, so I had to punish her—that’s all there is to it.”
I stand there seething, unable to move, my body wracked with a blind fury the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. My father takes my silence and stillness for weakness.
“Cat got your tongue?” he says. “Let me spell it out for you. I killed her with my bare hands! And I loved watching the life drain out of her face; loved kissing her lips as I held her down and she took her last breath; loved feeling her body go cold as we lay in bed together one last time.” He’s almost licking his lips with delight.
A profound sadness wraps around my anger, but I thrust it off. There will be time for grief later. For now, all I desire is revenge.
Adele
Tristan’s voice! We did it! We’ve both arrived at the throne room at the same time, so there’s no need to wait. I’m shaking with excitement as I run the last few feet to where a door stands wide open. Is this it? I mouth to Roc.
Yes, he silently communicates.
We creep into a rounded corridor, hearing the voices loud and clear now. Not just Tristan; someone else, too. Another familiar voice, but one that I’ve mostly heard in my nightmares: President Nailin. The Devil. My father’s executioner. My target.
“What did you do to her?!” Tristan screams, his voice echoing off the walls in the outer hallway. Whatever’s happening, he’s losing his cool. We need to be there for him. I creep another few steps.
“Temper, temper, Tristan. What did I teach you about controlling your anger?” Nailin says, as Roc and I close in on a gap in the wall, off to our left. “Where were we? Ah, yes, your mother. She did something very naughty, so I had to punish her—that’s all there is to it.” Even out of sight, his words are as cold as darts of ice—aimed at Tristan’s heart.
I move closer to the gap, waiting for Tristan’s response, but silence rules. Something clips my foot and I trip, nearly fall, barely manage to catch myself with a hand on the floor.
“You okay?” Roc whispers in my ear.
“I’m fine. I just tripped on something.” I feel around beside me, the tips of my fingers finding a soft lump wrapped in some kind of cloth. I work my way up it, trying to locate something that will identify the object. More cloth, sort of bumpy, and then—
—human flesh. I pull back sharply, barely able to clamp a hand over my mouth before letting out a high-pitched squeal which only makes it as far as the inside of my mouth. “It’s a body,” I say, dreading looking at the face of another dead friend, Trevor or Tawni this time.
Roc flicks on a light, careful to keep the beam focused toward the wall.
A stranger, mousy and thin. “An advisor,” Roc whispers. “Tristan probably knocked him out. His chest is moving, still breathing.” He extinguishes the light.
We hear: “Cat got your tongue?” The president’s voice, full of sarcasm. “Let me spell it out for you. I killed her with my bare hands! And I loved watching the life drain out of her face; loved kissing her lips as I held her down and she took her last breath; loved feeling her body go cold as we lay in bed together one last time.”
Although neither Tristan nor his father have mentioned the name of the woman they speak of, I know who it is. His mother, a woman he loves. Once I promised to help him look for her after this was all over. Now I know that won’t be possible.
Something bad is about to happen—I can feel it. The President wouldn’t be egging his son on if he wasn’t well-protected. And Tristan won’t back off now that he knows the truth. We need to move.
I jog the last few steps to the gap, peek around the corner, see the back of Tristan—Trevor next to him. Tristan’s just standing there, his knuckles curled at his side, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Between them I can just make out the relaxed figure of the President, sitting on his throne, not a care in the world.
Something bad is about to happen.
My mother’s necklace is heavy around my neck, as if the spirit of my father has entered it upon reaching the location of his murderer.
Tristan charges, ripping his sword from his side, holding it high above his head and letting out a fury-induced cry that would surely raise the dead. Trevor rushes after him, pulling his gun from its holster, and I’m about to spring from our hiding spot when I sense movement from above. Glancing up, I see them:
Dozens of red-clothed guardsmen leap from their perches on platforms near the top of the pillars spread evenly throughout the room. One lands directly in front of Tristan, blocking his path to the President. Another lands behind him, raises his sword…
I start running, already knowing I’m too late. Too late again. Just like with my father. There’s a familiar voice behind me—not Roc, more high-pitched—but I don’t stop—can’t stop—my eyes fixed on the gleaming metal that will kill the only person I’ve ever really—
A flash bursts from the muzzle of Trevor’s gun, accompanied simultaneously by an ear-shattering BOOM! Before his sword falls on Tristan, the guardsman cries out in pain, arches his back, slumps to the floor. As I enter the circle of light, there is red everywhere, more foes than I’ve ever faced, but if I can just get to Tristan and Trevor, maybe…
Three guardsmen pounce on Trevor, slash his gun with their swords, sending it clattering to the marble floor. He’s barely able to rip his sword from his scabbard and sweep aside their probing weapons. Tristan’s got his hands full with three others, probably unaware that he would be dead if not for Trevor. He goes for the gun at his calf but his opponents are attacking too fast and he has to remain standing to fight them off. I’m flanked by two men who finally notice my entrance into the battle. They’re sm
iling slightly, as if they foresee getting some twisted pleasure out of fighting a girl.
My bow is out before they have the chance to even think about taking a step toward me. I notch an arrow, send one through the first guy’s heart, and, fitting a second, let it fly into his partner’s gut, who collapses on top of him, blood dribbling from his mouth. Time to help Tristan and Trevor.
I shift my attention to Trevor, who’s the closer of the two. One of his opponents is writhing on the marble floor, a shadow of blood spreading under him. The other two are still putting up a fight, but are clearly losing, as Trevor’s superior sword skill starts to overwhelm them. Then I see it: a red form rise up, on its knees, blade held high. The guy who tried to kill Tristan from behind earlier, cut down by Trevor, injured but not dead. I level an arrow at the would-be killer, trying to get a bead on him, but Trevor’s body keeps moving in the way as he tries to fight off his opponents.
“No!” I yell, sprinting toward my friend and one-time savior.
He sees me coming, parries his two frontward opponent’s swords, slashing downward to cut off one of their hands, drawing a cry of anguish. Still running, I shoot the other one through the heart, hoping to free Trevor up to get away.
“Watch out!” I cry, drawing a confused expression from Trevor. But still he doesn’t move, just stares at me.
His attacker’s sword is in position. I’m three steps away but running through mud, my strides in slow motion. In fact, everything’s in slow motion, seconds feeling like minutes, minutes like hours, hours like years and years.
Beyond Trevor, Tristan turns, perhaps upon hearing my voice, sees the danger, slashes his sword across to disarm Trevor’s attempted murderer. Too late. Like me, he’s too late.
With a roar, the dying guardsman lunges forward, plunges the sharp point of his blade into the soft part of Trevor’s lower back. “No!” I scream again, seeing Trevor’s eyes widen, his mouth open. The blade comes all the way through, sticking from his stomach gruesomely. My tears are already falling, but I don’t stop, can’t stop, can’t let such an atrocity go unpunished.