Asteria In Love with the Prince (41 page)

***

We didn’t have much time to say our goodbyes. In the King’s chambers, we both embraced Jagor’s parents.

“You could run,” the King pointed out. “Head for the border with the Exkella.”

“This is the only way we get the kingdom back,” Jagor told him. Whenever I’d seen them interact, it had always been very clearly father and son. Now, for the first time, they sounded like equals.

The Queen looked as if she might cry and simply hugged Jagor again, not daring to speak. When she hugged me, she whispered, “Take care of him.”

***

Down in the depths of the palace, we eventually found our way to the room Doracella had told us about. She was waiting there for us, with two wheeled laundry bins. “Your Highness,” she said. “Please get in the bin.”

Jagor looked at her. “Will this really work?”

“It works every night for me, Your Highness.”

“Every night? What are you—”

“Arno,” I said simply.

I saw realization dawn across his face. He climbed inside the bin: there was just room for Doracella to load a layer of crumpled sheets on top of him.

Before I did the same, I hugged Doracella. “Will you be alright?” I asked.

She looked at me fearfully. “Will you do it? And stop Vinko?” I nodded. “Then I’ll be alright.”

I climbed into the bin. Everything went dark as the sheets were dumped on top of me. Then Doracella’s muffled voice: “Keep quiet while you’re loaded and on the journey. When you’re unloaded, you’ll be at the commercial laundry in the city. They don’t start the washing until the morning shift so you’ll have plenty of time to get out and slip away.” It went quiet. Then a moment later, as an afterthought, “Good luck.”

I tried not to think about how much was riding on this insane plan.

***

I could tell you about the bumping and crashing. The claustrophobia as the sheets pressed down on me; the dread fear of not being able to breathe, magnified by not daring to take a deep breath lest we be heard. I could tell you about the countless stops the truck made at the checkpoints leading out of the palace, and the hot, prickling tension while we waited for soldiers to find us. But the main memory I have of that trip – and it took well over an hour, from start to finish – is this: Doracella was doing this
every night
. Risking her freedom, risking possibly being sold back to the slave market, all for love. If she could do it, we could do it.

When the bins had been unloaded and everything was quiet, we waited another few minutes before cautiously creeping out. We were in an indoor loading dock in what I assumed was the laundry. Tens of other bins were all around us, and a vehicle-sized door was open onto the street. There was no one around, and no security that we could see: but then, who steals sheets?

We’d disguised ourselves, as best we could, hiding beneath hooded raincoats. We made for the hotel where I’d left Telessa – I was hoping Vinko’s soldiers hadn’t found her in the meantime.

Luckily, they hadn’t. She rented a car for us, using one of the city’s less reputable firms who didn’t ask questions. We hadn’t dared call Alvek’s emergency number from the palace, or even from the hotel, but we found a callbox and called him from there. After a long, agonizing wait, he picked up and we filled him in.

Then there was nothing to do but wait. We couldn’t go to the TV station too early: there was a chance that someone loyal to Vinko would see us and raise the alarm. But if we got to the TV station even a minute too late to go on air and block Vinko’s broadcast, he’d go ahead with the execution. We’d been up all night, but sleep was out of the question. So we drank coffee, paced and went quietly crazy.

At eleven, Telessa drove us to the TV station. We parked one street away and hunkered down in the back of the car.

At quarter to twelve, Alvek arrived with two men – the ones who were with him when the rest of his men were killed at the hotel. One of them carried a sports bag full of guns.

At ten to twelve, I held Jagor’s hand as we strode across the street to the huge ABN building.

The woman behind the reception desk was on the phone. She barely glanced up as we entered, chattering away busily about when a delivery was due.

Jagor and I pushed back our hoods. She glanced up again and dropped the phone. I watched as she backed away from the desk, knocking her chair over behind her, her hands up to her mouth. Then she bowed very low.

***

There were three soldiers guarding the news room. They’d been there since the start of the coup and had long since grown lazy and careless. Alvek and his men disarmed them without bloodshed.

We only had ten minutes. But in TV news, ten minutes is a lifetime.

The head of news, a lifelong monarchist, didn’t even hesitate when Jagor told him the plan. He showed us through to a studio with a huge Asterian coat of arms. “We use this for your father’s speeches,” he told us. “We can switch over from the palace feed whenever you tell us and you’ll be live on every screen in the kingdom. Vinko will know, of course, as soon as we switch: his people will no doubt be watching.”

“Good,” said Jagor.

The head of news coughed nervously. “Do you, ah…do you know what you’re going to say, Your Highness?”

I looked at Jagor. Only a few weeks ago he’d been scared to lead, the playboy prince haunted by memories of his brother.

“I’m going to speak to my people,” he said.

***

At a few minutes to the hour, they miked us up and tested the sound. They offered us make-up, which we both refused. I did think of one thing, though, and asked for tape. Jagor’s jaw dropped as he saw me take out the collar he’d given me. I caught his eye. “I’m still your exkella,” I told him. I put it on, using tape to fix it where I’d cut it. Telessa had brought my engagement ring and safeword ring with her, and I slipped those on, as well. I wasn’t ready for how good they felt.

While we waited, I examined the coat of arms. It must have been four feet across, and instead of being flat, painted wood it was a full-on three-dimensional work of art. The shield was an actual metal shield and the crossed swords were actual swords with – ouch – yes, sharp blades. It symbolized everything about the country: quaint, romantic and extravagant, all at the same time.

At noon exactly, the head of news warned us that Vinko had started his broadcast. I gasped in horror as I saw the King and Queen, hands tied behind their backs, in the background. Vinko was in the foreground, gravely reading the charges against them: tales of Swiss bank accounts and his own attempted murder.

When he’d finished his list and found them guilty, he ordered them to their knees. They both refused, so soldiers forced them down.

“Enough,” said Jagor. His voice was low, but it carried. A red light showed on the camera in front of us, and suddenly I could see us both on screen. Jagor standing tall, looking somberly down the lens. Me standing behind him, trying to look serious and regal. If I pressed my legs together, it seemed to stop them shaking.

“My people,” said Jagor. “You have been lied to.”

And so it began.

Jagor told them how Vinko had been turned against his own country by his kidnappers. He told them about Vinko’s deal with the French: how he’d conspired with another nation to poison the King, attempt to kill us at the opera house and stage a coup. And finally, he told them about what Vinko planned to do with the money from the mines: how him and his cronies would get rich, and the rest of the country would starve.

The floor manager wrote something on a wipe-clean board and held it up behind the camera so we could see it. It said: “TV CREW AT PALACE SAY VINKO HAS LEFT.”

There was only one place he could be heading. How long to get here in an army convoy, I wondered, not stopping for red lights. Five minutes? Less? We had to leave now, and hope the broadcast had done its job. But when Jagor glanced at the sign, he kept on speaking.

He told the public what he’d told me: about how things could be better, given time. How poverty could be reduced by signing defense treaties and scaling back the military, so the money could be better spent. He apologized for things not moving faster, but promised they’d improve.

There was noise from outside the studio. Running footsteps and shouting.

Jagor asked the people to put their trust in him and appealed to the army to put down their guns. And then he nodded to the floor manager and they cut the feed just as the doors burst open.

The soldiers swarmed in first: twenty or thirty of them. Alvek and his men raised their guns, but they were hopelessly outnumbered and Jagor waved for them to surrender. They grudgingly lowered their weapons.

Vinko stormed in, his face a mask of rage. Yuri was close behind him. “Kill him!” Vinko yelled, pointing at Jagor. I grabbed Jagor’s arm and closed my eyes.

Nothing happened. When I opened my eyes, the soldiers were aiming at Jagor…but they weren’t firing.

“Put them down,” ordered Jagor, his voice very calm.

“What’s the matter with you?” screamed Vinko. “Your generals answer to me! They have put you under
my
control. Kill him!”

The guns wavered, the soldiers uncertain.

“The royal family now control Asteria again,” Jagor told them. “No action will be taken against any soldier involved in the coup. Put. Them. Down.”

“I am your
commanding officer!”
yelled Vinko.

“I am your prince,” said Jagor softly.

The soldiers slowly lowered their guns. But they didn’t point them at Vinko and Yuri. They were neutral, not friendly.

“I’ll kill the bastard myself,” said Vinko in a low voice. He marched over to the coat of arms and pulled out one of the crossed swords, its blade gleaming. Jagor pushed me firmly aside, and suddenly I knew he’d been expecting this. That’s why he hadn’t left, when they’d warned us Vinko was on his way: he’d wanted this confrontation. He’d known we couldn’t win without it.

Vinko ran at him, the sword slashing in an arc. Jagor leapt back, the blade inches from his throat. Alvek stepped forward but I put my arm out to stop him. “Don’t,” I told him. I knew Jagor needed to do this on his own.

Vinko attacked again, the sword slicing through the air only a hand’s breadth from Jagor’s face. The soldiers moved back, forming a loose circle around the duel. As Vinko advanced again, Jagor backed off, waiting for an opening. But he had nowhere to hide, and it was only a matter of time….

I knew we couldn’t interfere; but that didn’t mean I couldn’t even the odds. I ran to the coat of arms and pulled out the other sword: the damn thing was so heavy, I almost dropped it. A soldier stepped hesitantly in front of me, unsure if he should stop me.

“
Get out of my way
,” I told him, in my best imitation of the Queen. He stepped aside.

Jagor was backing away from Vinko again, skirting around the edge of the circle. I shouldered my way through the soldiers and pushed the sword into his hands. He was panting from the exertion, his eyes wild. He stood his ground, now, and their swords clashed and screeched. It was nothing like a sword fight in the movies. It wasn’t elegant and graceful, with careful parries and to-and-fro. It was brutal and quick, every clash of the heavy swords coming within inches of ending one of their lives. And I realized with a cold shock that it was Vinko who had the advantage: because while Jagor wouldn’t kill his brother, Vinko would have no hesitation in killing him.

Even with a sword, Jagor was being pushed back and back, no match for Vinko’s unhinged rage. Twice he stumbled, Vinko’s sword ready to pin him there, and both times he barely escaped. It was all going to end here: Jagor, our life together, even Asteria itself, as it was now.

And then it happened: Jagor scrambled back from a blow, stumbled and fell, crashing down on the hard studio floor. “
No!”
I screamed, as Vinko raised his sword.

They both looked at me, then: the briefest flick of the eyes. Vinko’s glance was one of victory and lust: he’d forgotten about me, during the fight, and now he remembered what his spoils would be. His eyes seemed to reach inside my soul and touch something secret and precious: I shuddered, but it wasn’t enough to free me from that look. The meaning of it would haunt me for months afterwards:
you’re mine.

But from the floor, Jagor looked at me as well. He saw me standing there in his collar; one I’d put back on by myself, out of choice. He saw my fear, and he got mad.

As Vinko’s sword slashed down, Jagor met it with his own, slamming it aside with a roar like a continent rent asunder. Vinko’s sword went clattering along the ground, sliding into a corner, and Jagor was on his feet, advancing. He swung once, twice, pushing his brother back across the room, freed from his restraint. He meant to kill him.

Vinko stumbled and went down, as Jagor had done, his eyes suddenly panicked and wide. Jagor lifted his sword…and then slowly lowered it to rest against his brother’s throat.

There was a clatter from across the room that made me jump. Then another and another; then a sea of them, all at once. The soldiers’ guns, hitting the floor.

***

Days later, they asked me to describe what happened outside the TV station. I lied and said things had moved too fast: that it was all a blur. The truth is, my memory is crystal clear.

The SSV had arrived – there’d been the mother of all territory battles over who would take Vinko into custody, with the police not trusting the army and the army not trusting the police. Eventually Jagor pulled rank and brought in the SSV, even though no-one really trusted them.

They brought Vinko out first, and everyone was focused on getting him into the car. Yuri was some distance behind, waiting with two SSV agents. Jagor and I were standing right at the back, so we probably had the best view of anyone.

A figure pushed past us, a hood drawn up over their face. They were on Yuri almost immediately, pressed up tight against his back as if embracing him. The two SSV agents were facing front, and Yuri didn’t make any noise at first: he just sort of caught his breath and jerked. It wasn’t until I saw the flash of the knife that I realized he’d been stabbed.