Defy (2 page)

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copyright © 2014 by Sara B. larson

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library of congress cataloging-in-Publication Data

larson, Sara B.

Defy / by Sara B. larson. — 1st ed.

pages cm

Summary: Seventeen-year-old alexa’s parents were killed by a sorcerer during a raid, so she has disguised herself as a boy, joined antion’s army, and earned a place on Prince Damian’s guard — but antion is ruled by an evil king, and “alex” must find a way to defeat him and protect her prince.

iSBN 978-0-545-59758-6 (jacketed hardcover) 1. identity (Psychology) —

Juvenile fiction. 2. Magic — Juvenile fiction. 3. Princes — Juvenile fiction.

4. conspiracies — Juvenile fiction. 5. adventure stories. [1. identity — Fiction.

2. Magic — Fiction. 3. Princes — Fiction. 4. conspiracies — Fiction.

5. adventure and adventurers — Fiction.] i. title.

PZ7.l323953Def 2014

813.6 — dc23

2013011011

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 14 15 16 17 18

Printed in the U.S.a. ((printer code))

First edition, January 2014

the text type was set in ((font)).

the display type was set in ((font)).

To Trav, who has always believed in the beauty of my dreams



In loving memory of Josh Lloyd — gone from sight,

but never from our hearts

before

T
he crackle and hiss of the flames devouring our house

couldn’t block out the screaming and wailing of those who

were still alive. My friends, the children, and babies. Orphans.

Most of the men were dead. For how few of us there were, scat-

tered around what used to be our village, the noise was almost

deafening. I stood in the damp mud in front of our home, pressing

my hands to my ears, trying to shut out the sounds. My jaw was

clenched, but I couldn’t stop the tears from welling up and slip-

ping down my cheeks.

“Alexa, hurry!” Marcel grabbed my arm, trying to pull me

away. But I yanked out of his grip.

“I can’t leave them,” I said, still staring at what remained of

my mother and father. I did not look at my brother. Nor at the

f lames engulfing our home. Nor at the backs of the retreating

enemy. Not even at the king’s army, which had become visible

on the horizon. It had materialized too late from the depths of

the jungle that wrapped around our village, finally scaring off the

Blevonese soldiers, but not before their sorcerer had done
this
.

“Alexa.” Marcel’s voice was more urgent as he reached up and

turned my face to his, forcing my eyes away from the two bodies.

But I couldn’t see him, not really. The image of my parents lying

1

broken, charred on the ground in front of us, was burned onto my

retinas. Onto my memory. The sorcerer had been no match for

Papa’s fighting skills — but no one was a match for the unholy fire

the sorcerer had used against him and Mama.

I shuddered as I remembered the feel of magic in the air when

the sorcerer killed them both, a stream of fire bursting from his

hands.

The smell of burned f lesh and the sight of them lying there

were too much. I dropped to my knees and vomited into the thick

undergrowth that never stopped trying to reclaim the ground

we’d built our home on.

Papa made us promise to hide when we saw the soldiers from

Blevon heading for our village. But then he and Mama were slain —

and I had done nothing to stop it.

“The army’s coming, Alexa. We have to do it now.” Marcel

knelt down and held my hair back for me as I wiped my mouth

on my sleeve, my stomach still heaving. “If they see me cutting

your hair, they’ll take you . . . they’ll force you into the breeding house.”

I looked up at him, fear hitting me square in the chest. His

hazel eyes, mirror images of my own, were bleak.

I glanced toward the winding trail that led to the jungle,

which would take us to Tubatse, to King Hector’s palace. And his

breeding house. The army was getting closer. Too close.

“Maybe if I show them how well I fight, they’ll let me join the

army instead?” The panic in my voice was matched by the desper-

ate pounding of my heart.

Marcel shook his head. The wind turned, and the smoke blew

into our faces for a moment, burning my nose and obscuring

2

Marcel from view. His hand tightened around my hair, which he

still held back from my face.

“Fine,” I said. “Let’s do it. Hurry,” I added, spitting into the

dirt one last time, trying to get rid of the bitter taste in my mouth.

My knees were still weak when I stood up. Marcel grabbed the

shears he’d managed to save before the fire grew too large, and

moved to stand behind me.

When the blades bit through my hair and the first long, dark

strands landed on the ground at my feet, I had to choke back a sob.

It was stupid and vain, but my hair was the one feature that had

truly been
mine
. Looking so similar to my twin brother had been fun as a child, but as we grew older, it became irritating. My jaw

was too square, I was too tall, I hadn’t even managed to grow

breasts yet. Other than my hair, I could have passed for a boy.

But now the very traits that I’d always been frustrated with

would hopefully save me.

When the last lock of hair fell, my head felt lighter, colder,

naked. I reached up with trembling fingers, but couldn’t make

myself touch it.

“How do I look?” My voice wobbled, but I refused to let

myself cry again. The army would be here any minute.

“Like me,” Marcel said.

Together, we hurried to pick up all the hair and threw it into

the f lames that were consuming what was left of our cottage. The

long strands, years’ worth of growth, curled up and burned away

in moments. Gone. Like my parents. Like my home. All taken,

burned, hewn down, and turned to ash.

3

 one 

now

M
arcel lunged at me, his movement lightning fast. But

my block was even faster. Our practice swords collided,

sending a jolt up my arm. We’d been sparring for quite a while, but

neither of us was ready to back down. I jabbed at him again,

but missed a beat when I noticed Prince Damian standing behind

the other members of his guard, outside the practice ring, watch-

ing us. Marcel took full advantage of my momentary distraction and

landed a blow on my shoulder. I grunted, aggravated with myself,

but quickly recovered, spinning away from him and Prince Damian’s

unwavering gaze. The gloating expression on Marcel’s face wasn’t

going to last long. I twisted around in the opposite direction and

before he could parry my blow, I hit him in the rib cage.

A killing strike.

Marcel threw his weapon on the dirt, rubbing his ribs with a

grimace. My wooden sword would probably give him a bruise,

despite the padding we both wore.

“I never should have taught you to hit me,” Marcel grumbled

as most of our audience whooped and hollered from outside the

practice ring.

“I’d hit you again, except I know you aren’t serious.” I bent

down and picked up his sword, daring a peek to see if the prince

5

was still there. He’d come to watch me spar before, but he always

seemed to slip away just as I finished a match. Not this time. He

still stood there, the sunlight bright on his dark hair. I could have sworn there was admiration on his face — admiration and something else I couldn’t name — but when I blinked, it was gone,

replaced by his usual sardonic expression.

Prince Damian clapped slowly twice, making a couple of the

guards in front of him jump. They spun around quickly, and

upon seeing the prince, they immediately straightened to stand at

attention.

“An impressive display, Alex, but next time, keep your guard

up at all times. It never pays to get distracted,” Prince Damian

observed. I had to clench my jaw to keep from blushing at the

condescension in his voice. Part of me longed to challenge him, to

tell him to take a turn and see how long he lasted. Instead, I stiff ly tipped my head to him. He looked at me for a moment longer, his

gaze inscrutable, and then turned on his heel and strode away.

I stood in the ring, clutching both my and Marcel’s sword, my

heart pounding with anger.

“Give that to me.” Marcel swiped his sword back with a fur-

tive glance at the other members of the prince’s personal guard.

But they were all still watching the prince, their backs to us. “I

don’t need you to carry my sword for me.”

I blinked as he stormed away. I knew he wasn’t really mad.

Death was once nothing more than a game to us, back at home,

when we were children and we practiced for hours every day with

sticks instead of swords. Back when I was still Alexa, instead of Alex, Marcel’s twin
brother
and member of Prince Damian’s personal 6

guard. He used to get so mad at me for beating him, he wouldn’t

talk to me for the rest of the day.

Before our parents were killed and death suddenly became so

very, very real.

Marcel didn’t get angry when I beat him anymore.

“Nice job, Alex. Don’t listen to the prince. We all know he

couldn’t use a sword if his life depended on it.” Rylan nodded at

me with an approving smile when I walked over to him and the

other men who’d been watching.

I laughed, modulating my tone to keep the sound of my

amusement low and as unfeminine as possible. I’d been doing it

for so long, I didn’t even have to think about it anymore. Trying

to sound like a boy was natural to me now. “When have I ever

cared what the prince thinks? The day I start taking advice about

fighting from him will be the day Marcel can finally beat me.”

Rylan laughed. “True. I think Marcel’s going to be feeling

that hit for a few days.”

“Well,” I replied, “it’s always good to give him a reminder of

why I’m going to beat him out for the captainship someday.” I

chucked my sword through the air and Asher grabbed it at the last

second, just before it hit him in the chest. He and Deron were up

next in the practice ring.

“Which won’t be anytime soon,” Deron, the current captain,

said as he passed by us.

I watched Asher enter the ring as I peeled off my padding. The

oppressive heat held the promise of a storm, a damp weight to

the air, as if the very earth were sweating almost as profusely as I

was. My shirt stuck to my body, but luckily the leather vest hid the

7

binding I’d wrapped around my breasts earlier that morning. I

glanced up at the cloudless blue sky, stretching across the palace

and the jungle that surrounded us, and wondered how long it

would take before the humidity worked itself up into a mass of

dark, threatening thunderheads.

“Come on,
Captain
, let’s do this,” Asher called from within

the ring. The sun made his red hair practically glow — or possibly,

it was the ref lection off his skin. I’d never seen someone so white

before in my life until I’d met him. Most of the people of Antion

had at least a hint of olive or darker tones to their skin, to varying degrees. But Asher was originally from Dansii, the nation north of

us, where almost everyone’s skin was that white — or so he’d said.

But King Hector was also from Dansii, and though he was pale, he

wasn’t
that
white.

In comparison, Deron’s dark skin seemed to absorb the light.

I’d known Deron for so long now, he didn’t frighten me any-

more, but I still shivered as he lifted his sword and walked into

the arena to face Asher, who was ten years younger than him and