The Essence (9 page)

Only when the initial shock had worn off, when the people in attendance had grown accustomed to my appearance, and conversations had started—murmurs that rippled through the crowd—did I allow myself to look around. I nodded at one of the soldiers, a woman who stood beside us. Her uniform was similar to Brook’s, and she held a military rifle across her chest. There were other soldiers positioned at similar intervals lining the pathway ahead of us that led up to the steps of the Academy, and presumably surrounding the entire building. There was nothing discreet about their presence.

“Charlie!” A girl’s voice came from just ahead of us, and I caught a glimpse of a golden-blond girl with flushed cheeks waving frantically. “Over here!”

“Look, it’s Sydney!” I called over my shoulder to Brooklynn. “Sydney!” I shouted just as eagerly as she had, signaling for her to join us. Then I turned to the soldiers who were keeping the crowd at bay. “Let her through.”

Zafir scowled as he stepped closer to me, just as Sydney was squeezing through the onlookers. “You shouldn’t let people address you like that, it’s . . . it’s improper.”

“Oh!” Sydney exclaimed, coming to a stop in front of us. Her mouth opened in surprise. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I meant Your Majesty, of course.”

She looked like she was about to drop into some sort of ridiculous curtsy or bow, so I reached for her, wrapping my arms around her in a fierce hug, grateful to see at least one friendly face among the crowd. “Ignore him,” I said, grinning at her.

The last time I’d seen Sydney, she was with Brooklynn and the rest of Xander’s rebel troops, just after they’d seized the palace. From the pinched expression on Brook’s face, I didn’t get the impression she was as thrilled to see Sydney as I was.

I hugged her again. “He’s just nervous around crowds. You can call me whatever you want.” I wrinkled my nose. “Except ‘
Your Majesty
.’”

“Really?” Sydney questioned uncertainly. “I think he might be right about this.” She eyed Zafir nervously, chewing her pink lips as her eyes traveled the length of him, taking in his full height. “I think it
is
disrespectful if I call you Charlie.”

“So then call her Queen Charlaina or ‘my queen’ or something equally stuffy,” Brook offered irritably, adjusting her rifle and doing her best to look intimidating. And then she turned to me. “Really, Charlie, if you actually plan on doing this, we probably should get up there. You have a school to inaugurate.”

I let Brook lead me toward the steps, dragging me by the hand just like in the old days when we were simply vendors’ daughters attending School 33. It probably wasn’t protocol for a queen to be led by one of her soldiers—even if that soldier was a commander—but I didn’t care. She was holding my hand, and I needed that at the moment.

I reached for Sydney’s hand too, clutching it and hauling her along with us, not wanting to leave her behind. Whether Brook liked it or not, the three of us had just become a trio.

Standing at the top of the steps, the gravity of what I was about to do, of the changes I was asking of my people, stole my breath. I took a moment to absorb the meaning of the phrase “my people” as I looked down upon them, the faces of those who’d gathered to watch me, to support me. And those who didn’t.

There were dissenters among the crowd, that much I knew. I’d heard their calls of malcontent—boos and hisses and shouts of indignation—as I’d made my way past them. Yet they couldn’t deter me. I couldn’t help feeling good about what I was doing. I now ruled a country where such opposition was permitted. Openly and freely.

Unlike Sabara, I would never send someone to the gallows for harboring an opinion, much less for sharing it.

This was a new dawn in Ludania—a New Equality for all. It couldn’t be helped that not all agreed.

A podium awaited me, and I hesitated as I approached it. I was about to give my first public statement, short though it might be.

Sydney stepped to the side, and Zafir and Brook fell back.

I took my place as, below me, a military transport came to a stop on the street.

They were here.

“Good morning,” I declared, drawing all eyes to me as I began to speak. “Today, I stand before you, not as your queen or as a vendor’s daughter, but as a citizen of Ludania.”

I cleared my throat, determined not to sound timid or frightened, grateful no one knew how my palms perspired. “For some, times of change can be trying. But these times can also present great opportunity, a chance for us to show what we’re made of, to show our dignity and fortitude. A chance for us to grow.”

My gaze roamed over the expectant faces that stared back at me, and my confidence swelled. “This is one of those opportunities. This is our moment to show the world that we don’t have to be burdened by the limitations of a class system that no longer works. That we
can
work together as citizens of one country . . . as one people . . . with one language.” I gripped the sides of the wooden stand. “I’m not asking you to forsake your heritage, to turn your back on the traditions you’ve grown up with. What I’m asking is that we, as citizens of Ludania, learn to use language not as a divider, but rather to unite us. To make us whole.

“On this momentous day, we will continue the process of abolishing the laws that have divided our people for centuries. The students of this school—and schools across our nation—will no longer look upon one another as vendors, servants, counsel, or outcasts, but instead as classmates.” I raised my fist in the air. “This is my pledge to you.”

For a moment there was silence, and I wondered if I should say something more, if it wasn’t enough of a statement. My heart replaced the words in my throat, choking me with uncertainty and regret.

Then a rumble went up, moving through the crowd with a life of its own, as cheers and shouts rose to a thunderous roar. Colorful bits of torn paper were thrown, tossed high into the air, and looked very much like feathers as they were carried on the breeze. My heart soared with them, those tiny scraps, and I was certain my skin glowed brighter and burned hotter as I stood there, watching it all.

As the cries died down, the door to the vehicle opened on the street below, releasing the first of the children who’d been transported for their first day at the Academy. That was when the cries of opposition began.

Almost louder, it seemed, than the cheers of hope. And they came in every flavor of language: Termani, Parshon, Englaise.

“Go back to your own schools. . . .”

“Servants don’t belong here. . . .”

“You’re not our kind. . . .”

“Death to the queen!”

I held my breath, bracing for trouble as I scanned the crowds. I searched face after face, not sure what I expected to find. I could feel both Zafir and Brook right at my back now, as if they too, sensed danger.

Then I saw the first boy, small and timid-looking, making his way down the sidewalk toward the school. Toward me.

I moved away from the podium and hovered at the top step. I went down one and then another.

Brook stopped me. “What are you doing? You can’t go down there now,” she hissed under her breath.

“It’s okay. He’s afraid.” I met him halfway down the steps, and by the time I did, there were a dozen more children behind him, all wearing varied expressions of eagerness, reticence, hopefulness, and fear. This was all new to them, all frightening and exciting at the same time.

I knew how they felt.

I leaned down to the little boy who’d been brave enough to go first. “What’s your name?” I asked, staring into his wide, brown eyes.

He ducked his head, keeping his gaze averted, and I was reminded once more how things used to be.

“It’s okay,” I told him. “You’re safe here.”

Slowly he lifted his chin, until he was eye to eye with me. His voice was just as small as his stature. “Phoenix, Your Majesty. My name’s Phoenix.”

I rose, and held out my hand for him. “Welcome to the Academy, Phoenix. Glad you could make it.”

The Academy was only my initial stop, but it was the longest of my tour through the city. My day had been rigidly planned, and each stop timed carefully. I would stay here throughout the morning classes so I could assess how the changes were being implemented, and then I would be escorted to Capitol Hall, so I could see how the New Equality was being handled by the city’s officials.

The first thing I was aware of as I walked through the hallways, was that other than the fact that it was a school, the Academy was nothing like School 33.

Here, the students were assigned individual storage lockers, a place where they could store their books—books that were new, the pages undamaged and held together by unbroken bindings—rather than lugging them in their overstuffed book bags from class to class. They had supplies like paper, pens, ink, paints, and canvases. They had instruments for their music units, and all manner of equipment for games and sport. The desks, too, were unmarred by years of use and disrepair, and all were perfectly matched and aligned in neat rows. The walls were freshly painted, clean and pristine.

Everything sparkled. Everything shone as if it were new. As if the school had been fashioned from the very wallets of prosperity.

But the greatest difference of all had nothing to do with the building or the trappings of wealth, it had to do with time—the changes made since Sabara no longer ruled.

Now, there was no daily pledge. No formal recitation made to honor the queen.

To honor me.

It was strange, the void its absence created at the beginning of the school day, and we all—even the instructor of the class I sat in on—awkwardly traversed that space as if, at any moment, the city’s loudspeakers might crackle to life once more, filling the hallways and the streets outside with the ominously familiar words. I could feel the students’ curious eyes falling upon me more times than I could count. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice, but it was impossible to ignore entirely. It weighed on me, and I hoped that soon the strangeness of it would pass. That soon the people would find that normalcy I so wanted for them.

I turned my gaze to Sydney, whose class this was, and I smiled.

It will be okay
, I told myself, acting as if I didn’t see Zafir looming in my periphery. As if I didn’t know Brook was right behind me, guarding my back rather than taking notes as other kids her age were.

I’d expected to be swarmed the moment I’d stepped into the Academy, to be overwhelmed by questions and eager admiration, even if I didn’t necessarily want that sort of attention. So it had been sort of strange, the bubble that formed around us instead. Either because of who I was, or because of Zafir’s intimidating scowl, most of the students made an effort to steer clear of us, giving us an unnecessarily wide berth. Even going so far as to avoid making eye-contact with me altogether.

I was something of a pariah. Like an exile who’d been banished to her own personal version of the Scablands.

But there were a few students who went out of their way to try to make me feel welcome, to make me feel . . . special. In particular, one determined girl called Delta, younger than me by only a year or two. She’d been assigned to escort my entourage between each class hour, asking if we needed anything, if I knew where I was to go next, if I was enjoying myself.