The Pledge (3 page)

As far as I knew, mine was one of the few families unaffected by the migration, but only because we didn’t have any relatives in the outlying areas of the country.

“I wonder how long until the violence reaches the Capitol,” Brook continued dramatically.

“Queen Sabara will never let them reach us. She’ll send her own army before they get too close,” I argued.

It was laughable calling our city “the Capitol,” since its concrete walls housed no one who held any real sway. The term implied authority and influence, when in reality we were simply the closest city to the palace. The queen was still the only person who held any true power.

But at least our city had a name.

Most of the cities of Ludania had long ago been stripped of that privilege, having been renamed simply by the quadrant of the country in which they were located and then ranked by size. 1West, 4South, 2East.

Children were often named in remembrance of the old cities. Once, it had been a form of rebellion to name a new baby Carlton or Lewis or Lincoln, a way of expressing dissatisfaction with the crown’s decision to reclassify cities into statistics. But now it was merely tradition, and babies were named after cities from countries across the globe.

People often assumed that my real name was Charlotte, after a faraway, long-ago city. But my parents claimed that they refused to partake in anything that would be considered rebellious, even a long-accepted custom like naming.

They preferred
not
to draw attention.

Brooklynn, on the other hand, liked to brag about her
name’s roots. A great borough, in an even greater city that no longer existed.

She leaned in, her eyes feverishly bright. “Well,
I
heard . . .” She let those three words hang in the air, assuring us that she had information we didn’t. “. . . that the queen’s army is gathering in the east. Rumor has it that Queen Elena plans to join forces with the rebels.”

“Who told you that? One of your soldiers?” I whispered, so close now that my forehead practically touched hers as I searched her eyes probingly. I didn’t actually doubt her. Brook’s intelligence was rarely wrong. “How do you know they’re telling you the truth?”

Brook grinned, a slow, shameless grin. “Look at me, Charlie. Why would they lie to me?” And then she added, more seriously, “They say the queen’s getting tired. That she’ll be too old to fight back much longer.”

“That’s a bunch of crap, Brook. Old or not, Queen Sabara will never give up her country.” It was one thing to share real news from the front; it was another entirely to spread lies about our queen.

“What choice does she have?” Brook shrugged, continuing. “There’s no princess to take her place, and she certainly won’t allow a male heir to inherit the throne. It hasn’t been done in almost four hundred years; she’s not about to let it happen now. She’ll renounce the royal line before she allows the country to have a reigning king again.”

As we approached the Academy, I could feel my stomach tightening into angry knots. “That’s true, I suppose,” I said distractedly, no longer interested in a political debate. “She
probably won’t allow herself to die until she finds a suitable female heir.”

I wished I could remain calm in the presence of the imposing school, impervious and unaffected. Above all, I desperately didn’t want the Counsel kids to see my discomfort.

Everything about the upscale school, including the students’ immaculately matched uniforms, screamed,
We’re better than you.
Even the white marble steps that led to the grand entrance of the Academy were polished to a high shine, making them look as if they’d be treacherous to maneuver.

I hated myself for wishing I knew the sound my shoes would make walking up them.

I tried not to look in the direction of the Academy students who loitered near the top of those steps. For some reason these particular girls bothered me most of all; these two who watched us more closely than the others, who enjoyed taunting us when we walked by.

Today was no different. The skirts of their identical uniforms were creased, and their snowy white shirts were starched and pristine. These girls most definitely knew the feeling of silk.

I tried not to notice as one of the girls moved purposefully down the last steps, her eyes targeting us. She flipped her golden-blond hair over her shoulder; her cheeks were flushed and rosy; her eyes glittered with malice.

She stopped on the sidewalk in front of us, holding up her hand, signaling that we should stay where we were.
“Where are you three off to in such a hurry?”
she intentionally asked in Termani, aware that we weren’t permitted to understand her.

Her words made the air vibrate around me, making it hard for me to breathe. I knew what I was supposed to do. Everyone knew. Beside me, Aron’s gaze shot to his feet, and Brooklynn’s did the same. A part of me wanted to ignore logic—to ignore the law—and my jaw clenched in response to her caustic words. But I knew that I wouldn’t. It wasn’t just my fate that I tempted if I broke the law—Brook and Aron might be held responsible as well.

I dropped my head and tried to ignore the prickling on my arms as I felt the girl’s eyes drilling into me.

Her friend stood beside her now, the two of them forming a wall in front of us.
“I don’t know why they even let vendors go to school at all, do you, Sydney?”

And, again, the air shivered in hot waves.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Veronica, they have to go to school. How else are they going to learn to count our change when they work for us? I mean, just look at their hands. They’re already working somewhere, and they probably have no idea how to count or read or even how to write.”

I hated them both for thinking we were ignorant, and my teeth ached from biting back my retorts. But my cheeks burned as I stole a quick glance at Sydney’s perfectly manicured hands. She was right about that part; my nails were short and my skin raw from washing dishes in my parents’ restaurant. I wanted desperately to hide them behind my back, but I couldn’t risk letting her know I’d understood her insults.

Keeping my gaze averted, I tried to sidestep her, but she matched my stride, moving with me and keeping herself in my path. Blood pulsed in my ears.

“Don’t go yet,”
she cooed.
“We’re just starting to have fun. Aren’t you having fun, Veronica?”

There was a wooden pause, and then her friend answered, her voice apathetic.
“Not really, Syd. I’m going back inside. They’re not really worth it.”

Sydney waited only a few seconds longer, still blocking our way, before she finally grew bored and left us standing there so she could follow her friend back up the polished marble steps. I didn’t lift my head until I heard the doors of the Academy close behind them.

And then I exhaled loudly.

“Why do they do that?” Brook asked, once we were away from the gleaming school. Her cheeks were red, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She reached over, her fingers closing around my hand. “What did we ever do to them?”

Aron seemed just as shaken. “I wonder what it is that they’re saying about us, when they do that.” His voice was ragged, and he shook his head wearily.

I just shrugged. It was all I could do. I could never tell them the truth of what Sydney and her friend had said.

We reached our school, which was far less grand and polished than the Academy. The building was old brick, not the eye-catching kind of brick found on historical buildings with charm, but rather the crumbling kind that looked like it might cave in on itself at any moment. We didn’t have fancy uniforms or even a name, like the Academy; we were merely known as School 33.

But it was hard to complain. It was a school, and we were allowed to attend. And it was still open, despite the fighting
going on within our country. These were all things to be grateful for. There were worse things in life than attending a Vendor’s school.

Like attending no school at all.

The morning bell sounded, and everyone in the classroom stood, as did every other student at every other school throughout the country. In unison, we raised our right hands, our elbows bent, our fists raised skyward, and for the only time during school hours, we spoke in Englaise.

It was the Queen’s Pledge:

My breath is my pledge to worship my queen above all others.

My breath is my pledge to obey the laws of my country.

My breath is my pledge to respect my superiors. My breath is my pledge to contribute to the progress of my class.

My breath is my pledge to report all who would do harm to my queen and country.

As I breathe, I pledge.

I didn’t often listen to the words of the Pledge. I just spoke them, letting them fall negligently from my lips. After years of repetition, they’d become second nature, almost
exactly
like breathing.

But today, maybe for the first time ever, I heard them. I
noted the words we emphasized: worship, obey, respect, contribute, report. I listed the order of importance in my head: queen, then country, then class. The Pledge was a command as much as it was a promise, yet another way that the queen demanded that we protect her and our way of life.

I looked at the kids around me, my classmates. I saw clothing in shades of grays, blues, browns, and blacks. Working-class colors. Practical colors. The fabrics and textures were sensible—cottons, wools, even canvas—durable and hard to soil. I didn’t even have to look to know that every student in the classroom stood erect, chins high. That was something our parents and teachers instilled in us each and every day, to be proud of who we were.

I wondered why
we
had been born of the Vendor class. Why we were better than some, yet not as good as others. But I knew the answer: It had nothing to do with us. It was simple fate.

Had we been born to parents of the Serving class, we would not be attending classes today. And had our parents been Counsel folk, we would have climbed the gleaming steps to the Academy.

The instructor cleared his throat and I jumped, realizing that the Pledge was over, and that my fist—and mine alone—was still raised.

My face burned hot beneath the stares of the forty-five merchant-born children who shared this hour with me as I dropped my fist to my side, clenching it tightly as I took my seat. Beside me, I saw Brooklynn grinning.

I glared at her, but she knew it wasn’t a real glare, and it only made her smile grow.

“You heard, didn’t you?”
Aron spoke in a low whisper when I joined him in the courtyard for the lunch hour. Other than during the Pledge, Parshon was the only language we were permitted to speak in
our
school.

Aron didn’t need to elaborate. Of course I’d already heard the latest gossip. I dropped my voice too, as I scooted closer to him on the stone bench.
“Do you know if they got her whole family? Did they take her parents and her brothers and sisters?”

Brook joined us then and immediately recognized the hushed tone and the way our eyes darted nervously, watching everyone and trusting no one.
“Cheyenne?”
she asked in a half whisper.

I reached into my book bag and handed Brook the lunch my mother had prepared for her, just as she had every day since Brook’s own mother had died.

She sat down on the other side of Aron, our three heads ducking close.

Aron nodded, his eyes meeting first mine and then hers.
“I heard they came in during the night and took only her. She’s being held at the palace for questioning, but it doesn’t look good. Word is, there was real evidence this time.”

We stopped speaking, sitting straighter as the young boy made his way across the grass, gathering garbage along the way. He didn’t talk to anyone, just moved slowly, methodically, minding his step. As a member of the Serving class he had only one language, Englaise. So within the walls of our
school—except during the Pledge—he wasn’t permitted to speak. He simply stared downward as he gathered refuse.