The Pledge (4 page)

He was scarcely older than Angelina—six, maybe seven—with unruly black hair and calluses on his dirty bare feet. With his head down, I couldn’t see the color of his eyes.

He paused beside us, waiting to see if we had any trash he could collect. Instead, I reached into my own lunch and palmed a cookie my mother had baked. I held it out to him, making certain that no one else could see it in my hand. I raised my eyes, hoping he might lift his, but he never did.

When he was within reach, I slipped him the cookie, in the same way I would have given him garbage from my lunch. Anyone watching would’ve thought nothing of it.

The boy took the cookie, just as he did every day, and while I’d hoped to see eagerness or gratitude from him, I got neither. His expression remained blank, his eyes averted. He was careful . . . and smart. Smarter than me, it seemed.

As he padded away, I saw him slip the cookie into his pocket, and I smiled to myself.

Brooklynn’s voice drew my attention.
“What kind of evidence did they find?”
she asked Aron, her voice tight. News of Cheyenne’s imprisonment was making everyone edgy.

Unfortunately, however, Cheyenne wasn’t alone. Whispers of disloyalty to the crown had begun to take root, starting like a virus and spreading like a plague. It infected and corrupted ordinary citizens, as rewards were being offered to those willing to report anyone they suspected of subversion. People turned against one another, seeking information against friends, neighbors, even family members, in order to gain favor
with the queen. Trust had become a commodity that few could afford.

And
real
evidence—the kind that could be substantiated beyond petty gossip—was deadly.

“They found maps in her possession. Maps belonging to the resistance.”

Brook’s lips tightened, and her head dropped.
“Damn.”

But I wasn’t convinced.
“How can they be certain they’re rebel maps? Who told you this?”

He looked up, and his sorrowful gold-flecked eyes stared back at me.
“Her brother told me. It was her father who turned her in.”

I spent the rest of the day thinking about Cheyenne Goodwin.

What did it mean when father turned on daughter? When parent turned on child?

I wasn’t worried for me, of course. My parents were as solid as they came, as trustworthy and loyal as any parents could be.

I knew because they’d been keeping my secret for my entire life.

But what of everyone else? What if the rebellion continued to gain momentum, if the queen continued to feel threatened?

How many more families would cannibalize their young?

the queen

Queen Sabara drew the wool throw over her lap and smoothed it with her crooked fingers. She was too old for the chill, her skin too thin now—nearly paperlike—and her lean flesh clung to her tired bones.

Two servant girls entered the room, crouching low and speaking quietly to each other so as not to startle her where she sat.

It was ridiculous, she thought. She was aged, not skittish.

One of them—the newer of the two—foolishly reached for the switch on the wall that would turn on the electric lights overhead. The other girl stopped her just in time, clamping her fingers around the girl’s wrist before she could make that mistake. Clearly, she hadn’t been there long enough to know that her queen detested the glare of an electric bulb, that she much preferred candlelight.

Sabara watched the pair cautiously—her eyes sharp as ever—as they added more wood to the hearth and stoked the flames. After a moment, she turned to gaze through the wall of windows overlooking the verdant lawns of her estate.

She had much to think about and her heart was heavy, bearing the burden of a country in turmoil . . .
her
country. She couldn’t help wondering what would become of her throne if the rebel forces were not soon stopped. Already they were doing too much damage, and her body ached in sympathy from the injuries they’d done to her lands, and to her subjects.

She wondered how much more an old woman could bear.

But she once again reminded herself that she had no choice. If there had been another to take her place, she would gladly have stepped aside. The bitter truth was, there was no one.

This body had failed her, and she cursed it for providing her with just one heir, and a son at that. One lowly male child.

Then she silently cursed her only son, whose seed was more plentiful than her own, yet not one of them female.

Fools, all of them. Weak and lacking the skills required to rule a country . . . unable to provide her with what she needed.

If only the whispers from the past could be proved true. If only she could find
the One
, a survivor to the old throne, the lost heir who could succeed her. But even if such a girl did exist, the queen would have to find her first. Before her enemies could get to her.

Until then, or until another suitable child was born, she must remain in power. She must stay alive.

She scrutinized the servants as they went about their work, never casting a single glance in their queen’s direction. They understood their place in this world. When her chief adviser crashed through the doors, he barely drew their attention.

Sabara watched as he rushed forward and bowed low
before her, waiting impatiently until she gave him permission to rise again.

She stared at the top of his head, drawing out the time longer than was necessary, knowing that it made him uncomfortable, knowing that age made his back ache.

Finally she cleared her throat. “What is it, Baxter?” she intoned, giving him the signal to stand upright at last.

He cast a suspicious glance toward the servants in the room, and two pairs of eyes stared back at him. But the moment his words slipped into the cadence of the Royal language, both sets of eyes shot downward, anchoring to the floor beneath their feet.

“General Arnoff has gathered his troops along the eastern border. If Queen Elena insists on siding with the rebels, then she’ll have a fight on her hands. And blood on her conscience.”
He paused, just long enough to take a steadying breath, before continuing.
“But I fear we have a bigger problem.”

Anger simmered below the queen’s cool exterior. She shouldn’t be dealing with such matters. She shouldn’t be listening to war reports, or deciding which troops to sacrifice next, or wondering how long until the rebel factions would have her palace under siege. These should be the problems of a new ruler, not a decrepit old woman.

She watched the girl servant—the new one—and she willed the girl to raise her eyes, daring her to break not only etiquette, but law, by casting her gaze upward in the presence of a language above her own.

The girl had been in the queen’s service for only a couple of weeks, but that was long enough to be noticed, and long
enough to understand that her queen was not a forgiving one. She knew better than to look up at this moment, and she kept her eyes focused on her feet.

“Well, what is it? Say what you’ve come to say,”
Sabara insisted, knowing he wouldn’t have disturbed her if he didn’t have news. Her eyes remained trained on the girl.

“Your Majesty,”
Baxter groveled, bobbing his head respectfully. He was unaware that he did not have his queen’s full attention.
“The rebellion grows stronger. We believe their numbers have doubled, possibly tripled. Last night they took out the train tracks between 3South and 5North. It was the last remaining trade line between the north and south, which means that even more villagers will be moving into the cities seeking food and supplies. It’ll take weeks to—”

Before Baxter could finish his sentence, Sabara was on her feet atop the dais, staring down at him.
“These rebels are simple outcasts! Peasants! Are you telling me that an army of soldiers is incapable of shutting them down?”

And it was at that moment that the servant girl made her fatal error. Her head moved, only millimeters. The shift was barely perceptible, but her eyes . . .

. . . her eyes glanced upward in the presence of the queen’s words. Words she was unable to comprehend, and forbidden to acknowledge.

And the queen had been watching her.

Sabara’s lips tightened into a hard line, her breath becoming erratic. She quivered with excitement that she could barely contain. She’d been waiting for it.

Baxter must have realized something was happening, for
he remained where he was, frozen in time as he watched his queen lift her hand slowly, regally, into the air, signaling for the guards who stood beside the door.

The girl appeared too stunned to do anything but stare, like an animal caught in the sights of a hunter. Sabara had her cornered.

She thought about dealing with the girl herself, and her fingertips tingled in anticipation as her hand began to curl into its telltale fist. Were she a younger woman—stronger—it would have been effortless, a simple clenching of her fingers. The girl would be dead in seconds.

But as it was, she knew she couldn’t afford the energy it would cost her, so instead she uncurled her hand and made a quick, flicking gesture toward the condemned serving girl instead. “Send her to the gallows,” she commanded, switching to Englaise so that everyone in the room could understand. Her shoulders were stiff, her head high.

The guards strode toward the girl, who didn’t bother to fight them, or even to beg for mercy. She understood her breach. She knew the penalty.

The queen watched as the men escorted the girl from the room. It was the most alive she’d felt in ages.

She’d just discovered a new sport.

ii

I bent to retrieve the fork, which made a tinny racket as it clattered onto the floor, and smiled sheepishly at the man sitting alone at the table. “I’ll be right back with a clean one,” I said, plucking it up for him.

His answering grin reached all the way to his eyes, which was surprising. Sincerity was a rarity when dealing with someone of the Counsel class.

I was glad, I supposed. At least I wouldn’t have to lick his fork, I thought, smirking at Brooklynn as I passed her on my way to the serving station.

Brook carried a basket filled with freshly baked bread out of the kitchen. “Did you see the guys at table six?” She winked at me. “Hopefully I’ll make some decent money tonight.”

Brooklynn told everyone that the reason she worked for my parents at our restaurant, rather than at her father’s butcher shop, was for the tips, but I knew better. Since her mother’s death, she’d used every excuse she could to stay away from her home—and from the family business—whenever possible.

Working for the extra money was just a convenient way to avoid painful memories and a father who no longer acknowledged her existence.

Whatever her reasons, I liked having her around.

I glanced over my shoulder to the three men crowded into the corner booth. Two of them—looking far too large for the table they sat at—watched Brooklynn with hungry eyes. It was the way most men looked at her.

I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t think getting tips from them is going to be a problem for you, Brook.”

She frowned back at me. “Except I can’t seem to get the cutest one to notice me.” I saw who she meant. The third man, younger than the others and only somewhat smaller, appeared to be bored by his companions, and by his surroundings in general. Brook didn’t like to be ignored, but she also didn’t give up easily. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “I guess I’ll have to turn up the charm.”

I shook my head, grabbing a new fork for the man at my own table. I had no doubt that Brooklynn’s pockets would be full by the end of her shift.

When I returned with the utensil, I felt my heart beating a little faster, and my cheeks flushing hotly.

The Counsel man wasn’t dining alone after all, and in my absence, his family had joined him.

I immediately recognized the girl sitting with him—his daughter, I assumed. A girl I passed nearly every morning at the Academy. The one girl who took perverse pleasure in mocking me and my friends as we walked by: Sydney. And here she was, still in her uniform, reminding me that hers was
a life of privilege, and not about rushing to her parents’ restaurant after school so she could work the rest of the evening.

Suddenly I wished that I had spit on
all
the forks. I had an overwhelming urge to turn around and excuse myself from work for the night, to tell my father that I was ill so I could go home.

Instead I forced my best false smile—one that most certainly did
not
reach my eyes—and concentrated on not tripping over my own two feet as I walked the rest of the way to their table.

I replaced the fork and glanced around at the perfect Counsel family before me: the mother, looking poised and professional; the doting father; and the overindulged daughter. I tried not to pause for too long on any one of them. I wouldn’t give Sydney the satisfaction of knowing that I’d recognized her, even though I was certain she recognized me. “Can I bring you anything to drink?” I asked, relieved that the quiver I felt didn’t make it to my voice. It was a good sign.