The Legend Trilogy Collection (59 page)

“We are now ready to announce the verdicts for Captain Thomas Alexander Bryant and Commander Natasha Jameson of Los Angeles City Patrol Eight. All rise for the glorious Elector!”

The Senators and I stand with a uniform clatter, while Commander Jameson simply turns to face Anden with a look of utter disdain. Thomas snaps to a sharp salute in Anden’s direction. He holds the position as Anden stands up, straightens, and puts his hands behind his back. There’s a moment of silence as we wait for his final verdict, the one vote that really matters. I fight back a rising urge to cough. My eyes dart instinctively to the other Princeps-Elects, something I now do all the time; Mariana has a satisfied frown on her face, while Serge just looks bored. One of my fists clenches tightly around the paper clip ring I’m working on. I already know it will leave deep grooves in my palm.

“The Senators of the Republic have submitted their individual verdicts,” Anden announces to the courtroom, his words bearing all the formality of a traditions-old speech. I marvel at the way his voice can sound so soft, yet carry so well at the same time. “I have taken their joint decision into account, and now I give my own.” Anden pauses to turn his eyes down toward where both of them are waiting. Thomas is still in full salute, still staring intently at the empty air in front of him. “Captain Thomas Alexander Bryant of Los Angeles City Patrol Eight,” he says, “the Republic of America finds you
guilty
 . . .”

The room stays silent. I fight to keep my breathing even.
Think about something. Anything.
What about all the political books I’ve been reading this week? I try to recite some of the facts I’ve learned, but suddenly I can’t remember any of it. Most uncharacteristic.

“. . . of the death of Captain Metias Iparis on the night of November thirtieth—of the death of civilian Grace Wing without the warrants necessary for execution—of the single-handed execution of twelve protesters in Batalla Square on the afternoon of—”

His voice comes in and out of the blur of noise in my head. I lean a hand against my chair’s armrest, let out a slow breath, and try to prevent myself from swaying.
Guilty.
Thomas has been found guilty of killing both my brother and Day’s mother. My hands shake.

“—and thereby sentenced to death by firing squad two days from today, at seventeen hundred hours. Commander Natasha Jameson of Los Angeles City Patrol Eight, the Republic of America finds you
guilty
 . . .”

Anden’s voice fades away into a dull, unrecognizable hum. Everything around me seems so slow, as if I’m living too quickly for it all and leaving the world behind.

A year ago I’d been standing outside Batalla Hall on a different sort of court stage, looking on with a huge crowd as a judge gave Day the exact same sentence. Now Day is alive, and a Republic celebrity. I open my eyes again. Commander Jameson’s lips are set in a tight line as Anden reads out her death penalty. Thomas looks expressionless.
Is
he expressionless? I’m too far away to tell, but his eyebrows seem furrowed into a strange sort of tragedy.
I should feel good about this,
I remind myself. Both Day and I should be rejoicing. Thomas killed Metias. He shot Day’s mother in cold blood, without a second’s hesitation.

But now the courtroom falls away and all I can see are memories of Thomas as a teenager, back when he and Metias and I used to eat pork
edame
inside a warm first-floor street stand, with the rain pouring down all around us. I remember Thomas showing off his first assigned gun to me. I even remember the time Metias brought me to his afternoon drills. I was twelve and had just begun my courses at Drake for a week—how innocent everything seemed back then. Metias picked me up after my classes that afternoon, right on time, and we headed over to the Tanagashi sector, where he was running his patrol through drills. I can still feel the warmth of the sun beating down on my hair, still see the swoosh of Metias’s black half cape, the gleam of his silver epaulettes, and still hear the sharp clicks of his shining boots on the cement. While I settled down on a corner bench and turned my comp on to (pretend to) do some advance reading, Metias lined up his soldiers for inspection. He paused before each soldier to point out flaws in their uniforms.

“Cadet Rin,” he barked at one of the newer soldiers. The soldier jumped at the steel in my brother’s voice, then hung her head in shame as Metias tapped the lone medal pinned on the cadet’s coat. “If I wore my medal like this, Commander Jameson would strip me of my title. Do you want to be removed from this patrol, soldier?”

“N-no, sir,” the cadet stammered.

Metias kept his gloved hands tucked behind his back and moved on. He criticized three more soldiers before he reached Thomas, who stood at attention near the end of the line. Metias looked over his uniform with a stern, careful eye. Of course, Thomas’s outfit was absolutely spotless—not a single thread out of place, every medal and epaulette groove polished to a bright shine, boots so flawless that I could probably see my reflection in them. A long pause. I put my comp down and leaned forward to watch more closely. Finally, my brother nodded. “Well done, soldier,” he said to Thomas. “Keep up the good work, and I’ll see that Commander Jameson promotes you before the end of this year.”

Thomas’s expression never changed, but I saw him lift his chin with pride. “Thank you, sir,” he replied. Metias’s eyes lingered on him for a second, and then he moved on.

When he finally finished inspecting everyone, my brother turned to face his entire patrol. “A disappointing inspection, soldiers,” he called out to them. “You’re under my watch now, and that means you’re under Commander Jameson’s watch. She expects a higher caliber from this lot, so you’d do well to try harder. Understood?”

Sharp salutes answered him.
“Yes, sir!”

Metias’s eyes returned to Thomas. I saw respect on my brother’s face, even admiration. “If each of you paid attention to detail the way Cadet Bryant does, we’d be the greatest patrol in the country. Let him serve as an example to you all.” He joined them in a final salute. “Long live the Republic!” The cadets echoed him in unison.

The memory slowly fades from my thoughts, and Metias’s clear voice turns into a ghost’s whisper, leaving me weak and exhausted in my sadness.

Metias had always talked about Thomas’s fixation on being the perfect soldier. I remember the blind devotion Thomas gave to Commander Jameson, the same blind devotion he now gives to his new Elector. Then I see Thomas and me sitting across from each other in an interrogation room—I remember the anguish in his eyes. How he’d told me that he wanted to protect me. What happened to that shy, awkward boy from Los Angeles’s poor sectors, the boy who used to train with Metias every afternoon? Something blurs my vision and I quickly wipe a hand across my eyes.

I
could
be compassionate. I could ask Anden to spare his life and let him live out his years in prison, and give him a chance to redeem himself. But instead I just stand there with my closed lips and unwavering posture, my heart hard as stone. Metias would be more merciful in my position.

But I was never as good a person as my brother.

“This concludes the trial for Captain Thomas Alexander Bryant and Commander Natasha Jameson,” Anden finishes. He holds a hand out in Thomas’s direction and nods once. “Captain, do you have any words for the Senate?”

Thomas doesn’t flinch in the slightest, doesn’t show a single hint of fear or remorse or anger on his face. I watch him closely. After a heartbeat, he turns his eyes up to where Anden stands, then bows low. “My glorious Elector,” he replies in a clear, unwavering voice. “I have disgraced the Republic by acting in a way that has both displeased and disappointed you. I humbly accept my verdict.” He rises from his bow, then returns to his salute. “Long live the Republic.”

He glances up at me when the Senators all voice their agreement with Anden’s final verdict. For an instant, our eyes meet. Then I look down. After a while, I look back up and he’s staring straight ahead again.

Anden turns his attention to Commander Jameson. “Commander,” he says, extending his gloved hand in her direction. His chin lifts in a regal gesture. “Do you have any words for the Senate?”

She doesn’t flinch from looking at the young Elector. Her eyes are cold, dark slates. After a pause, she finally nods. “Yes,
Elector,
” she says, her tone harsh and mocking, a stark contrast to Thomas’s. The Senators and soldiers shift uneasily, but Anden raises a hand for silence. “I do have some words for you. I was not the first to hope for your death, and I won’t be the last. You are the Elector, but you are still just a boy. You don’t know who you are.” She narrows her eyes . . . and smiles. “But
I
know. I have seen far more than you have—I’ve drained the blood from prisoners twice your age, I’ve killed men with twice your strength, I’ve left prisoners shaking in their broken bodies who probably have twice your courage. You think you’re this country’s savior, don’t you? But I know better. You’re just your father’s boy, and like father, like son. He failed, and so will you.” Her smile widens, but it never touches her eyes. “This country will go down in flames with you at the helm, and my ghost will be laughing at you all the way from hell.”

Anden’s expression never changes. His eyes stay clear and unafraid, and in this moment, I am drawn to him like a bird to an open sky. He meets her stare coolly. “This concludes today’s trial,” he replies, his voice echoing throughout the chamber. “Commander, I suggest you save your threats for the firing squad.” Then he folds his hands behind his back and nods at his soldiers. “Remove them from my sight.”

I don’t know how Anden can show so little fear in front of Commander Jameson. I envy it. Because as I watch the soldiers lead her away, all I can feel is a deep, ice-cold pit of terror. Like she’s not done with us yet. Like she’s warning us to watch our backs.

WE TOUCH DOWN IN DENVER ON THE MORNING OF THE EMERGENCY
banquet. Even the words themselves make me want to laugh: emergency
banquet
? To me, a banquet still means a feast, and I don’t see how any emergency should be cause for a goddy mountain of food, even if it
is
for Independence Day. Is that how these Senators deal with crises—by stuffing their fat faces?

After Eden and I settle into a temporary government apartment and Eden dozes off, exhausted from our early morning flight, I reluctantly leave him with Lucy in order to meet the assistant assigned to prep me for tonight’s event.

“If anyone tries to see him,” I whisper to Lucy as Eden sleeps, “for any reason, please call me. If anyone wants—”

Lucy, used to my paranoia, hushes me with a wave of her hand. “Let me put your mind at ease, Mr. Wing,” she replies. She pats my cheek. “No one will see Eden while you’re gone. I promise. I’ll call you in an instant if anything happens.”

I nod. My eyes linger on Eden as if he’ll disappear if I blink. “Thanks.”

To attend an event this fancy, I need to dress the part—and to dress the part, the Republic assigns a Senator’s daughter to take me through the downtown district, where the city’s main shopping areas are clustered. She meets me right where the train stops in the center of the district. There’s no mistaking who she is—she’s decked out in a stylish uniform from head to toe, her light brown eyes set against dark brown skin and thick black curls of hair tied up into a knotted braid. When she recognizes me, she flashes me a smile. I catch her looking me over, as if already critiquing my outfit. “You must be Day,” she says, taking my hand. “My name is Faline Fedelma, and the Elector has assigned me to be your guide.” She pauses to raise an eyebrow at my clothes. “We have some work to do.”

I look down at my outfit. Trousers tucked into scuffed-up boots, a rumpled collar shirt, and an old scarf. Would’ve been considered luxurious on the streets. “Glad you approve,” I reply. But Faline just laughs and loops an arm through mine.

As she leads me to a government clothing street that specializes in evening wear, I take in the crowds of people rushing around us. Well-dressed, upper-class folks. A trio of students pass, giggling about something or other, dressed in pristine military uniforms and polished boots. As we round a corner and step inside a shop, I realize that soldiers are standing guard up and down the street. A
lot
of soldiers.

“Are there usually this many guards downtown?” I ask Faline.

She just shrugs and holds up an outfit against me, but I can see the unease in her eyes. “No,” she replies, “not really. But I’m sure it’s nothing for you to worry about.”

I let it drop, but a pulse of anxiety rushes through my mind. Denver’s beefing up its defenses. June hasn’t explained why she needed me to attend this banquet so badly, badly enough to contact me herself after so many months of no word. What the hell would she need from
me
? What does the Republic want this time?

If the Republic really is going back to war, then maybe I should find a way to get Eden out of the country. We have the power to leave now, after all. Don’t know what’s keeping me here.

Hours later, after the sun has set and fireworks for the Elector’s birthday have already started going off in random parts of the city, a jeep takes me from our apartment toward Colburn Hall. I peer impatiently out the window. People travel up and down the sidewalks in dense clusters. Tonight each of them is dressed in very specific clothing—mostly red, with hints of gold makeup and Republic seals stamped prominently here and there, on the back of white gloves or on the sleeves of military coats. I wonder how many of these folks agree with the
Anden is our savior
graffiti and how many side with the
Anden is a hoax
message. Troops march up and down the streets. All the JumboTrons have images of enormous Republic seals on display, followed by live footage streaming from the festivities happening inside Colburn Hall. To Anden’s credit, there’s been a steady decline in Republic propaganda lately on the JumboTrons. Still no news about the outside world, though. Guess you can’t have everything.

By the time we reach the cobbled steps of Colburn Hall, the streets are a mess of celebrations, throngs of people, and unsmiling guards. The onlookers let out a huge cheer when they see me step out of the jeep, a roar that shakes my bones and sends a spasm of pain through the back of my head. I wave hesitantly back.

Faline’s waiting for me at the bottom of the steps that lead up to Colburn Hall. This time she’s clad in a gold dress, and gold dust shimmers on her eyelids. We exchange bows before I follow behind her, looking on as she motions for others to clear a path. “You clean up nicely,” she says. “Someone’s going to be very pleased to see you.”

“I don’t think the Elector will be as excited as you think.”

She smiles at me over her shoulder. “I wasn’t talking about the Elector.”

My heart jumps at that.

We make our way through the shouting mob. I crane my neck and stare at the elaborate beauty of Colburn Hall. Everything glitters. Tonight the pillars are each adorned with tall scarlet banners displaying the Republic seal, and hanging right in the middle of the pillars and above the hall’s entrance is the largest portrait I’ve ever seen. Anden’s giant face. Faline guides me down the corridor, where Senators are carrying on random conversations and other elite guests talk and laugh with one another like everything in the country is going great. But behind their cheerful masks are signs of nervousness, flickering eyes, and furrowed brows. They’ve gotta sense the unusual number of soldiers here too. I try to mimic the proper, precise way they have of walking and talking, but stop when Faline notices me doing it.

We wander the lush, open setting of Colburn Hall for several minutes, lost in the sea of politicians. The tassels of my epaulettes clink together. I’m looking for
her,
even though I don’t know what I’ll say when—
if
—I find her. How will I even catch a glimpse of her in the middle of all this goddy luxury? Wherever we turn, I see another flurry of colorful gowns and polished suits, fountains and pianos, waiters carrying skinny glasses of champagne, fancy people wearing their fake smiles. I feel a sudden sense of claustrophobia.

Where am I? What am I doing here?

As if on cue, the instant I ask myself these questions is the instant I finally see her. Somehow, in the midst of these aristocrats who blend into one blurry portrait, my eyes catch her silhouette and pause.
June.
The noise around me fades into a dull hum, quiet and uninteresting, and all of my attention turns helplessly to the girl I thought I’d be able to face.

She’s dressed in a floor-length gown of deep scarlet, and her thick, shining hair is piled high on her head in dark waves, pinned into place with red, gem-studded combs that catch the light. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,
easily
the most breathtaking girl in the room. She’s grown taller in the eight months since I’ve seen her, and the way she holds herself—poised and graceful, with her slender, swanlike neck and her deep, dark eyes—is the image of perfection.

Almost
perfection. At closer look, I notice something that makes me frown. There’s an air of restraint about her, something uncertain and unconfident. Not like the June I know. As if powerless against the sight, I find myself guiding both Faline and me toward her. I only stop when the people around her move apart, revealing the man standing at her side.

It’s Anden. Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised. Off to the side, several well-dressed girls are trying in vain to catch his attention, but he seems focused only on June. I watch as he leans in to whisper something in her ear, then continues his relaxed conversation with her and several others.

When I turn silently away, Faline frowns at my sudden shift. “Are you okay?” she asks.

I attempt a reassuring smile. “Oh, absolutely. Don’t worry.” I feel so out of place among these aristocrats, with their bank accounts and posh manners. No matter how much money the Republic throws at me, I will forever be the boy from the streets.

And I’d forgotten that a boy from the streets is no match for the future Princeps.