The Pledge (15 page)

But telling myself as much didn’t make me feel any better.

That night in my room, I opened my bag. Angelina was supposed to be sleeping, but like so many nights she was still awake, hoping I would read to her.

“Only if you promise to be quiet. I don’t want to get in trouble for keeping you awake,” I whispered, knowing my mother would separate us if she knew how often I read to my sister at night. “And no complaints if you get nightmares,” I warned as I pulled out my history book.

Angelina nodded, her clear blue eyes filled with assurance.

I smiled at the expectant look on her face. “Lie down, then. At least try to go to sleep,” I said, and then I explained to her
what I was studying, like one of the teachers from my school. “The Revolution of Sovereigns was the brief period of time in Ludania’s history when the monarchy was overturned by the people, when we were self-governed—ruled by leaders of our own choosing.” I read directly from the text now, which was written in Parshon:
“It was a concept sparked of idealism, and favored heavily by the masses who had risen up against Queen Avonlea and the rest of the Di Heyse family. It was a time of great violence, when the royal family was forced into hiding only to be hunted down and captured, slaughtered in public arenas so that the bloodlust of the people could be satisfied.”

I peeked at Angelina. I would feel bad telling a four-year-old such tales if she hadn’t already known them. We’d grown up hearing these stories, indoctrinated from an early age. Revolutionaries were not new in our history; it was important we understand that our survival depended on having a queen.

I shifted closer to Angelina, shuddering as I tried to imagine what it must have been like for those of noble birth during those times, to know that they must escape or be executed by their own countrymen, their own subjects. To be cast aside as rulers, only to be set on fire, or hanged, or beheaded.

I continued to read, knowing she was waiting.
“Their fortunes were plundered, their homes and lands divided among the new leaders, and all reminders of the former monarchs—statues, flags, paintings, monies—were destroyed, leaving no evidence of their existence.”
There was an image on the page, an artist’s depiction of the former reigning family, since no photographs remained. Angelina reached out and touched
the drawing, her finger outlining the image of a girl about her age—a girl who’d presumably been executed simply because of her bloodline.

My skin tightened; it had been a dark time in our country’s history.

“But despite the idealism of the time, there was no real relief for the people under the new government. Old taxes were abolished only to have new ones created. A queen with too much power was replaced by a president who held even more influence.”
Angelina glanced up at me, her expression confused. I stopped reading and tried to explain what it meant, this time in Englaise. “Because anyone could be a leader, regardless of their birthright, corruption was widespread. Elections were tainted, and taxes were raised to subsidize those who were in command. There were even more bloody overthrows.

“Queens from the other realms—those with
real
power—refused to cooperate with the new regime because the leaders were not of royal descent.” I looked at her as I explained. “Since we didn’t have a queen, our country was isolated from the rest of the world. We were denied essential trade, and the people soon learned that our country was
not
as self-sufficient as we believed, that we needed what those other countries had once provided. It had been foolish to believe that a mere mortal could be a ruler.

“First famine set in, followed almost immediately by disease.”

I curled against Angelina now, not needing my book; this was the part we’d been told countless times, words I’d memorized. Her breathing deepened, becoming heavier, and
even though she still listened, I knew she was growing sleepy. “This was the turning point for Ludania,” I whispered against her cheek. “Dissatisfaction over the new regime became too much to bear, and the loss of lives was too great. Bodies overfilled cemeteries, and as the surplus of dead had to be burned, they created black clouds that choked the countryside. The people called for another uprising of sorts, a call back to the regents of their past.

“Only there were none. They had all been sacrificed at the altar of a revolution.” I spoke the last words slowly, quietly, as Angelina’s eyes fluttered, succumbing, at last, to sleep.

It didn’t matter; she knew how it ended. We all knew.

The other countries were petitioned by covert factions who sought to overthrow the new “democracies,” and spies were sent forth to look for those of royal lineage closely related to that of the old throne.

We needed a new leader. We
had
to have a queen.

Eventually, one was found. One who was willing to take her place on the throne and lead our country off its own path of self-destruction.

She was a strong woman—so history tells—of royal blood and regal bearing. When her forces arrived, easily overtaking the complacent and poorly skilled armies of the presiding government, she showed mercy to her predecessors only in that they were killed as privately and as painlessly as possible.

A queen that powerful was easily accepted by the monarchies of the surrounding countries, and soon sanctions were lifted, trade and communication were re-established. The people of Ludania had food once more.

That was when the class system was first imposed. It was designed to discourage future uprisings, to keep people living apart so ideas of rebellion could not be comingled.

Language became a tool, a way to complete that division. It became illegal to speak—or even to acknowledge—another class’s language. It was a way to keep secrets, a way to exert power and control over those who were . . . less.

That had been centuries ago—back when cities had names—and even though some things had changed, both the class system and the monarchy still remained intact. Stronger now than ever before.

Words had become the ultimate barrier. The law made it criminal to communicate in anything other than our birth tongue or Englaise. Anyone who showed any aptitude toward language was executed. Persecution kept anyone else from trying.

After hundreds of years, the ability to decipher the words of another class had been lost, making it impossible to master a language other than our own. We’d become resistant to the nuances of foreign dialects.

Yet even if everyone were equal, I would still be on the outside, because I understood
all
languages. And my ability didn’t end with the spoken word. I could decipher all manners of communication, including those that were visual or tactile.

My father had once taken me to a museum, one of the few that hadn’t been burned to the ground during the Revolution, and he’d shown me the way the world had once been, the way our country had once lived as a single unified nation.
Maybe not always at peace, but not divided into a caste system either.

In the museum, we’d seen beautiful drawings that had once been used as a form of communication by ancient civilizations . . . artfully crafted sketchings that our tour guide explained had been translated by scholars into Englaise.

Yet when the tour guide read their meaning to us, I knew he was mistaken, that the translation was faulty.

I’d understood what the beautifully drawn words really said. I knew the true meaning behind the art, and I’d told him so, revealing the correct message of our ancestors.

The outraged guide had insisted that I renounce my lies and apologize for my rebelliousness. My father masked his fear with embarrassment and made excuses to the infuriated man, maintaining that my childish imagination had simply gotten the best of me. He’d argued that I was fanciful and difficult, and he’d dragged me away. Away from the lovely words, and away from the museum, lest the man discover that I was accurate in my interpretation.

Lest he turn me in for understanding a language that was not my own.

I was first scolded for my outburst, and then hugged tightly out of fear and relief. My father reminded me how unsafe it was for me to share my ability.

With anyone.

Ever.

I was six years old, and it was only the second time I’d seen my father cry.

The first was when I was four and he’d killed a man.

The door to my room opened, and my mother’s shadowed silhouette slipped inside, carrying with her the smells of baked goods that seemed to permeate her skin after years of working in the restaurant.

She nodded her head toward Angelina.
“You should be sleeping too, Charlaina. It’s a school day tomorrow.”

“I know, I’m almost finished.” I answered her in Englaise and closed the book, which I could no longer concentrate on anyway.

She sat down on the bed beside me, smoothing my hair from my face and then stroking my cheek with the backs of her fingers.
“You look tired.”

I didn’t tell her that she was the one who looked tired. That her golden features had grown faded, her proud stance weary. I was never convinced that my mother had been born to work such a hard life.

Maybe no one was.

I nodded. “I am.”

She bent to kiss my forehead, and the familiar scent of warm bread filled my nose. It was the scent of my mother. She reached for the book, taking it from my hands.

As she lifted it, a slip of paper drifted from between the pages, settling on top of the heavy covers that blanketed me. My mother didn’t notice it, and as she turned to set the book on my bedside table, I reached for the note, unfolding it.

I knew immediately that I wasn’t the one who’d hidden it there.

And when I read the words written on the page, I drew in a sharp breath.

“What is it, Charlaina?”
she asked, turning back to me.

I shook my head but kept the note hidden beneath the covers, clutched within my fist.

She raised her eyebrows, as if she was going to ask again, when we heard the three familiar bursts of the siren coming from outside, reminding all that it was time to take cover, that the streets were now off-limits. When she turned back to me, her curiosity was forgotten and she reached for the lamp, turning the flame all the way down. “Good night, Charlie,” she said, this time in Englaise, surprising me, since she normally refused to speak it within the confines of our home.

“Good night, Mom,”
I answered with a sudden mischievous grin, surprising her by speaking her favored language.

When the door closed and I was certain she was gone, I turned the flame back up.

I had to read it again.

Or maybe two . . . or three . . . or fifty more times, I thought, pulling out the rumpled note and carefully unfolding it.

The paper was now creased in places that it hadn’t been before, where my fingers had squeezed it, hiding it from my mother’s view.

I looked at the words scrawled there, wondering at them, trying to decide exactly how I felt about them. Every muscle in my body tensed. The hairs on my arm stood on end.

I read it one last time, committing the words to memory so
I could recall them later. Then I tucked it away again inside my book before turning off my lamp once more.