Authors: Brenda Hiatt
“Blame
him?
” I repeated. “I don’t blame Rigel at all! I blame whoever made him leave Jewel. Were you in on that?”
For a long moment, she stared at me, chewing on her lower lip as though deciding whether to answer—which was an answer all by itself. Finally she sank down onto the couch next to Sean with a heavy sigh.
“Excellency, I’m still not sure you fully understand what’s at stake right now. Perhaps if I explain to you what Quinn and I have been up against for the past dozen years . . .” She trailed off uncertainly.
“Okay, go ahead. Explain it to me. Because you’re right—I don’t understand why it’s so terrible for Rigel and me to be together, especially when it makes us both feel so terrible to be apart.”
Mrs. O’Gara gave a quick, decisive nod. “Very well. Perhaps you’re not aware that most negative tendencies—some might call them vices—that plague humankind have been systematically bred out of our people over the centuries.”
“Shim mentioned it when he talked down Boyne Morven and his followers last month—that Martians aren’t supposed to be greedy or violent or whatever. But Faxon—”
“Is an anomaly,” she assured me. “Unfortunately, while sublimating our baser qualities brought millennia of peace to Nuath, it also left us poorly equipped for dealing with . . . anomalies. Most of us tend to be, for want of a better word, pliable. Except for the Royal
fine
, as resolve is necessary to lead. It’s why Faxon worked so hard to systematically eliminate as many Royals as possible. Those who didn’t flee to Earth faced arrest, convenient ‘accidents,’ or simply disappeared. Some, however, changed their names—even their appearances, in some cases—and went into hiding.”
I frowned, trying to remember what Molly had told me about that. “But . . . you lived in a village, didn’t you? And Sean and Molly went to a regular school and all?”
“Yes, once we had established new, fictitious identities as members of an Agricultural
fine
. Friends in Informatics helped us and certain other Royals to create new family histories that went back generations, inserting our real names on flight manifests so that it appeared we had gone to Earth along with most of the other exiles.”
“So your last name isn’t really O’Gara?”
Sean answered. “No, it is. We left Mars last year because resistance records had been seized, so once we got to Ireland there was no point in keeping our fake name. Which was Mulgrew, in case you’re curious.”
“During our years as the Mulgrews, Molly’s birth parents,” Mrs. O continued, “Quinn and I worked tirelessly, often thanklessly, to rouse our people to rebel against Faxon. The vast majority were sympathetic to our cause, particularly when conditions worsened and Faxon’s oppression became more ruthless. But because of their inbred passivity, motivating them enough to rise up, even in their own interest, was beyond us.
“Oh, we managed small pockets of resistance, along with a few leaks and propaganda campaigns that embarrassed Faxon and publicized our cause. But though we had countless allies, distressingly few were willing to actually
do
anything. We were already on the verge of giving up when we were forced to flee. It seemed no matter what we did, we came no closer to creating the spark our people needed. Until you.”
“News that I was still alive, you mean?”
She nodded, giving me a fond, almost misty smile. “It was overwhelming, you know, learning you survived. Bailerealta held a festival that went on for ten days. The enclave in Montana had a great celebration, as well. I can only imagine the response on Mars once word filtered back—though of course Faxon tried to suppress it. Only in recent weeks has your existence become common knowledge there, and it did what we spent so many years trying to do: it has electrified our people to throw off the yoke of tyranny at last!”
Her words resonated with such fervor, such feeling, I actually felt a flicker of what could only be Nuathan patriotism—unwilling and unfocused as I was. That unfamiliar feeling was immediately followed by a more reasonable one: guilt. Because I couldn’t possibly be what they needed.
Again, Molly seemed to understand my feelings best. “Mum, this is a lot to dump on M at once. I’d hate to feel like the future of a whole race depended on me. I’d probably hide under my bed!”
Mrs. O’Gara didn’t look amused. “You don’t have Emileia’s bloodline, Molly. She was bred from many generations of leaders and I have no doubt she is completely up to the task—or will be, once she grows accustomed to the idea and receives the proper training. I’m not frightening you, am I, dear?” she asked me.
“Um.” I glanced at Molly, then Sean, then back to Mrs. O before answering truthfully, “Not exactly. Maybe because I feel so crappy right now. But I do know there’s no way I can live up to any of this. How could anyone? Especially somebody like me, who wasn’t raised to it? I can’t even speak Martian, er, Nuathan yet. Not to mention knowing how to do all the stuff you say I’d have to do. You claimed I wouldn’t just be a figurehead, but I don’t see how I can possibly be anything else, at least for a long time.”
Mrs. O’Gara only hesitated for a second. “Well, of course you’ll need more instruction before you can take on your proper duties. That’s why Allister is pushing you so hard. But even now—”
“But what
are
my ‘proper duties’?” I pressed. “What authority
do
I have? Right now?”
She’d weaseled out of that question Friday night and now she looked so uncomfortable that Sean said, “Mum, you don’t have to—”
“No, she has a right to know,” she said, half to herself. “I’m just not sure . . .”
“That you want me to know?” Now I was getting angry again.
Her eyes flashed with an emotion that might have been anger of her own, or fear—but it was gone before I could decipher it. “No, dear, of course not. I simply don’t want to give you wrong information. While there must be laws and customs pertaining to an underage Sovereign, I’m not terribly familiar with them.”
More than ever, I wished I could tell for sure when someone was lying. Surely, once they’d found me, Allister and the rest of the Council would have dug out those old laws? They
had
to know.
Another wave of exhaustion made me go fuzzy again. Once I felt better—after Monday—I’d read more of the stuff Allister had given me and see what I could figure out on my own. For now, I just nodded.
“Okay. Maybe Allister knows. But . . . I don’t feel up to talking to him tonight.”
Her smile became motherly again as she relaxed. “Of course, dear. He’s not here anyway. He and Mr. O’Gara are, ah, visiting with some of the newer
Echtrans
tonight, getting to know them better. Would you like Sean to walk you home now?”
“I am pretty tired.” I wondered if she’d almost said
meeting
instead of
visiting
, and if so, what that might be about. “Thanks for the tea and cookies.”
And for confirming that I had
some
kind of power, even if she didn’t want to tell me what. If it was more than the O’Garas or Allister wanted to let on, maybe I
could
do something about this enforced separation from Rigel. But I kept that thought to myself. For now.
athshondis
(ath-SHON-dis):
resonance
Sean and I walked in silence. Which was fine, since I didn’t feel like talking to him. But halfway to my house, he suddenly said, “Hey, I’m sorry if I sounded like I didn’t believe you were sick. I can tell you are. I just—”
“Don’t believe it’s because I’m away from Rigel,” I said flatly. “I know.” I knew I should use this chance to argue my point, but I just didn’t have the energy.
“After everything Mum said, don’t you get why nobody wants to believe you two have a bond? It’s not just me being jealous or possessive or anything.”
I didn’t really care if that last part was true or not. “Yeah, I get that she thinks it’ll screw with their plans if word gets out about our bond,” I snapped, anger giving me another little energy boost. “So the strategy is to deny it, cover it up, and keep Rigel as far away from me as possible. Gee, maybe it would even work . . . if only it
wasn’t
a real bond and I wasn’t getting sicker and sicker. How inconvenient for you all.”
“Being sick sure hasn’t messed with your sarcasm.” He sounded more amused than upset, which just pissed me off more.
“Yeah, I’m contrary like that. I’m sure it would be easier for everybody if I was just an obedient little Sovereign. Sorry about that.”
He snorted. “
Obedient
isn’t a word I’ve ever heard used to describe a Sovereign, so it’s good you’re not. We need a leader, not some puppet who does whatever she’s told. But a
real
leader has to put her
people
first, ahead of whatever she’d rather do—or any attachments she might have. Think about that.”
Sean turned on his heel and left me standing in my driveway, staring after him with my mouth open.
Even though I was ridiculously tired, I tossed and turned for a long time after going to bed. I was dying to sink into oblivion or, better yet, wonderful dreams about Rigel. Instead, Mrs. O’Gara’s words, and Sean’s, kept replaying in my mind.
It was overwhelming, you know, learning you survived. Bailerealta held a festival that went on for ten days. . . it has electrified the people to throw off the yoke of tyranny at last!
A
real
leader has to put her
people
first, ahead of whatever she’d rather do . . .
But I didn’t
want
to lead! I never had. From the start, I’d told them they needed to find someone else, that I wasn’t qualified to be their Sovereign, no matter what some stupid blood test said. I
couldn’t
let them suck me into their cause. I wouldn’t. Trying to be what they wanted could only lead to heartbreak for Rigel and me and disappointment for everyone else.
An hour later I finally fell into an exhausted sleep. But my dreams, when they came, weren’t only of Rigel. Somehow, images of him were intermingled with those of Mrs. O’Gara’s impassioned face, and Sean’s . . . and a pink crystal palace.
“Marsha, you look terrible,” Aunt Theresa greeted me when I dragged myself downstairs for breakfast the next morning. “Are you sick?”
All at once, the idea of forcing myself through another day of school without Rigel was unbearable. “Yeah. I must have caught that virus that’s been going around. Maybe I should stay home.”
She scrutinized me for a long moment and I held my breath. I’d never in my life stayed home sick from school, which probably helped—along with the fact that Rigel was still out of town. She finally nodded.
“Would you like me to make a doctor’s appointment for you?”
I shook my head. What would a doctor find? “If it’s that virus, it seems to last a few days, then go away on its own. If I’m not better by next week, I’ll go to the doctor, okay?”
“All right.” She was clearly relieved. Doctors were expensive. “I recommend you sleep as much as possible today. Then perhaps you can join us for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow, though you’ll need to keep your distance from everyone. I hope you haven’t already infected the O’Garas.”
“Me, too. And yeah, I’ll sleep,” I promised, beyond eager to do just that. My headache had reached epic proportions and my stomach was roiling. I forced down some tea and a few bites of toast, then headed back up to my room.
“Lots of fluids,” Aunt Theresa called up the stairs. “Call the school office if you decide you need a doctor after all.”
I was already back in bed when she left for work a few minutes later.
When I woke again, it was past one o’clock. Six extra hours of sleep had helped some. My headache was a little less pounding, my tummy not
quite
so gross and mind clearer. I pulled on my robe and made my way down to the kitchen to brew some more tea.
I nibbled a cookie while I sipped it, worried if I didn’t eat anything at all I’d be too weak by Monday to properly appreciate Rigel when he got back. I just hoped I could keep it down. With my brain halfway working again, I glanced at the phone on the wall. Would Rigel’s dad have given him back his cell by now?
No, I’d gotten him in trouble once. It would be safer to email, though I doubted he’d be allowed to read it. Still, it would make me feel better to try. I carried my tea and cookie to Uncle Louie’s office and booted up the computer.
When I logged into my account and saw
two
emails from Rigel waiting, I felt totally stupid.
Why
hadn’t I checked again after Monday’s cell phone debacle? Okay, yeah, my brain had been wrapped in fog, but still. I clicked open the first email, dated Monday night, and started reading.
Hey, M, hope you get this! I know you don’t check email much. Really wish I’d had time to tell you I might manage an email or two before my dad grabbed my phone.
Anyway, like I started to tell you earlier, all kinds of important folks have been dropping by. Sounds like some big meeting is happening later this week. Never realized before just how important Grandfather is. I’m trying to listen to everything I can, since a lot of the talk is about you, no big surprise. Hoping to hear something useful, since I bet they’re not telling you everything, either. I’ll clear my outgoing mailbox as soon as I send this, just to be safe. Ditto for future emails. If you write back, do the same thing, okay?
I’m kind of achy without you, but some of it’s probably just in my head. We went longer than 10 days without touching back in September, so this should be a piece of cake, right?
Hope you’re keeping busy and your aunt’s not dumping on you too much. Tell the O’Garas I said hi. (Not really.) And take care of yourself, okay?
Every last bit of my love,
Rigel
I read it over two or three times, smiling, then opened the second email, dated yesterday.