UNBREATHABLE (5 page)

If Julian notices my confusion, he doesn’t let on. In fact, he swiftly switches topic. “Did you really see the Earth?”

“Yes.” The word flies free from my lips. The outburst between Julian and Slate disappears from my mind. I’m light-headed, filled with a giddy happiness, at the thought of having another person to trust, despite the tendrils of warning fear.

“What’s it like?”

For a moment, I think he's asking about trust. But when I meet his eyes, I know. Only one thing in our dwindling world can lighten and brighten a person's eyes to full awe.

“Earth?” I ask anyway. He nods and excitement builds in my chest. I've never spoken to anyone about Earth. It’s a secret that could take me straight to the gallows. But right now, I don’t care. “It really is green and blue and white, but different. Alive, almost.”

His eyes light up and I want to grab his hand and push away the sun, entice the moon into the sky so I can show him Earth. But I don’t have a scope. I don't have the courage to reach for his hand.

“It’s a perfect round thing floating in a universe of darkness. When you've heard all your life that it doesn't exist, that it isn't real, seeing it for the first time shatters everything else. Everything you thought you knew is a lie.”

“Seeing it in the sky for barely a heartbeat is all you need. Nothing else matters, you know?”

My question echoes in awkward silence. I finger the hem of my shirt and when I meet his eyes, he's staring at me with an expression I can't place. His eyes are a mixture of dark and light and I can't bring myself to look away.

Heat creeps up my cheeks. With a jolt, I realize I'm sitting alone in a room, too close to a boy.

“What?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. His voice is even softer, close to my whisper. Despite his answer, I can see the words waiting to be said.

“It’s so many millions of miles away”—he pauses and searches my face—“and look what it’s done to you.”

He's right. I can feel it, like a beacon of light inside me, spreading all the way to the tips of my fingers. Even before I saw the Earth, I felt it.

Only Earth could do that to me. At least, that’s what I thought when I saw it that night. But when he looks at me, I think… I think I feel it too. When he speaks, he seems to understand. I’ve been isolated for seventeen years, knowing no one but Father, who knew me all my life, who never truly understood me. Julian has known me for less than a day and he knows. I'm a person in his eyes. Not a shadow who became a criminal’s daughter.

“Do you remember me?” He asks suddenly. “From the market?”

My breath catches when I meet his eyes.

So he
does
remember me from that bustling day in the market. It was months ago, when the wind was at its wildest, covering the market in gritty red sand and layering everything in dust.

Father always went to the market, not me. But that day, he needed a piece of pure Louen for an experiment. I ducked under the hooded tents and passed vendors and mothers and fathers and screaming children. Annoyance crept through my veins at the clutter and churning voices.

Behind the market stalls were the wide crophouses, their walls made entirely of Louen, clear and strong. From outside, it looked dark and dangerous. I slipped inside, where it was different. The smell hit me first - fresh and free, with recycled dirt from Earth.

The snickering hit me next.

“Did you find the Earth?” A voice asked. I peered through the foliage as another voice laughed.

I crept deeper into the crophouse, towards the emptiness in the center. I heard a pair of shears being dragged across the ground and the exaggerated sounds of the blades screeching against one another.

Three boys stepped from the taller plants. One of them bore a scar across his cheek.

“That stupid father of yours figure anything out?” He asked me.

“Or is he too busy babysitting you?” The other asked.

The one in the center cut them both off, shaking a mop of light curls away from his eyes. “Tell
Galileo
to hurry up. My dad's going crazy. Any day now he'll be hanging from that noose and it’ll be all your fault.”

“Let’s pass him a message.” The scarred one sneered. He clipped the shears again and my heart seized.

The others laughed, slowly coming closer. I took one step back, pressing my lips against a whimper. And for the first time, I wished Father was normal, that he wasn’t trying to prove something that couldn’t possibly be true. Something brushed against my hand and I jumped.

It was a leaf.

I turned and ran. Their shouts echoed behind me and I ran faster. Some small part of me lamented the loss of the plants I knocked over in my scramble. A door opened somewhere. Someone grabbed me and I slammed against the ridges of a chest. I looked up, but against the blinding light of the sun behind him, his features were as shaded as his dark hair. He lowered his head and searched my eyes. I could see him clearly then, his long nose, the fullness of his lips, the breathtaking shade of his eyes. I had never been so close to anyone in my life. I had never felt as alive as I did in those moments.

The boys skidded to a halt behind me and the blue-eyed boy looked up.

“Leave. Or I’ll make sure you're all next at the gallows.”

He stared, unmoving, until their footsteps receded and the door on the other end clicked shut.

“Are you alright?” He asked me. There was a hushed quality to his voice that reached inside of me and I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear to be looked at as if I meant something, because I knew I would never see him again.

It was Julian. I meet his eyes, remembering the heat of his chest, the strength of his arms. He leans back against the pillows on the small bed with a soft exhale and it’s a struggle to look at him.

“I went to the crophouses every day after that. But I never saw you again. I didn’t even know who you were. You ran before I could ask.”

“You looked for me?” I ask. Father never let me out after he heard what had happened. But I never told him about Julian.

He shrugs, suddenly shy. “I would have liked to know who I saved.”

“Those boys knew me.”

“I rarely go to the market. I rarely leave the Tower. I was... lucky that day.”

“You? Or me?”

He holds my gaze. “Me. I was lucky.”

My cheeks warm and I break away from his gaze. “Do you live in the Tower?”

“My mother was Chancellor Evan’s sister, so yes, I do. I like it there, I guess,” he says, but his voice faltered at the word
was
. His mother is dead.

The door slides open behind me.

“Lissa,” Slate calls. I turn. His eyes are bloodshot. “We have to go.”

“Where?” I ask.

“Trust me,” he says quietly. He drugged me, he killed Father. But he let me live after he saw me in the Chamber. He let Julian live after taking him in.

Take chances,
Father once said. I stand.

“Lead the way.”

I follow Slate back through the hall, which opens to a foyer. Sunlight filters in through the two windows ahead of me, the door to the outside between them. There’s a series of cupboards along one wall and an old seating area pushed against the other. Slate motions for me to sit.

“But… I thought we were leaving,” I say.

“First, I-can you please sit down?” He asks. I sit. The color has drained from his face.

“You need to understand that Gage wasn’t your father,” he says slowly.

I don’t speak.

“What he did was wrong and I’ll always hate him for it, even if he was my brother,” he continues. I keep my face carefully neutral. I don’t want to tell him he’s repeating himself.

“Do you know who my father is?” I ask. I still don’t know if I should trust him, but I can always give him a chance.

He doesn’t answer right away. He stares at me with an expression I can’t place and it makes my chest tight. He whispers something, his voice so soft, I’m not even sure he spoke until the words register in my mind.

“Me. I’m your father.”

My mouth opens, but shock has stolen my voice. All I can muster is a dying wheeze.

How many times had I looked at Father and wondered why we were so different? How many times did I repeat his last words and wonder if they are true? Father never lied.

“Y-you expect me to believe you?” I ask anyway, finally understanding why he wanted me to sit.

“No,” Slate says, voice crushed in sorrow. We have the same hair, I realize. But then, couldn’t we have the same hair if I was his niece? “I
want
you to believe me, but I know it will take time. And proving.”

“You killed your own brother.” I don’t want a murderer for a father.

He shakes his head. “There’s so much you don’t understand yet. There’s more to this than you, me, Gage, and the blood we share.”

“What more can there be?” I say, but he’s already leaving. Running, almost.

“Stay here,” he says quickly. “I’ll be back.”

I lean back against the rough cushions and breathe. Inhale, exhale. Could Slate really be my father?

Restlessness makes its way into my veins, so I stand and pace the room. I keep hearing Father’s last words:
You are not my daughter
. And Slate’s proclamation:
Me. I’m your father.

A small portrait on the wall beside the cupboard catches my attention. It’s covered in shadows, almost as if Slate wants to remember and forget at the same time.

I cross the room. The colors are vibrant and alive, made by Jute, no doubt. Only they have such materials, close to what people had on Earth.

The portrait itself is of a woman, sitting on a throne that seems plain in comparison to her. A robe of navy blue, accented in gold, is wrapped around her slender shoulders. Her skin is a flawless, pale ivory. Her lips are a brilliant red. My mind flashes to the blood on Father’s shirt and a shiver trembles up my spine. The woman’s features are sharp, from the slant of her nose to the line of her jaw. But her eyes are what catch my attention the most. They’re odd, the color reflecting everything around her, even paler than Slate’s gray. I lean closer.

“Beautiful, isn't she?”

I straighten and turn. A ghost of a smile crosses Slate’s lips. He scratches the side of his head.

“And cruel.” Pain underlines his words. His eyes drift to the portrait, and finally to some distant place.

“Who is she?” I ask.

He looks surprised. “You don't know?” I shake my head. All I can think is: this man could be my father. “The queen. Queen Rhea.”

“Of the Jute?” I ask. He nods.

I turn back to the portrait and carefully trace the billows of her lush robe. I’ve never seen a Jute before. In my mind they were feral, ugly creatures and all they wanted was to see me dead. But she is the opposite of that, cruel or not.

“She's been ruling for decades. Jute live long lifespans.”

“Have you,” I pause. “Met her?”

He laughs softly. “I have.”

I want to know more. I want to know why he laughed. Why he chose now to say he is my father. Why, why, why.

“We can leave now,” he says after a moment, without meeting my eyes. I have time, I decide. I can ask him later.

When we step outside, the ground is as dark as fresh blood. The Tower’s shadow casts everything in a hushed gloom. From its nearness, I estimate we’re roughly twenty rows from my own house, where the Tower is far enough that I don’t have to worry about it. Mostly soldiers live this close to the spiral of pure black, with dark windows glinting like watchful eyes. Soldier houses are longer than ours, though they’re still small with sloping roofs and red doors.

Everything on Jutaire is red.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

In answer, he looks up to the Tower. I stop.

“No,” I burst out. “I’m not going there.” Chancellor Kole is there. Power is there. I don’t want to be mixed in this anymore.

I committed a crime last night.

Then it hits me: Slate is trying to take me in.

He sees the thought strike and lunges for me, sending a flurry of dust and sand flying between us. I stare at his hand around my wrist.

“You wanted answers, Lissa. I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. Could the desperation in his voice be an act? “Please. Everything you’ve been taught is wrong. The Chancellors aren’t the bad guys here.”

Then who is?
I want to ask. Instead, I ask something else, something that instantly makes me feel selfish.

“Will you tell me why I was raised by your brother?” I stumble on the word
brother
. But my words do nothing to acknowledge his claim of being my father.

“Yes.” He drops my hand and starts walking. I sigh when he doesn’t elaborate and follow him, because he will give me answers.

“Why is it so important that I come?”

A door slams far behind me and I turn to see Julian jogging toward us. Beside another house, kids laugh and run in the dust. They’re all jutting bones and sun-kissed skin.

Slate takes the time to choose his words carefully. “Gage’s death triggered a lot of irreversible things—including attention that’s zeroed in on you. You’re special, Lissa. No one else can safely breathe oxygen and Jutaire’s air.”