Beyond the Red (15 page)

After walking the outskirts of the city, Eros and I slip into an alley between a butcher’s shop with long strips of hanging meat displayed in the windows, each cut with flashing blue statistics embedded in the glass, and a fruit and vegetable store displaying new produce flash-grown eight times with nanite technology from sunrise to sunset. A man stands guard at the door with overlapping scars on his thick arms and a bloodstained cleaver in his fist, but he doesn’t pay us any mind.

The white-paved streets, I must admit, are emptier than I remember. The once lively chatter of the city has been reduced to whispers as people walk quickly, eyeing us warily as they pass. No one lingers outside—they duck their heads and dart from building to building, as if afraid of being caught unawares on the streets. Even the black orb-guides seem nervous, if that were possible—they zip around heads and chitter quietly, never staying in place for long.

For every four open stores, one or two are shuttered closed, many of them vandalized. We pass a former tailor with broken glass windows, burnt walls, and fabric and rubble strewn inside. A bike shop with two burly men standing outside the entrance, glaring at anyone who comes near. A small temple with the windows boarded up and a handwritten sign posted outside that reads
PLEASE SHOW RESPECT
with lewd drawings scribbled over it. Armored guards patrol the streets, solar-powered batons and white-rimmed phasers at the ready. Eros and I keep our heads down as they pass.

This is not the Vejla I remember. This is not the city I call home.

“Nice place,” Eros mutters, stepping over a wad of rotting trash. “Probably should’ve worn shoes. I’ve nearly stepped on broken glass or splintered wood three times already.”

“This isn’t right,” I answer quietly. “Vejla was a place of commerce and wealth, full of visitors from across the territories. Nothing like this.”

“When’s the last time you’ve actually visited the city?”

My stomach churns as hot guilt drips down my spine. I remember the occasion exactly—nearly three cycles ago, several terms before my coronation, when Dima and I snuck out to see the Festival of Stars in person. We painted our skin black and drew on ourselves with bioluminescent paint that glowed brightly in the night. We danced with strangers and drank
azuka
mixed with fruit juices until our ears burned and heads spun. A pretty girl tried to kiss Dima, and he barely ducked out of the way, flushed and flustered. Though he didn’t find the humor, I laughed endlessly about it until we were both too intoxicated to care.

We danced until the suns rose and Father was furious, but when he yelled at me for being reckless and irresponsible, Dima defended me.

It was the first and last time he stood up for me. It was also the last time I saw my brother truly happy.

“Kora?” Eros frowns at me. “Are you all right?”

My eyes are watering. I rub them quickly and clear my throat, but before I can answer, a
boom
echoes somewhere ahead of us, followed by a flash of blinding green light and—

Eros slams into me, his arms wrapping around me as we hit the ground and a blast of hot wind, sand, and debris crashes into us. My face is buried in his chest as the roar of broiling wind races over us, and Eros presses his forehead against mine and our noses are touching and his lips are so close. I should be terrified, but instead all I feel is the heat of his breath against my face and the tickle of his eyelashes on my skin. All I feel is his strength covering me, the hard planes of his body protecting me.

All I feel is the urge to close the distance between our lips, and it’s absurd. He’s protecting me from a
bomb blast
for
Kala’
s sake and I’m lying here thinking about how nice his lips must taste. But he protected me—more, he put himself in harm’s way to protect me. And it’s such a simple thing, to actually have a guard who put himself second to protect me, but I’ve never had that. No one ever cared.

Eros could let me die to be free of his oath. But instead, he’s here, covering my body with his.

“Kora,” Eros breathes, and the way he whispers my name sends warmth rippling through my body.

“
Sha
?” I answer softly. The tips of our noses touch but neither of us moves away.

“I think it’s safe. Are you hurt?”

“
Naï,
” I whisper. “I’m not hurt.”

He stares at me for just a moment longer and my heart skips a beat. But he pushes himself up, then extends a hand to help me to my feet. I take it and try not to think about the press of his fingers against mine.

Kafra,
what’s wrong with me? Eros is not the first attractive boy I’ve come across—and he’s my
guard
. Worse—a half-blood. And in no way someone I can even remotely consider.

I push those thoughts away. “Are you injured?”

“I think my back might be a little cut up, but nothing serious.” Eros turns around and cranes his neck, trying to glance back at his shoulders. He’s right—a couple cuts and scrapes ooze reddish-purple blood, but it’s nothing life threatening.

“You’ll survive,” I say.

He nods, then looks off in the direction of the blast. “We should probably go. If things are heating up again—”

“I want to see it.”

Eros groans. “Kora—”

“I know it’s not safe and I understand your hesitation, but I need to see what’s happening. We won’t get involved. We’ll look, then leave. Okay?”

“Are you asking me? Because if you’re asking me, then it’s not okay.”

I smile my sweetest smile. “I’m not asking.”

Eros shakes his head and gestures forward. “Then lead the way.”

If the smoke and the dust cloud stirred up by the blast hadn’t led us right to them, the screaming and angry chanting would have.

We walk quickly through the winding streets, Eros as stiff as a board beside me and clearly unhappy. Not that I can blame him. This isn’t exactly my best idea—and
sha
, it could be dangerous, especially for me, but I have to see it. I have to know for sure.

And then I do see it, and despite the heat pouring from the flames and the suns above us, I’m chillingly cold.

My people have set me on fire.

Well, not
me
of course, but my representation. It’s highly disrespectful to create idols in anyone’s image—even
Kala
’s—but every
Avra
and person of influence has some sort of token to represent them. For Alara and Oro d’Inara—the founders of our faith—it’s a large sword for Oro, who was a wise warrior, and a
kazim
for Alara, who always had one at her side.

I chose my token a cycle before I took the throne, on the set of my fourteenth lifecycle—a beautiful golden book containing the histories of our nation. It was inscribed by hand by my ancestors and placed outside the history center in a protective glass case the set I took the throne.

Now the whole center is a raging inferno, and all that’s left of the case and the golden book is broken glass and burnt black crisps of curled paper.

Hundreds of people are crowded outside the burning center as guides zip around the scene, recording everything. They carry signs that read T
HIS IS WHAT YOU’VE DONE TO TRADITION
and W
HERE IS THE ALMIGHTY
A
VRA NOW
? and my stomach churns as the heat of the flames washes over me in an unending wave.

They hate me.

This isn’t just dislike—they’re burning the history center as some kind of display of how I’ve destroyed tradition. They’re screaming my name and calling for me to step down.

Nothing I can say will help this. I’ve long passed the point of soothing them with words—I just never realized how bad it was.

“Okay,” Eros says softly. “You’ve seen. Now let’s go before the guards get here and see you—or someone recognizes you.”

He’s right. It’s not safe here. If anyone recognized me, I’d be dead. And yet I can’t tear my eyes away from the raging orange flames spewing pillars of black smoke into the sky. I can’t look away from my people, their anger radiating off them like the heat of the fires.

I’m such a failure.

Eros grabs my arm and pulls me away. I’m too numb to protest.

We leave the burning far behind us as soldiers race to the scene, and we walk until the suns are high above us, their heat soaking into our clothes and broiling our skin. Sweat drips down my temples and between my shoulder blades, and beneath my hood, my hair is plastered to my skin like paint. Eros’s black shirt is so soaked it’s actually dripping onto the paveway, but he doesn’t complain.

I find the brew and spice place where Dima and I binge drank so long ago—it’s in a now-depressed part of the city, where all the buildings are boarded up or burnt down and the streets are so littered with trash, sewage, and glass that Eros and I can’t enter it without risking injury. But even despite the wreckage and the stink of rotting garbage, people move through the streets and lean against the buildings, leering at us. It’s the first time we’ve seen anyone linger on the streets during our visit, save for the protest outside the burning center.

I rub my arms and inhale deeply through my nose as the echoes of their chants wash over me. Dima said they want me dead, and he’s right.

A few children play in the trash; dressed in threadbare clothes, sand coating their skin and gathering in clumps in their hair. A little girl wearing a tattered dress sewn together with random scraps of fabric picks up a discarded twisted mass of metal that may have once been a steering unit, holds it to her chest, and runs. An equally dirty boy chases her, and her giggles fill the air.

I’d known there were problems in the city. I’d known about the riots and unrest, about the violence that drove away commerce and kept visitors down to a trickle. I’d known people were angry since I took the throne, since our city was attacked and our people were killed without retribution. I’d known Eljans were losing confidence in me as a ruler. I’d known they’d always preferred Dima, that nothing I did helped because it would never be as good as what they imagined my brother doing.

I’d known all that, but I never realized just how badly the city was deteriorating. I’d spent all this time bitter that they wouldn’t accept me without stopping to think whether it was possible I deserved their judgment.

But I can’t blame anyone for allowing Vejla to reach this state. While I was cowering in the palace, trying to get over my grief and fear, my city was falling apart and I did nothing. And if the capital is this bad, what’s happened to the rest of the territory?

This is my responsibility. I have to fix this. I will fix this.

“C’mon.” Eros touches my arm. “I don’t like the way those people are looking at us. We shouldn’t be here.”

I nod and turn away, but I’ve barely taken two steps before someone shouts behind us.

“
Avra!
”

The voice is light, like a child’s, but loud. It echoes down the street and sends a chill down my back.

“Don’t stop.” Eros nudges me forward. “Keep walking.”

I do as he says, but my heart is clambering into my throat and the voices don’t stop.

“
Avra!
”

“It’s her! Look, it’s
ken Avra!
”

A child runs in front of Eros and me, and I stop quickly to avoid knocking her over. It’s the little girl in the tattered dress I saw earlier, though she’s no longer carrying that hunk of garbage.

She grabs the edges of her dress and smiles shyly, twisting slightly back and forth, like she might twirl, but keeps changing her mind.

“
Or’jiva, el Avra,
” she greets, giggling.

Eros goes stiff next to me. There are others behind us—I can feel their eyes on my back as I stare at this little girl, unsure of how to respond. I’ve never really interacted with a child before—what am I supposed to do?

“
Or’jiva
,” I respond carefully. “What’s your name?”

My skin is prickling with the pressure of stares. The suns have never been so warm and Eros is frozen next to me. Even though it’s just a little girl, I can’t help but feel as though I’m walking along the edge of a cliff, and if I say or do the wrong thing, someone will push me into the chasm.