Rise (23 page)

I opened the front button of his jacket, for the first time noticing the holster looped around his arm, the leather pouch where he'd kept the gun hidden. I didn't want to look but I had to. My fingers felt for the inside pocket. The thick square pressed against the silk. It was still there. He had carried it with him, the photograph sitting in the left side of his jacket, right over his heart.

I sucked in air, the heavy, choked feeling coming on so fast I couldn't anticipate it. There they were, my parents, the year before the plague. They were together, held forever in time. I tucked it into my shirt, pressing it down into my tank top where it wouldn't come loose.
He was telling the truth
, I thought, willing myself not to cry.
He loved her.
He hadn't lied about that.

The City outside was silent and still. I knew I had to leave, but I couldn't move. My hand kept reaching for his, squeezing his fingers in mine. It wasn't until the knock sounded that I startled, remembering where I was and what I'd done.

The doorknob turned, the lock clicking shut. There was a pause, then a man's voice calling from the hall.

“Sir?”

I scrambled to my feet, taking in the massive wood desk behind me, the curtains that framed the long windows, the closets on the far wall, looking for somewhere to hide. The soldier punched the keypad beside the door, then the knob turned again. I had just enough time to dart behind the desk, curling up beneath it, before the door swung open.

The soldier didn't move. I could hear each of his breaths. He stood there so long I began counting them, trying to keep calm. “Jones!” he finally yelled down the hall. “Come here!” Then I heard the padding of feet on carpet and a low whisper as he leaned down, just inches from the other side of the desk. “Sir? Can you hear me?”

“What is it?” another voice called from down the hall.

“Alert the Lieutenant,” the man said. “The King's been shot.”

I kept my hand on the gun at my waist. There was an inch between the bottom of the wood desk and the carpet. I could see the soldier's shadow as he moved around the side of the desk. His legs passed in front of me, his feet just inches from mine. There was a scuff on the right toe of his boot, and the cuff of his pant was caught on the black laces. He tapped his foot nervously as he shuffled through some papers above. I froze in place, the breath throbbing in my lungs as I held it there, trying not to make a sound. Then he circled back around to the window.

I had only a few minutes before I was trapped here. As soon as the Lieutenant came, the room would be sealed off and searched. I had to go now.

I peered around the edge of the desk. The door was propped open. The other soldier was at the end of the hall, speaking quickly into the radio in his hand. He paced the short width of the corridor several times before turning left and disappearing from view. I crawled out from under the desk, pressing my body against the side, trying not to make any noise. The other soldier was still hovering by the windows. I could hear the occasional crackle of the radio at his belt.

The pounding in my chest subsided. My limbs felt light as I sprung up, darting through the open door. It took a moment for the soldier to process what had happened. I kept running, pumping my arms as fast as I could, sprinting toward the end of the hall. He reached the door just as I turned, shooting two bullets into the wall behind me.

I raced to the nearest stairwell, punching the numbers into the keypad as fast as I could. By the time he reached the end of the hall, I'd slipped inside, descending the steps three at a time. I kept going, spiraling down the open shaft, grabbing the cold railing to help me along. I was four flights down when I heard the metallic beeping of the lock, then a door opening somewhere above me. The first shot sounded, taking a chunk of concrete from the edge of the stairs. I didn't stop, just pressed myself tightly to the wall, away from the open shaft, trying to stay out of sight.

I didn't get more than two flights farther when a door below me opened. I could just make out glimpses of the uniform as the person ran up the stairs. I tried to turn back, but the nearest floor was another flight above, and the other soldier was coming down, blocking my exit. As the ascending man turned, he raised his gun. We both stood there, frozen, but I saw the recognition in his face, the slow softening of his features as he realized who I was. The Lieutenant came up so quickly, I barely had time to turn. Within seconds he was there, his gun at my back.

I held my arms up as the other soldier came down the stairs, trapping me. The Lieutenant grabbed one wrist and twisted it back, tying it to the other with a thick plastic restraint.

“He's dead,” the soldier said. He kept his gun aimed at me, but the Lieutenant motioned for him to bring it down.

“Go back to the office and guard the body,” he said. “I'll be up within the hour. You're not to tell anyone else about this. If anyone asks, it was a false alarm. You were mistaken.” As he spoke, he yanked my arm, pulling me behind him. I struggled to catch my balance as we started down the stairs.

“Where are you taking her?” the soldier asked.

I strained against the plastic tie, the blood throbbing in my hands. “To the holding cell off the first floor,” the Lieutenant said. “Let the others know there'll be another execution this evening, before sunset. All citizens should assemble outside the Palace.”

The soldier's expression changed. His eyes fell to my midsection. “But I thought . . .”

“The Princess has betrayed her father,” the Lieutenant said. Then he yanked my wrists, pulling me backward into the dim hall.

MY AUNT ROSE WALKED BESIDE THE SOLDIERS, TRYING TO STAY
in front of us, where she had a better view of me. “Don't do this,” she said. They didn't turn to look at her as she spoke. “Where is her father? Let me speak with him. He wouldn't want this, no matter what happened between them.”

The gun was at the small of my back, prodding me along through the main lobby. I processed it in quick, passing glimpses—the ornate pattern in the carpet, the shrouded gaming machines, the two soldiers who stood on either side of the gold elevators. Palace workers were crying, some huddled behind the desk, watching as I passed the great fountain in the center of the entranceway. My face was swollen from where the Lieutenant had struck me, my cheekbone throbbing. After eight hours of interrogation, they'd given up. They wouldn't stop asking me about the rebels, about where the tunnel was under the wall, about the location of the girls in the wild. I refused to speak, letting the Lieutenant hit me until one of the soldiers stopped him.

“You're acting without the King's permission. Where is he?” my aunt asked again. She held on to the ends of her shawl, tightening her grip to steady her hands. In her face I could see the way Clara tensed when she was angry, how her skin grew splotchy and red.

“He has ordered this,” the Lieutenant yelled. He walked behind the cluster of soldiers, motioning for my aunt to step away. “Genevieve is responsible for an assassination attempt on her father.”

My aunt Rose had never paid much attention to me within the Palace walls. She was always so preoccupied with Clara, worrying over what she wore, what she ate, fixing the stray curls that sometimes fell down around her face. I'd never seen her like this—she was practically yelling at the soldiers, each word leveled with a determined fury. I suddenly wished I'd known her better, that we'd spoken more. “You cannot do this,” she repeated, raising her voice.

“The King has asked me to step forward for him in the interim,” the Lieutenant said. “While he recovers.”

My aunt called to someone in front of the main doors, running out to meet him. Charles was arguing with one of the other soldiers—the same one who'd guarded the holding cell for the earlier part of the day. He'd spent hours trying to convince them to put off the execution, demanding to see my father. From the concrete holding room I could hear him, marveling at how carefully he chose his words, not wanting to reveal what he knew. They never responded to his questions, always deferring instead to the Lieutenant. My aunt said something to Charles, pointing as they brought me out of the building. The scene went on around me, but I felt separate, alone. The voices in the front lobby blended together, the words indistinguishable from one another.

They'd tied the restraints so tight I could no longer feel my hands. The knife and gun had been taken from me. They'd stripped me of the uniform, leaving me in the same clothes I'd had on since I left Califia, the front of my shirt now dotted with blood. I watched Charles as I passed, offering him a quick nod, some tiny acknowledgment that he had tried. I didn't want him doing any more than he had, afraid he'd reveal his real alliances. I was the one who came here. I'd finished what I meant to do. It wasn't his fault.

The doors swung open, and I was outside, the sun stinging my eyes. They pushed me down the curved driveway, past the long row of narrow trees. The platform was still there, set up at the edge of the road. I scanned the great mass of people assembled in front of it, trying to see if there was any way out. There was a metal barricade, nearly four feet high, that I'd have to climb before disappearing into the crowd. The driveway curved toward the street, a good twenty yards I'd have to run. Even if I waited until we were closer, I'd likely be shot before I made it over.

My legs felt like they might give out beneath me. The soldiers spurred me on, one holding each of my arms so I didn't fall. It was foolish, I knew somehow, but I was still making lists. Arden would have to be told if I died. I'd want her to know how much I owed her for what she did for Pip and Ruby. Beatrice needed to know that I'd forgiven her before she'd asked. I hoped Maeve, knowing why I'd come here, would allow Silas and Benny to stay in Califia indefinitely. I hoped if there was any way to return to Caleb, I could.

Charles came down the driveway, my aunt right behind him. He walked quickly, following us, his presence making me feel just a little less alone. There were black stains on my aunt's cheeks, a heavy wash of makeup and tears. I remembered Clara's words as we made our way north, how concerned Rose must've been, still not knowing where she was. I turned to them, waiting until my aunt lifted her head.

“Clara's alive” was all I said—two words, loud enough so she could hear. I wanted to tell her more—about Califia, about how Clara would return if and when she could. But the soldier yanked my arm, turning me back toward the platform.

As they hurried me to the platform stairs, I glanced up, my gaze settling on the City watchtower. The light at the top of the needle was blinking red—a slow, constant warning. A few people in the crowd had noticed it, too, some craning their necks to see if there was anything happening along the north gate. There was a low, steady hum of voices in the distance. Up above, a man leaned out the window of his apartment, trying to decipher which direction the noise was coming from.

The soldiers ushered me up the stairs, spurred on by the shifting attention of the crowd. Something was happening in the Outlands, even if it was impossible to know what. They spun me around, and I imagined what Curtis and Jo had felt as they stood here, staring out at the crowd. The people had fallen into a strange silence. I recognized a few of my father's circle. Amelda Wentworth, who had congratulated me on my engagement just a few months before, was standing toward the front, a thin handkerchief pressed to her face.
Do something
, I thought, watching them all, rigid, waiting.
Why won't you do something?

I pushed back on the soldiers, away from the coiled rope, but they dragged me forward. I struggled to stay standing, my feet barely touching the ground. I saw the Lieutenant out of the corner of my eye. He was staring off to the north gate, at the black smoke that billowed into the orange sky. An explosion went off, the loud popping sound like a backfiring car.

“Let's finish this,” he said to the other two soldiers. He didn't look at me as he spoke.

There were more explosions, and shouting filled the air. I realized then it couldn't be a riot in the Outlands—it was too loud. The crowd started away from the scene, scattering down the main road, back toward their apartments. A few began running, breaking through to the south end of the road, sprinting far ahead. The Lieutenant pushed me forward, trying to get me up on the three-foot wooden box. I resisted him, letting my weight fall, my legs collapsing, trying to make myself as heavy as possible.

“Help me,” he yelled, looking to the other soldiers. They had backed away, their eyes on the smoke coming up from the northern edge of the wall. Another explosion was heard, and there was a great, collective yell. Then the light on the top of the watchtower changed from blinking to solid red, signaling that the perimeter of the wall had been compromised.

“The colonies are here,” a younger man called out as he ran south on the road. The crowd shifted suddenly, knocking over the metal barricade in front of the platform, sending people stumbling onto the sidewalk. A group of women ran toward the Palace mall, hoping to get inside. I pushed back as hard as I could, the base of my head meeting the Lieutenant's nose. I turned and kicked him, hard, between his legs. He flinched in pain and stumbled backward. As soon as he released me, I started down the platform and into the dense crowd. I lost sight of him only a few feet away, his face appearing then disappearing as more people ran past.

I darted across the main road, keeping my head down, weaving through people as they scattered from the platform. My hands were numb, my wrists still lashed together at the base of my spine. A man in a tattered black jacket knocked into me, quickly registering who I was, then continued on. Everyone was too concerned with getting inside. The first signs of the army could be seen from the north end of the road, a wall of soldiers in faded, mud-soaked clothes. The rebels wore pieces of fabric tied around their biceps, the scraps of red visible in the distance.