The Essence (13 page)

Brook weighed the difference before answering. “Either.”

Aron opened one eye and squinted down at her, forcing her to admit that he’d grown taller too. “I’m here because Charlie needs us. I’m here because I don’t really have anywhere else to go.” He sighed, leaning his head back once more. “And I’m here because you’re my friend, Brook, despite how hard you try to pretend I’m not.”

Silence filled the gap between them, and Brooklynn let the mug settle on top of her lap, her fingers clenching it a little too tightly as she turned to look out the window to avoid looking at him altogether.

He was right, of course, even though it annoyed her to admit it. He
was
her friend; he always had been. Even when they’d been small and she’d competed with him for Charlie’s attention, trying to shut him out, to make Charlie choose which friend she liked best, Aron or Brook. But Charlie had never chosen, and Aron had always been there, doggedly pursuing the two girls, never complaining when he was the third wheel. He never worried that his friendship wasn’t as valuable as Brook’s, or that he wasn’t as important.

Brook wished she’d been half as sure of herself back then. Her stomach burned as she thought of all the times she’d convinced Charlie to ditch Aron, to go out without him, or to lie to him about where they were going.

Especially now, as he sat with her, his silent presence assuring her that he’d always be there for her.

The train shuddered, rocking violently, and the liquid sloshed over the sides of the mug, spilling onto Brooklynn’s lap.

“Damn,” she cursed, jumping up.

“Here.” Aron took the mug from her and set it on the other side of the bench. “Are you okay?”

She looked at the mess on her pants, splotchy and wet. “It’s fine. It’s not really that hot. Just . . . wet.”

Aron grinned. “Do you want me to get you some more?”

She shook her head, her eyes lifting hesitantly to his. “No. But thank you”—a small smile drifted over her lips as she tried out his name . . . his real name—“Aron.”

He smiled back, his head bobbing in rhythm with the uneven motion of the train. “I like that. Does that mean I’m not ‘Midget’ anymore?”

Brook’s eyebrows lifted and she exhaled loudly as she sat back down. “I’m not sure you’ve been a Midget for a while now. I was probably the last one to notice it.”

“Hmm,” Aron uttered, his head still nodding thoughtfully. And after a moment, he said. “You know you have to sleep sometime, Brook. You won’t do Charlie any good if you’re exhausted.”

“I will,” she finally answered when it felt like too much time had passed. “Eventually, I will.”

viii

I didn’t mind the train; I found the pitching and swaying motions comforting, if a little jarring. Besides, there were a thousand other things plaguing my thoughts, seeping into my consciousness and keeping me from sleep.

I wondered where Angelina and my parents were right now, at this very moment. I wondered if they were as bothered by our separation as I was. If their hearts felt sick and hollow at our being forced apart. I hoped with everything I had that they were safe in their remote sanctuary, and that they were being well cared for.

I worried, too, over Ludania. About those who would do her harm, putting their own needs above the safety and welfare of their countrymen. Namely, Brooklynn’s father and his followers.

And I thought about the summit. About the queens I would meet, and the lessons that had been cut short by our premature departure from the palace.

I closed my eyes, letting the worry rattle around in my brain as I listened to the metallic rasp of the iron wheels against the rails. My mind drifted and I speculated over whether
he
would be there, at the summit. . . . Niko Bartolo. Niko, and his golden eyes.

I jerked suddenly, blinking hard and startling myself.
Where had a thought like that come from? Why had I even thought of him at all?

Taking a breath, I rolled onto my side and stared at the wall. I felt as if he’d snuck inside my head while no one was looking.

Only that wasn’t entirely true, was it? I sat up then, yanking back the covers and throwing my legs over the side of my mattress. I knew what it was as I glanced down at myself. My skin was a mere glimmer of what it had been just days ago, after Angelina had tried to chase Sabara away once more. It wasn’t
my
thought at all; it had come from
someone
else.

Sabara.

But why?

I shook my head. It didn’t matter, I could feel her in there, inside me, her Essence moving and shifting. Her grip tightened like a garrote around my neck, crushing my windpipe. Crushing me.

I’m stronger than her,
I told myself.
I am a warrior.

But I wasn’t. And Niko Bartolo was still there, anchored in my thoughts.

All because of her.

As soon as I admitted as much, her hold loosened. I waited until my breathing stabilized and my heart rate returned to something close to normal. Eventually, the savage birds that beat their wings wildly in the pit of my stomach subsided, settling once more.

“Who is he?” I finally managed, my throat feeling scored by the talons of a million razor-sharp claws.

The train continued on, lurching at odd intervals, and I joggled with it, letting it rock me as I concentrated on summoning her, concentrated on forcing
her
to listen to
me
, in the same way she’d done to me so many times before.

But there was no response. Just the sound of my tremulous breaths and the increasing darkness as my skin continued to dim.

And a yearning I didn’t understand.

Angry black tides came rushing toward me, washing over my lips, my nose, covering my head. They choked me.

“You don’t deserve to be here,” a voice whispered, undulating like the surf. And, for some reason, I believed the voice, allowing myself to submit to it, giving in to the churning waters. Letting them suck me under. Letting them drown me.

And then I was floating, drifting somewhere beneath the surface. I didn’t breathe—I couldn’t. But I was still there. Somehow, still alive.

I tried to blink, tried to move my arms, but nothing happened.

I focused my gaze, willing my indolent body to respond, concentrating on lifting a finger, wiggling a toe. Winking an eye.

The water around me pushed me first one way, and then pulled me the other. I moved in and I moved out, yielding to the force of the tide.

Panic welled inside me as I realized I was a prisoner. Trapped inside a vessel no longer my own.

Buried alive.

I shot upright, gasping and blinking furiously.

Blink. I could blink.

And I could breathe and move and wiggle my toes.

It was only a dream, but my shoulders dropped as I let the terror of the nightmare subside, like the rippling waters of a wave.

I’d never seen the surf before, yet the memory was so real that I knew, in that moment, exactly what it would feel like, exactly how it would smell—the briny tang of salt lingering in the air.

It wasn’t my memory, I realized, easing back against my pillow, which was damp with sweat.

She was there, always inside me. Always trying to find a way out.

This had been Sabara’s dream. Her nightmare.

And just like before, with the mirror, and with her ability to speak to me during my waking hours, she was evolving. Before, she’d only been able to find her voice while I was sleeping; she’d only been able to speak to me in my dreams.

Now, I was having
her
dreams. Sharing her memories.

She was gone for the moment. I knew because of the silence in my head.

And I needed to find a way to keep it that way.

ix

“What is this place?” I twisted in my seat, my breath steaming the cool glass as the scenery outside changed, morphing into something more savage and bleak than the landscapes we’d left behind.

Across from me, on the other side of the elaborate spread of warm muffins and fresh jams, juices and brewed teas, sliced berries and stewed meats, I saw Brook shake her head, confusion evident as she held a biscuit halfway to her mouth. She turned to stare out too. I knew she hadn’t slept, that she’d stayed out of our sleeping car until the early hours of the morning. Even if I hadn’t been awake, I would’ve known from the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

“It’s the Scablands.” Zafir’s voice was flat when he answered.

I stared off into the distance, to where scrubby gray shrubs sprang up from the dry black earth, but only here and there, making them look like a pox on the landscape rather than a part of the scenery. I saw nothing that suggested life out there would be easy—no water, no trees, and no vegetation, save the spare, sticklike bushes. There were no roads in sight. No signs of civilization whatsoever.

As I contemplated the name, the Scablands, I wondered what I’d expected.

The word “
wasteland”
came to mind, but to me, wasteland conjured images of flat, desertlike barrenness. And this was anything but flat. I took in the jagged peaks, which seemed to force their way up from the ground, like fat, broken tree trunks, black and dead and fossilized. They were tall and packed together, creating a mountainous forest that looked nothing less than intimidating. Deadly, even.

I guess what I really hadn’t expected was for the train lines to run so close to this remote area.

“Where are all the people?” My breath fogged the window even more.

“There are settlement camps farther east, but building isn’t permitted this close to the railways,” Zafir explained patiently. He poured steaming black coffee into his cup and drank without waiting for it to cool.

I glanced at Brook, and was certain she was just as appalled as I was at the idea of living all the way out here, so close to the northern border, segregated from society. “Why not?”

“The purpose of being sent to the Scablands is to live in isolation.”

“What about supplies?” I was surprised that I’d never posed these questions before, that I’d never pondered the living conditions of the criminals who were no longer permitted to live in Ludanian society. I wondered what else I’d neglected to consider. What other populations I’d ignored.

Zafir didn’t seem to share my concerns. “Being sent to the Scablands is a punishment, not a reward. Everything is meant to be more difficult, including commerce. They trade the same way everyone else does, they just have to travel farther and through more perilous terrain.”

I thought about that as I glanced out at the colorless landscape, feeling something sick twist my gut. “What about the children? There
are
children, aren’t there? How are their needs met? How are they housed? Schooled? What about medical care? They’re not all convicts, Zafir.” I looked up at him earnestly, wanting him to allay my worries, but knowing he wouldn’t lie simply to appease me.

“Your Majesty,” he started, and my stomach sank over what might follow. He sighed, and I could feel his patience slipping. “These are lawbreakers, and if they’re not, if they were simply born to the parents of criminals, then it’s their choice to remain here. There’s no law that states they
have
to stay once they reach the age of consent. Don’t feel sorry for them; this is the life they’ve chosen . . . either by actions or by will.”

I didn’t like his answer, but I knew he was right. There had to be a place to send those who’d committed crimes. There had to be consequences and punishments, especially in light of the fact that I’d abolished the gallows. Still, I worried about those who lived out here. They were still my people, still citizens of Ludania.

Aron and Sebastian joined us then, and I had to bite my lip over the eager expression on Sebastian’s face. His eyes lit up when they fell on Brooklynn, even though, as always, she seemed oblivious to the stable master’s attentions.

“The horses are restless,” Sebastian announced, managing to force his gaze away from Brook to address Zafir. “Too much time cooped up in the livestock compartments.”