31. Surrender Now
31
Surrender Now
JACOB
The following morning, my father and I helicopter into Handsel, separately in case of some freak catastrophe. When I decry the waste of fuel, Karl tells me I have to get used to the idea that my body is precious. I adjust the headphones, dulling the noise of the rotors, and repeat a litany. She did it for Sondmark. She did it for Sondmark. I don’t know how publicly breaking things off with Pietor benefits the kingdom, but I’m trying to hold back unbridled optimism like a medieval monk in the face of a ferocious Vor attack.
The Vors always won, my mind says. Surrender to it now.
From the helicopter window I see black luxury cars, a military band, and a row of dignitaries lining a red carpet, including the mayor of Handsel, the prime minister, and two members of the royal family. I know from the information recited by Karl before breakfast that the advance delegation will be composed of Crown Prince Noah and Princess Alma. My heart has been beating out of my chest since then.
We touch down, and I wait for Karl’s signal to exit the helicopter. I can do this. I can see Alma and not have to kiss her.
I keep this thought in mind as I advance over the tarmac, buttoning my suit jacket and remembering how the sight of it once made Alma go cross-eyed. A smile touches my lips, and I take my place, one step behind my father, while the national anthem of Vorburg plays.
Just as Alma taught me, I make no unnecessary movements. There is no fiddling with my clothes. I note the swarming presence of cameras and journalists, held back by a thin chain strung between two bollards, and feel a weight settle on my shoulders—not unexpected and, to my surprise, not unwelcome.
My father strides to the Sondish delegation, greeting Noah with a hearty kiss on both cheeks, breaking the rules of protocol and getting away with it. He gestures me forward to shake the prince’s hand and exchange a few remarks. To the press on the far side of the landing pad, it must look like we’re meeting for the first time.
The king has moved on when I step in front of Alma. Mindful of her exacting instruction, I don’t let my eyes linger on the way the tips of her toes kiss an invisible mark on the pavement, her strong runner’s legs, or the controlled sweep of her hair—just the color to pair with an amber tiara. I don’t tell her that I was desperate for her in the mountain cottage where I learned to be my father’s heir or that every night I woke up reaching for her.
She squeezes my hand. Too long. I quickly release her and move on, greeting several government officials. No one can see that I’m irrevocably in love with a princess of Sondmark. I haven’t stepped an inch out of line. She would be proud of that.
The band concludes a prepared piece, and my father waves to the press, heading to a town car with tiny Vorburgian flags fluttering over the headlights. I turn to another car when a pop rings out across the tarmac.
Pop. Pop, pop, pop.
I’m confused for a half second. Then I hear security guards scramble, drawing their weapons and shouting, “Get down! Get down!”
People scream, and the crowd scatters. My father’s car roars away, and the entire brass band runs for the terminal as shots keep coming. Two members of palace security grab me by the arms, pulling me in the direction of the car with its open door. Give into them . Follow orders . I’ve memorized every word Alma ever said. If I do what I’m told, I’ll be out of harm’s way in seconds.
Alma.
I look back to the helicopters and the crumpled red carpet to see Alma on the ground, balled into a small target and waiting for security. The need to protect this woman claws out of my chest, and I throw my shoulders hard against my guards, tearing out of the tight grip. I break into a run, roaring her name.
She screams, but I scoop her into my arms, tucking her head under my chin and covering every inch of her body I can reach. Security grabs me when I’ve almost reached the car. They push our heads down and throw us into the backseat, one landing on the other. I hear the slam of the door and the screech of tires when the driver takes off.
The smell of burned rubber wafts through the vents.
“You didn’t just do that,” she breathes, arms strangling my neck, hand cupping the back of my head. “You could have been killed. You idiot.”
She can call me any names she wants. She’s alive, and she’s in my arms. Nothing else matters.
The car flies over speed bumps, throwing us around the bench seat, and our driver peels onto the motorway, picking up speed in the straightaway. The sound of sirens builds and fades as police cars race by in the other direction.
“You could have been hurt,” she says. “Are you hurt?” She scrambles off my lap and begins to pat me down, opening my jacket.
“I’ve never been better,” I insist, but she continues her inspection, trusting nothing until she’s touched every limb and canvassed every square inch of chest.
“Are we good?” I ask.
Not a second before she is satisfied that I am unharmed, she sits back. I work my way upright, dragging her close. The knees are blown out of her nylons and a scrape is oozing blood, but she hasn’t noticed. “You’re all right?” I ask.
She nods, but her whole body is shaking. She never loses her head, but she’s losing it now.
“Ma’am,” a voice breaks in from the driver’s seat. “We’ve got a security update.”
Alma shoves herself out of my arms, arranges the hem of her skirt, and doesn’t speak until she’s in total control. “Yes?”
“Our team deployed a drone within seconds of the attack, and police were able to apprehend the assailant in short order.” He lifts his eyes to the rearview mirror. “The gun was firing blanks.”
She sags against the leather seats. The route takes us through the city, and we pass shopping blocks and brightly lit storefronts, making the turn up the hill to the Summer Palace. I reach for Alma’s hand and hold it in mine like I have every right to. There were photographers at the airport and, if I’m not mistaken, a live video feed, which I’m sure caught me charging across open ground to reach my princess. That’s going to excite some comments.
“Ma’am,” the driver says. “Police have his identity now. He’s a native of Himmelstein.”
Alma curses under her breath and meets my eyes. “Pietor,” she whispers.
My brow lifts. How?
“Not him,” she explains. “He’ll have employed someone to do his dirty work. Count on it—we’ll find out that the discharge was accidental or that the gun wasn’t even pointed in our direction. But this happens to be the first time you stepped onto the public stage, and he made sure to ruin it. He said he would.”
Alma runs a quick tongue across dry lips. She’s still shaking.
“I’m going to kill him.” We say this at the same time, and she breathes a laugh. “My mother will beat us to it.” Alma lifts her voice to the driver. “Aren’t we going around back?”
“Word from the palace is that the official reception will go forward, ma’am.”
“ Stultes es ,” she mutters, putting a hand to her temple. “I don’t think I can do it.”
I know Alma. As angry and upset as she is, she’ll be furious at herself if she doesn’t.
“Take off your nylons,” I say. “They’re ruined.”
I turn my head while she writhes out of the stockings, and I reach for a bottle of expensive water. Unscrewing the cap, I spill some into my pocket square, handing it to her over my shoulder. “See to your knee.”
She lifts it free, and a few seconds later I hear a gasp. Her fingers are in my hair, tugging the short crop back. “What have they done?” Her voice wobbles. “Jacob—”
I lay a hand over her fist and the car slows. Ready or not, we’re in the palace forecourt under the watchful eye of courtiers and clicking shutters.
I pull out of her grasp and look her over. There is a tiny gash on her knee, still, but she looks like my Alma. I take a large breath and drink in the sight of her. It has been too long. I brush her face with my fingertips. “It’s just a haircut.”
Her mouth tightens. “It’s not just—”
I buck my chin toward the palace and the long line of waiting dignitaries. “We’ll talk about it later,” I promise without an inkling of how I’m going to pull that off. Gone are the days when I wandered the palace without an entourage.
I know what Alma would want. She would want to remember her responsibilities. She would want to perform her duty to Sondmark and her queen without weeping through the introductions or keeping the whole delegation waiting.
“You look good,” I say, assessing rather than complimenting. “Let’s go stun them with perfection.”
“This isn’t finished.” She blinks away her tears and reaches for the door.
Chol. We haven’t said anything. Almost two weeks of missing her, and I didn’t grab her by the shoulders and speak in a loud and clear voice, “I need you. Let’s settle this.”
Too late to grab her back now. She steps from the car, swinging her knees in a careful arc, and strides forward.
I play my part as well as she does, laughing when Her Majesty passes off the security nightmare as a little hiccup, easily brushed aside. I recognize the pretense but appreciate the need for it. So much of Vorburg’s economic future rests on this historic meeting.
Caroline ushers us into a large reception room to examine a series of artifacts: a gift dating from the reign of Piasa II, one of many peace treaties which failed to halt the War of the Amber Cross, its heavy wax seal as dark as blood, and an original photograph of my father dangling from a helicopter ladder over the crowds at Liberation Square.
Cameras click, and the princes and princesses wander after our parents, drawing near when one of Their Majesties points out some interesting historical fact. Freja, on what must be her first official assignment since her wedding, walks with Alma. I can’t be at her side and not want to touch her, so I keep pace with Noah. He pauses by the Amber Cross.
We’re beyond the range of microphones, and he makes a good picture as he points at the relic. “Alma is my closest sister,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what your father asked you to do—”
“My father has nothing to do with this.” My tone is level.
I glance up, catching Alma’s reflection in a mirror lining the wall. Her head is bent over an antique brooch, highlighting the soft skin of her neck. I must look too long because Noah coughs lightly.
“Anytime you want to return the rest of the jewels in the set,” he says, pointing at the Amber Cross, “we’ve got a place for them at The National Museum.”
“No deal.” My gaze returns to Alma. “My wife would never forgive me.”