Chapter 3 #3
“Regardless, it’s been my experience people cannot keep themselves from making me their business. I’m sure there’s enough acrimony toward my father in these woods, I could probably taste it.”
“Taste it? It would choke you,” Theia says. I gulp and instinctively rub my throat.
“I do not think many of our soldiers would recognize you.” Taylor’s interjection breaks the tension. “There is very little photographic evidence of you.”
Papa is adamant about protecting my identity.
On the surface, it served to keep me safe from anyone wishing to harm the heir, but I understood it more as a method of control, since it often kept me inside the mansion.
Of course, if Papa knew how many Underclass citizens I’d partied with over the years, he’d be furious.
But, Taylor is probably right—no one outside our region, aside from high-ranking officials, would know me on sight.
“You could give me one of your cute ancient Greek code names.”
“No. We will not hide who you are, but we will not parade you around.” Theia shrugs. “You seem like a smart girl. You see the operation we have. It’s simple. It’s military. Keep your head down, do as you’re told, and you may survive this rebellion after all.”
When I look over at my…captor? Protector?
No word quite fits exactly what’s going on.
Somewhere between keeper and conqueror. Shield and sword.
She holds the blankest expression I’ve ever seen on any living thing, like a sheet of steel.
I look back to Theia. “I’ve never been great at blending in. Or following orders.”
Theia circles my chair with deliberate steps. “It would behoove you to improve those skills.”
Keeping my eyes trained on her—because I’m genuinely concerned she might snatch me in her talons like an eagle—I nod. “Yes, I suppose it would. Behoove me. May I ask you a question?”
“You may.”
“Let’s say you’re successful and the region leaders are gone. What do you expect to happen afterward? Traditionally, removing a head of state without implementing an immediate replacement has not worked out so well.”
Visions of bloody coups and beheaded kings come to mind. Riotous crowds thirsting for vengeance. Power vacuums sucking a populace into an endless cycle of tyranny.
“We are not only removing the head of state,” she says carefully. “We are dismantling the system altogether.”
“And that doesn’t sound remotely chaotic to you?”
“The chaos is an open door,” Theia replies. “People are tired, Luciana. They want to stop fighting, they want peace. They want their country back. I believe chaos is the spark that will illuminate the path toward a brighter future.”
Of course she does—she has to believe in what she’s selling. “A brighter future for who? I don’t think the Upperclass is looking forward to this new world order. What will you do with them?”
“I don’t expect to do anything. We will tax their ill-gotten wealth and redistribute it back to the people. If they do not wish to comply, they may leave.” Her eyes narrow. “But their money stays.”
She speaks powerfully. She speaks as if more than Taylor and I sit in this room, as if the Five Regions can hear her.
It’s seductive, especially if you’ve never been around true power before.
To see it in person, intimately, intoxicates most. But I suckled on it.
“And when does it end? When you run out of people to kill on either side?”
“What would you suggest we do? Stage peaceful protests? Ask nicely?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “If the question is violence, the answer is not violence.”
“A leader’s daughter morally opposed to warfare.
How novel.” Theia hops up on the desk, legs dangling over the edge.
I get the feeling she doesn’t find me novel so much as she finds me annoying.
“I am not a warmonger, but I am a realist. Freedom is not free. Power must be taken back, by any means necessary.”
Taylor looks upset, though I can’t imagine this is news to her. She stands. “May we be dismissed?”
“Yes, I think that will be all. Dismissed.” Theia waves us off without a look in our direction. Taylor explodes out of the office, storming through her fellow soldiers with me barely on her heel.
Outside is light and refreshing, cooling off the stagnant heat from the office.
Sunlight shines down upon us, but Taylor is in her own plane of existence.
The fiery look in her eyes could tear open black holes in the fabric of space-time, sucking the universe into nothingness.
I am suddenly compelled to alleviate the situation, if perhaps only to save the planet from oblivion. Tentatively, I take a step toward her.
“Well. Good news is I didn’t die today?”
Taylor ignores me, losing her focus and letting her eyes trail off into the distance. “I did not know about the Lightbringers. How did I miss that?”
“It’s not like we hung a sign on the door saying ‘Ask Us About Our Death Robots.’ My mother was adamant they be disposed of and Papa agreed, but secretly kept at least a dozen in storage. I’ve never even seen one.” Taylor worries her lower lip as I speak. “I can’t believe he did this.”
“I can,” she says. “Your father is deplorable, but he loves you. There is no limit to what someone will do for love.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Wow, that’s mighty sentimental for a cold-blooded assassin.”
“I prefer the term ‘lackey cutthroat.’” She’s so deadpan I almost miss the sarcasm entirely. “I suppose we should get started, Miss Piccolo.”
“Did you make a joke?” I ask, following her toward the tree line edging the cabins.
“Nothing gets by you.”
“Do you have a pen? I should write this down.”
A few hundred yards deep into the woods a bright clearing opens, littered with rope swings and tires. The sun peeks through the canopy of trees, bestowing cones of bright yellow on the course. She guides me toward a deteriorating post with a numeral one painted in red on the side.
“This is a beginner’s course, one of many we use to train new recruits,” she says, hands planted on her hips. “I will go through it once so you understand each part.”
Beginning with the tire hopscotch, she breezes through the obstacles with violent agility.
She leaps over a pit using a rope swing, scales a climbing wall, dives under wires posted in the ground, then ounces back and forth on large pegs in the ground.
She makes it look as effortless as walking.
Insufferably, she’s not out of breath after running through the course in about thirty seconds.
“The idea is to be fast and quiet.”
“I’ve heard that before.” Taylor quirks her eyebrow at me with what seems like the least amount of enthusiasm she can manage for my joke. I sigh. “Tough crowd.”
The first obstacle, old tires, I hop in and out of with minimal difficulty.
Next is the rope swing, which proves trickier.
It requires core strength to push the rope and gain momentum, which my years of lazing about have surprisingly not produced.
After a lot of swearing, eventually I vault over a glossy mud pit and land solidly on both feet.
When I turn in triumph, Taylor is unimpressed. “Keep going.”
More challenging still is the rock-climbing wall, but my height helps in getting to the top and over without excessive strain.
Smearing mud and leaves on my uniform, I commando-crawl beneath the wires posted in the ground.
Taylor stands behind me as I ready myself for the final obstacle.
Two rows of oversized golf tees are stuck into the ground about thigh high.
A wooden pole stands next to the first peg.
so I use it to balance and position my left boot on the first peg.
She made this look easy, but it’s daunting up close.
“Keep your eyes on your feet. Make sure you try to land as squarely as possible on the surface with as much of your foot as you can. Use the energy of landing to spring forward again.”
I leap to the second tee and land successfully.
Using her advice, I spring to the next one but misjudge it and crash to the ground, my chin narrowly missing the top of a peg.
Her mocking chuckle fills me with anger.
I stand back up, brush off my front, and spin around to face her. “Is this funny to you?”
“Not every day the princess of the Northeast eats dirt in front of you,” she replies.
I stomp back to the beginning of the stupid pegs.
“No, no. You have to start over from the beginning each time you fail a section until you can run this three times without stopping.” Brimming with fury, I do not move an inch.
Taylor relents. “This is the most basic training I can give you. Take this seriously. If you are not physically ready, you will die. You do not trust me, fine, but you need to learn to trust yourself.”
“Oh, good, unsolicited life advice and a workout. What a banner day.”
“Back to the start, please.”
Fifteen times I run through the course, and fifteen times I fail at the pegs.
Eventually I skip them all together, favoring my ability to run the rest of the course as fast as I can.
On what must be my nine-millionth run, Taylor diverts me to the pegs.
I fall off in short order. Sweating and frustrated, I let out a loud growl of irritation.
Either out of pity or impatience, Taylor hops up on the poles in front of me and holds out her hand. “You can do this. Do it again, but this time use me for balance.”
With a light grip on her hand, I hop from one pole to the other.
She pivots back with each hop, somehow navigating the obstacle backward without looking at her feet.
She watches my face as I concentrate on keeping my center steady.
I wobble only once—her hand squeezes mine and rights me—and with assistance, I finally make it to the end.