Broken Crowns (13 page)

When I begin to recognize where we are, my skin prickles. Through the window I can see the clock tower in the distance.

“Out,” the patrolman says after the shuttle has come to a stop.

As I follow Basil down the aisle, my body thinks, for just a moment, that I am moving for the train that will take us to school. It is a normal day. It is all the same inside the shuttle—the metal walls, the cushioned seats, the smell of it. It is the same and not the same.

A train hasn't gone by since we landed. Even this far from the tracks, I would still be able to hear it. I would still feel the rattle under my feet. One surely should have passed by now.

It's been hours since we left Havalais, and I force myself not to think of what the others might be doing on the ground now that they're surely awake. But the clock tower does not make for a pleasant distraction.

Nim's letter to Celeste sits heavily against my chest, where I've folded it in half and tucked it under my dress for safekeeping and to hide it. As unique and glamorous as the fashions of the ground are, women's clothing in particular isn't very practical. If I were wearing my uniform or one of my old dresses, there would be pockets. There would be more modesty as well.

I'm feeling very conscious, suddenly, of the short hem of this dress, the straps that do nothing to cover my shoulders. This feeling only intensifies when we reach the clock tower and I realize that we are surely on our way to see King Furlow.

The main floor of the clock tower is a public lobby. I was here a few times with my parents when they were collecting their weekly wages, and once on a tour in first year. The last time Alice was here was when she appealed directly to the king about allowing the birth of her child. After that, neither she nor Lex could stand to come back, and I would often collect their wages for them so they wouldn't have to.

I find myself once again looking for my father. But he isn't here; hardly anyone is. Most of the citizens must be out there mining for fuel. Internment has become a labor camp, just as we all feared.

Two patrolmen lead us down a hallway that's always restricted from the public, and it leads to a single door I've never seen. The door is unlike the others on Internment. Rather than wood, it is made of steel. There are two locks above the doorknob, and each patrolman holds just one of the keys to open it.

The door opens, revealing an archaic staircase made of carved stone. Parts of the steps have crumbled into pebbles, and I can tell the staircase has never been repaired and is probably as old as the clock tower itself.

We move single file, with a patrolman ahead of us and a patrolman behind us, for what seems to be a thousand steps spiraling up the walls of the clock tower.

When at last we reach a landing, one of the patrolmen stands to attention while the other unlocks the door. I wonder if there has always been this much security surrounding the king, or if this is all in light of the hatred he must be facing for what Internment has become.

The patrolman moves through the open door, and looks over his shoulder at us. “Come on, then,” he says. “The king will be expecting you.”

I'd like to take hold of Basil's hand, but I don't dare. Neither of us betray fear or emotion of any kind as we step forward, clutching only the stack of instructions King Ingram doled out to us this morning.

No wooden floor covers the original stone of this tower, and our footsteps and breaths echo as we move. We pass several closed doors along the wall, and then, at last, we come to the end of the hallway, and the patrolman opens a final door.

When I last saw King Furlow, he was coming undone. It was the middle of the night and his son was dying before him, his daughter in hysterics at his side. Now he stands straight at a window that overlooks the workers in the distance. His pudgy frame has thinned somewhat, and when he turns to us, his eyes are tired, the skin purpled beneath them.

Near the window there is a large wooden desk, its surface free of any papers, I suspect because he has nothing to read through or to sign. No one is seeking his approval. He has lost control of his kingdom.

He waves dismissively to the patrolman, who remains out in the hallway and closes the door behind us.

“Ms. Stockhour, Mr. Cowl,” King Furlow says with forced spirit. “I am glad you've returned.”

Like the rest of Internment, I was raised to show respect to my king. Even after Alice's baby was taken from her womb at his command. Even after Lex went to the edge and condemned us all to the king's scrutiny.

But I am so very tired of it all. The false cheer. The curtsies. The polite nods. Pretending I should admire this cracked hollow shell of a king. And yet he seems to expect it, staring at us the way he does.

“Are you?” I say.

Basil tenses beside me. He could bow. I wouldn't blame him for it. He is, after all, the one who wants to play it safe. He wants us to survive whatever awaits us. I can feel how frightened he is by my candor.

But he doesn't bow to the king who ordered my death and the death of my family. And I must keep myself from smiling.

King Furlow's troubled face does not register a reaction to our small insubordination. He says, “When King Ingram said he would be returning two of my citizens, I couldn't be sure what his word was worth. I didn't know that he would allow you to come, and alive at that. I suppose it was too much to hope that my son would be returned. He did arrive on the ground in one piece?”

“The prince is well,” Basil says. “He saw us off.”

“Good, good,” King Furlow says. “Please be seated. What is that you're holding?”

“Scripts,” I say as Basil and I sit in the cushioned chairs opposite the king's desk.

No sooner do we sit, than the ground rumbles under our feet. The legs of the desk rattle against the stone floor. Basil and I start, but the king is unfazed.

“That would be the engine as the jet takes off. Ingram did say he would be taking it back as soon as he returned you two.”

I have lived on this floating city my entire life with no way out, and yet for the first time I feel panic at the idea that my ride has left without me. My brother and Alice and Pen are off in a place where I cannot reach them. Sweat is pooling in my palms, and I clench my fingers into fists.

“Now then,” King Furlow says. He paces the length of his desk before sitting in the chair behind it. He gestures to the papers Basil and I hold. “You say those are scripts?” The king seems to have gotten comfortable in his chair, but Basil and I are rigid, like two tightly wound toys ready to go off in motion once the string is released. “I shouldn't be surprised. I suppose King Ingram has sent you back here to convince the people of our city that they should do as he commands.”

“Yes,” I say.

“We find ourselves in a jam, don't we?” the king says. “It would seem that the sunstone in our soil contains a substance those on the ground refer to as ‘phosane,' and King Ingram would like to use it for his own purposes. And my daughter, too trusting as she is, told King Ingram about our sunstone, hoping for an alliance between our two kingdoms.

“King Ingram has men camped throughout the city. I do not know how much he plans to drain our resources. But we are a small kingdom. My daughter tells me that our entire city is hardly bigger than King Ingram's castle. If we don't cooperate, what's to stop them from destroying us entirely, killing us all, and taking our dirt as they see fit?”

He's looking at Basil and me, and after a long silence I realize he means for us to answer the question.

Basil looks at me. I am the one who witnessed the bombs at the harbor. I am the one who knew about the phosane. I am the one who met with King Ingram when Princess Celeste was present. I am also the one who knows the most about Pen's theory about Internment sinking and something needing to be done.

But I am also thinking of what Prince Azure said, about my talking to his sister. He didn't seem to trust his own father, and I certainly don't either, so I must limit the information I give him.

“I do not believe that King Ingram will destroy us,” I say. “Not right away, at least. Down on the ground he's having trouble utilizing the phosane. He doesn't know how to refine it. I suspect he's ruining it in the process, which may be why he's taking as much of it as he can fit into the jet and then coming back for more.” I swallow hard, steady myself. It is very taxing just to be in the presence of this king, trying to be civil after all he has cost me. “Havalais has bombs. They could destroy Internment in an instant. But—they are at war with their own neighboring kingdom, Dastor. The people of Havalais are tired and in mourning. They have lost faith in King Ingram, and I believe—I believe King Ingram means to use Internment as a way to regain their hope. If he destroys us, there will be chaos. His own people might overthrow him. It isn't like it is up here. There are thousands more citizens. There are thousands of places to run to. A riot could destroy the kingdom.”

The king folds his hands on the desk. “How refreshing,” he says, “to hear from a young lady who is not so idyllic as my daughter. You may have a head for politics.”

I don't want a head for politics. I want my family back. I want to be at peace, whatever “peace” may mean now that so many things have happened that can't be undone.

“What I propose, Your Highness, is that we offer to be that symbol of hope for King Ingram. If his people love us and value us, he won't destroy us. And perhaps, rather than showing him how to refine our fuel, we could give it to him in small doses.”

“You mean work for him,” King Furlow says. “Slave labor.”

“It's the only suggestion I've been able to come up with,” I say.

The king looks at me for a long while with an unreadable expression, and then he looks to Basil.

“You must be tired,” the king says. “Rest up now. This building is rather old, I'm afraid, and there's no running water. Someone will be in with water basins for you to get cleaned up.” He claps his hands together and there's an eerie sparkle in his eyes as he adds, “There will be a party for your return. King Ingram's men will be present, so you would be wise to read up on his notes.”

I would rather set my hair on fire than attend another party by now, but when the patrolman opens the door to escort us to our chambers, we follow. Though we are at the top of the clock tower, it doesn't feel much different from the dungeon, as far as design is concerned. The hallway is lit by small windows and candles that burn in sconces. It's a modest kingdom, nothing worthy of comparison to King Ingram's castle.

“You'll be staying here,” the patrolman says, leading Basil and me to a small room that is modestly furnished. The stone floor is covered by a large woven rug, and the walls have been plastered and painted white. A single window overlooks the woods that surround the clock tower, and I can see the train tracks in the distance.

Above the bed, a small, framed picture hangs on the wall, of a long-stemmed purple flower open in a ray of sunlight.

“The chamber pot is behind that screen in the corner, and there are clothes for you in the wardrobe. The seamstress will be by later to make any adjustments if they don't fit. In the meantime, do make yourselves comfortable.”

He closes the door behind us, and I hear a lock sliding into place.

I spend the rest of the afternoon sitting on the window ledge, staring out. Basil paces and then eventually goes still. When I finally look away from the window, I find him propped up on the bed, asleep, with the stack of papers in his hand.

I don't believe he's gotten much sleep this past week. I have been so worried about what will become of Pen in my absence that I haven't paid Basil much attention. Not that he has complained. All patience and understanding, he has worried in silence as we prepared to return home.

Carefully, I sit on the bed and slide the papers from his hands, set them on the night table, and lie down beside him. I close my eyes and I listen to his soft measured breathing, and as my own exhaustion takes me over, I beg myself not to dream.