Broken Crowns (21 page)

In a few minutes
there will be a citywide broadcast to announce the death of King Ingram. So Celeste tells us, at least, as she frets and paces in the royal apartment.

“Isn't it a bit hasty to make that announcement?” Pen says, with no hostility for once.

“Yes,” Celeste says. She's chewing on her knuckle. “But it gives our city the upper hand. My father's men have gathered all of King Ingram's men. They're being held in interrogation in the basement cells. Their loyalty to Havalais will be determined. Anyone who poses a threat will be executed. Harsh, I know, but I suspect that most of them will stand on our side. What other choice do they have?”

“We're on Internment,” I say. “There's only one side to stand on. The other side is over the edge.”

Her laugh is nervous and a bit hysterical.

“Sit down,” I tell her. “There's no sense working yourself up while we wait.”

“Wait,” she spits back. “All I've done for months is wait. I'm so tired of it. Aren't you?” She shakes her head. “I can't leave this to my father, Morgan. He's the king, yes, and he's in charge of this city, but he's so . . . outdated.”

“I would have opted for ‘psychotic,' ” Pen says.

“My mother is dying because of his fear of expanding our medical technology,” Celeste goes on, ignoring her. “It isn't just medicine, though; it's all technology. This bloody clock tower doesn't even have electricity. Up until now we've had only so much room to grow on this patch of land, but now we have the entire ground. If we handle this properly, we can make Havalais into an ally, but Papa will make them into an enemy. He's scared of them and he's hateful, and he'll do the wrong thing, I just know it.”

She walks for the door, and I reach her just as she's put her hand on the knob. “You can't go out there,” I remind her. “Be reasonable. No one in this kingdom knows about the state you're in.”

“Well, it's time that they do,” she says. “Isn't hope our best ally? King Ingram is dead. What's more hopeful than a child who can bridge two worlds? What could be stronger than that?”

“Injustice,” I say. I move between her and the door, and the knob is pressing into my back. I lower my voice. “You know a lot about this city, but its rules have never entirely applied to you.”

“That's absurd. I—”

“Do you know what happens when people conceive children outside of the queue?”

“Of course I do,” Celeste says. “They have a termination procedure. That rule would have applied to me, too, under the right circumstance. But—”

“There's never a right circumstance,” I say. “Believe me. You may go out there bearing all the hope in the world. You may even have the means to solve all of the city's problems, appease all of its fears. But it won't matter. They'll hate you. They'll riot. That's the reason your father is keeping you out of sight. Don't you understand?”

Celeste is looking into my eyes, and I can see that she believes me. Much as she tries to be a diplomat, there will always be a divide between the kingdom's rulers and its citizens. We each represent a different view of the same world.

She's quiet for a moment, and then with renewed spirit she says, “Then you have to go.” She nods over her shoulder at Basil. “Both of you. You have to force your way into the broadcast. The city loves you. Of course they do. You both represent the citizens better than my father or brother or I ever could. And Nim is an outsider; they'll be wary of him no matter what he says.”

“I—” My voice catches. “And say what?”

“The truth. That you've been to Havalais. That the people there are not greedy like their king. Tell them it's a wonderful place, and that Havalais would make a strong ally, not an enemy. I don't have to tell you what to say. You're so good at seeing the best in people.”

I look to Basil, who is walking toward me. “I think she's right,” he says. “We've lived in both worlds now. And you especially, after what you lived through at the harbor.”

I hope I won't be made to speak about that. It still haunts me, and if I'd never left Internment and seen the ground for myself, the stories of bombs would scare me all the more. Havalais is recovering now, though its harbor will never be the same, but Internment would have been obliterated completely.

“All right,” I say. “I'll see what I can do.”

There isn't time for Basil or me to change, so Celeste runs her fingers through my windswept hair in an attempt to make me presentable, fits Basil's jacket onto his shoulders, and pushes us out the door.

“Wait!” Pen runs after us and meets us on the first step. She grabs my shoulders. “Tell them what I told you that night in the theme park.”

“Do you really think that's wise? Now?”

“They need a bit of fear to keep them listening. They need to know that we'll help them.”

She has been right about so many things before. I nod. “You should be doing this instead of me,” I say.

“She doesn't have the social graces,” Celeste says. “Hurry now.”

Basil and I are left to make our way down the spiraling staircase, guided only by flickering sconces. “We'll be lucky if we aren't thrown in with the other prisoners for this,” I say. “It's treason.”

“Is it treason to intercept a king's broadcast if you're doing it under the order of the princess?” Basil says.

“Maybe ‘treason' is the wrong word. There probably is no word for what we're doing, because it's that insane.”

“All of this is,” Basil says. “But you must agree that the princess made some good points.”

“Yes, which adds to the madness. Celeste Furlow, the voice of reason.”

We follow the directions Celeste gave us, through the lobby and down another stairwell belowground. The smell of mold and dust is overwhelming, but I hear the faint whine of something electrical. Light is flickering through the cracks in the door. There are voices on the other side.

The broadcast room. Normally there would be patrolmen guarding restricted areas, but with all the hostages from Havalais, the patrolmen have their hands full.

“Do we just barge in?” Basil says.

“No one's here to stop us,” I say, and reach for the knob. King Furlow is standing in a sea of wires, looking flushed and fatigued. Behind him hangs a painted mural of Internment as seen from the outside. It was used for a festival some hundred years before, and it often serves as one of his backdrops.

He was in the middle of a sentence when we barged in, but now he has stopped to watch as we pace toward him and take a place at his side. There are three patrolmen—one of whom is operating the camera—and when they try to stop us, King Furlow waves them off. I was prepared for outrage, but he seems relieved that we're here to shoulder some of the burden. Nim and Prince Azure aren't with him.

“Citizens,” he says, “you remember our bride- and groom-to-be. Their own wedding was interrupted by the jet's arrival. So you see, this has hurt us all, but it's to a good end. My son, the prince, has brought word that King Ingram is dead.”

“The wedding doesn't matter to us,” Basil says. He casts a quick glance my way, as though he fears I might take offense, but if anything I'm relieved. He straightens his back and goes on. “The wedding was merely a distraction from Internment's hardship. But now King Ingram is dead, and you won't have to worry about more of our soil being taken. You can stop digging. Morgan and I have spent time on the ground. We've met its citizens. They never wanted to take so much from you; it was their king all along.”

He's right, but I fear that no one will believe him. The people of Internment have been conditioned to fear the ground, and this nightmare has only fueled that fear, and even hatred. I gather my strength and say, “The ground is not very different from us at all. The city below us is beautiful. Its people were welcoming and kind. And they've been suffering too.” I begin to describe the bombings at the harbor, going into such detail that the awful memory draws itself within my mind, brushstroke by brushstroke, revealing a coloring I never wanted to see again.

I stand bathed in the bright lights and I stare into the camera lens the whole time, never letting myself think that anyone is on the other side of it. I have no way of knowing if they'll agree with what I'm saying. Now that I've seen the ground, lived there, I hardly remember what it was like to be so uncertain.

“There's more,” I go on. “Since the beginning of Havalais's efforts to mine our fuel, Internment has begun sinking in the sky. One theory is that the frequent arrival and departure of the jet is weakening the wind barrier that keeps us in place.” I do my best to sound scientific, wishing all the while that Pen could be here to explain.

But a scientific explanation is not needed. The worry registers on King Furlow's face. “Sinking,” he breathes. Then, “Cut the cameras.”

The buzz of electricity dies away, and the king steps forward and turns to face us. “Is that true? Internment is sinking?”

“Yes,” I say.

“How can you be sure?”

I hesitate. I do believe what Prince Azure said about Pen being in danger if the king were to know how truly valuable she could be to his cause. I have never been a good liar, but for Pen's sake, the lie slips out, “I was measuring it.” I do my best to explain the sphere of wind that surrounds the city, and the threat that the jet's activity will pose to us over time. “I don't think it's too late,” I say. “If the jet stops coming and going, Internment will stay put.”

The king paces the length of the room, stepping over wires, pondering. “You,” he says to one of the patrolmen standing by the door. “Escort these two back to their quarters while I mull this over.”

“Are you sure you should have told him all of that?” Basil whispers once we're back in our room and we're alone. “What will he do with that information?”

“It was Pen's secret and she wanted it told,” I say. “She must believe it will serve some purpose. She's never been wrong.”

Basil frowns worriedly at the window, and I reach forward to put my hand over his.

We don't mention my father. The thought of him hangs heavily in the silence that falls between us, along with the many fears we don't confess.

Our meals are brought
to us without a word. Night begins to fall, bringing with it the familiar trill of hopping songstresses.

Basil lights the candle in our lamp, and we talk in low voices, ever mindful about being overheard.

“I think he's dead,” I say. I'm sitting on the window ledge, hugging my knees. I stare at my faded reflection in the glass. “My father. I think he's dead.”

“Morgan—”

“The worst part will be the not knowing. The never knowing.” I steal a glance at him. “He wanted Lex and me to leave this city. He and my mother wanted us to be someplace safe. I don't even know if such a place exists.”

Basil has been sitting on the edge of the bed, and now he stands. “If you want to find out what happened to your father, now is the time to look for him. The patrolmen and the king and everyone else are busy dealing with the aftermath of King Ingram's death.”

I laugh bitterly. “Where would you propose I start?”

“The basement cells,” he says. “That's where everyone's being kept, isn't it?”

“We'll be seen,” I say. But I feel that cursed hope creeping up in me, putting an ache in my chest, and I know that I can't let this opportunity slip by now that it's been introduced to me. “Okay,” I say. “Okay. I've been to the basement only once before, but it's like a labyrinth and there isn't electricity. We may be able to move in the shadows.”

I know it's foolish to embark with any optimism. I see the state that Internment is in. From the moment the first explosion hit the harbor in Havalais, we have all been trapped in a dream of a world that is covered in old roots and dead vines. We dig for traces of our old lives. We think we hear our loved ones calling beneath the rubble, so we clear it away, hearts pounding, breathing quickly. But time and again we unearth nothing. Nothing but bits of sunstone that go to waste.