Copper Ravens (11 page)

“Oriana suspects you because very few Elementals possess the strength to defeat a single iron warrior, much less several. As for the guard, that was my suggestion. For the queen's safety, of course,” he sneered.

Great. So in a lame attempt to suck up to the queen, Old Stoney had decided to play the hero and round up Micah like a common criminal. I was about to run inside and get Mom, to show Old Stoney how intimidation was really done, when Micah spoke.

“Allow me a moment, Farthing, to speak with my consort,” Micah said. “Then I will accompany you to the Golden Court and explain my actions directly to our queen.” With that, Micah ushered me inside the manor and shut the door, while I stared at him in disbelief.

“You're going to go somewhere with that maniac?” I demanded. “He could hurt you!”

“He will not,” Micah replied. “Oriana's guard will not allow it, and Farthing is still begging her favors. I will simply explain what happened, and the queen will understand.”

If only life really were that simple. Aloud, I only said, “Are you sure you'll be safe?”

“Of course. He is only of stone.” With that, Micah kissed me goodbye, and I tried not to look too pathetic as I watched him walk off with Old Stoney and the goon squad.
Consorts need to be strong, you know
.

“Where's he going?” I turned and found Max standing behind me.

“A pile of mangled iron warriors turned up at the Golden Court, and Micah needs to go and explain himself to the queen.” Max's face remained impassive, which was no surprise. In Max's world, his judgment was always correct, regardless of any unintended side effects. Understanding that continuing to discuss the iron warriors would only lead to an argument, I opted for a subject change.

“All that stuff you said about Juliana's uncle,” I began, “how do you know what he's been up to?”

“Newspapers, mostly.”

“Which you get how, exactly?” I pressed. I'd experienced a lot of weird happenings here in the Otherworld, but home delivery of the
Daily Bugle
wasn't one of them.

“The newsstand.” I pulled back to smack him. “You know, the one where we used to buy slushies and ice cream.”

My hand hung in midair, the threat of violence forgotten in light of my brother's apparent insanity. “You didn't.”

“Why not? I like to know what's going on.”

“Max! We're wanted! If they find you, it's back to the Institute!”

“Nah. You pretty much destroyed it, remember?”

And I wanted to hit him again. As if Micah and I—and Sadie and Mom, for that matter—hadn't risked
everything
to get him back. In the case of Sadie, she had lost almost everything, from her dream career to her sense of safety. Before I could well and truly give Max a piece of my mind, he brought me back to the one subject even I couldn't dispute.

“Listen, after the war ended, Armstrong was the engineer behind all the Elementals getting rounded up,” he said. “I bet he's got some intel on Dad.”

For a moment, I almost accused Max of having tunnel vision, being that his singular goal in life was creating foolish, not to mention “likely to get him killed super extra dead,” plans in order to find out what had happened to Dad. He never acted with the tiniest bit of common sense or self-preservation, and I was sick and tired of his attitude.

Instead, I shut my mouth with a
clack
. Dammit, I wanted to know what happened to our father just as badly as he did.

And that was how Max and I ended up skulking around the Mundane realm about half an hour later. We'd hopped through the static portal at the wooded edge of the Whispering Dell, which had brought us right to my former employer's parking lot.

“You really worked in that monstrosity?”

I tore my eyes away from the Lovers' Pine and followed Max's gaze toward the concrete box that housed the sham company of Real Estate Evaluation Services. “Yeah. I worked there with Juliana for a little more than a year.”

Max shuddered. “Place looks like a cross between a mausoleum and a prison.”

“I don't know,” I said, scrutinizing the unopenable windows and badly maintained entrance. Someone should really trim the shrubbery. “It kinda reminds me of the Institute.”

“Same thing.”

Even though REES appeared to have been abandoned, Max and I knew better than to underestimate Peacekeepers. Well, I did; I think Max just wanted to play spy. Instead of walking across the parking lot to the sidewalk, we went to the back of the lot, scrambled over the fence (which, thankfully, wasn't electrified) and slunk around the abandoned office park. In no time, we were walking through the Promenade Market's main entrance.

“C'mon,” Max said, turning up his jacket collar. My brother, the master of disguise. “Let's see what's up.”

My heart raced and my palms sweated as we approached the wide entrance, and I imagined that our faces were plastered across those “most wanted” posters that decorate post offices. But there weren't any posters, at least not that I could see, and, being that it was still early, I didn't even see any armed Peacekeepers prowling among the stalls.

Then we were in the maze of crooked streets crammed full of booths and hawkers and a wave of homesickness hit me full-force. I missed the afternoons Juliana and I used to waste away, trolling this overgrown junk shop, searching for prewar books and movies, funky shoes that I never had the guts to wear in public, and, most often, lunch. The market had a whole section of booths that sold non-government sanctioned foods, like real cheese and hearty bread, as long as you knew who to ask. It was pricey, but so very worth it. While the government-run grocery stores were a lot cheaper, and legal, you could only buy processed crap that tasted like sawdust or rubber.

Max raised an eyebrow when he saw me eyeing a selection of aged cheddar. “Cheese?”

“I like cheese.” I sighed; since I didn't have any Mundane money, I was doomed to admire the dairy from afar. Max shook his head and took off toward the newsstand. I, dutiful sister that I was, followed. What I saw on the racks shocked the hell out of me.

Each and every periodical bore an image of Mike Armstrong's face plastered across its cover. Some of the photographs were in profile, showcasing his bulbous nose and a hairline that had receded like the tide; some were full frontal shots, full of smiling, too-white teeth. There was even one of him holding a baby. I hoped it was a doll; I mean, what mother would be foolish enough to hand her baby over to that lunatic?

I glanced around; I was surrounded by people discussing Armstrong's excellent plans to restore Pacifica to its former glory, mothers included. I guessed I had found the fools.

While the photographs differed, the headlines were nearly identical; over and over, Dr. Mike Armstrong was lauded as the human race's savior, the man who had effectively squashed the Elemental menace.

“Menace?” I mumbled. I hadn't meant to strike up a conversation, but a woman near me overhead my musings.

“Oh, yes,” she gushed. “Before the wars, we were all subservient to those evildoers. Dr. Armstrong's research is what helped us win the war and put those freaks back where they belong.” My initial reaction was to wonder at the usage of both subservient and evildoer in an impromptu conversation with a stranger, but then I spied the magazine tucked under her arm. She'd just quoted the cover blurb, nearly word for word.

“I don't really remember the time before the wars,” I admitted. “I was young.”

The woman patted my arm. “Be glad that you don't. And be sure you vote for Dr. Armstrong in the upcoming election. Mark my words, we need him as President.”

I nodded, then I sidled toward the other end of the newsstand, searching for a magazine that hadn't devoted itself to politics. My choices were mostly limited to fashion and home and garden, although there was one about raising meat iguanas (chicken of the tree, you know), and another for gun hobbyists. Though, the gun magazine did feature a few action shots of Mike during some target practice with the Peacekeepers. We do want our president to be well-rounded.

And is iguana really all that tasty?

“So,” I said, once again at Max's side. “All this.” I indicated the magazines with my eyes.

“Yeah. Lucky for us, Dr. Armstrong came along.” Max practically shouted that last bit and was the recipient of a few agreements and even a clap on the back from the newsstand's owner. He had quickly and effectively worked his audience, just like Dad used to do.

“Tell me about it,” I mumbled. Max shot me a glare, but my sarcasm flew right over their heads. “So, what party is he running with?” I asked as I flipped through the pages.

“Dr. Armstrong doesn't have a party,” Max said, affecting the patient tone one would use when explaining things to one's somewhat slow sibling. “He's running on his own.”

Okay, now that shocked me. Since Pacifica had become, well, Pacifica, there had been two Mundane political parties—Mirlanders and Pacifists. The Mirlanders weren't so bad, though they did suck at winning elections. The Pacifists, in no small bit of irony, had become the military force we now call Peacekeepers.

How these two outwardly similar, yet ideologically different, groups came to inhabit the same country is one of the first history lessons I remember learning. Our country, Pacifica, is so vast that it stretches all the way from one ocean to another; eventually, two separate sets of colonists landed, one group on each shore. The set that arrived first made landfall close to what's now called Capitol City and had named it Portland in honor of the natural harbor. They named the surrounding land Mirland, which meant Peaceful Land in their native language; there's a rocky outcrop, called Sunpoint, where these newcomers had watched the sun rise over the ocean. According to the history books, that had been the site of their first meeting hall, a precursor to the government buildings that were raised much later. The Mirlanders were the first Elementals to set foot on Pacifica.

About a hundred or so years later, the people we now know as Peacekeepers landed on the opposite shore. They called themselves Pacifists because they were all about humans living together and avoiding bloodshed. Yeah, right.

Anyway, in no time, the Pacifists had made their way over to the Mirlanders, who had been quietly eking out a peaceful existence on their peaceful land. Not surprisingly, the two sets didn't get along.

It turned out that the Pacifists had basically fled their homeland under the guise of religious persecution. They hated all things magic and thought that by crossing such a large body of water they would be rid of it forever. Yeah, well, the whole running-water ploy only works on evil magic, and only on a specific kind of evil magic. Someone hadn't bothered to do their homework.

Also, Pacifists were banking on the land being devoid of magic and hadn't planned on bumping into a full-fledged colony of Elementals in the midst of their paradise. The Mirlanders didn't mind sharing space with the Peacekeepers, being that they weren't fleeing their homeland in the first place, and the land was more than big enough for everyone. However, the Pacifists didn't trust Elementals, not even then, and this led to lengthy negotiations and the eventual signing of the Compacts.

As for the people that lived here before the Mirlanders arrived, no one much cared what they thought. But that's a different story altogether.

The native population notwithstanding, the Pacifists and Mirlanders—Mundanes and Elementals—worked together to write the Compacts, which were intended to ensure justice and equality for all. Basically, the Mundanes worried that the Elementals would run the whole show, both magically and politically. In the first of many mistakes, the Elementals let the Mundanes get away with more than they should have, because they viewed the Mundanes as weak and deserving of protection. Little did they realize that even a weakened snake retains its venom, and it really only needs one opportunity to strike.

In time, the Mirlander party evolved from one populated by Elementals to Mundanes with a slightly less conservative agenda, such as those who thought that funding schools and road work were just as important as funding the military. And, while everyone agreed that roads without potholes are nice, and wouldn't it just be grand if that school could be un-condemned, no one running on the Mirlander ticket had won anything since long before the Magic Wars. No matter how good their platform was, or how charismatic the speaker, they were forever tainted by magic.

We Elementals had gotten out of politics altogether. We had been content to sit back and watch the Peacekeepers and Mirlanders argue away, keeping our own counsel, assuming nothing those puny Mundanes could cook up would ever have any kind of lasting impact. We were so arrogant, so complacent in our own strength, that we effectively hobbled ourselves. While we were busy ignoring those we thought were weak, they gathered strength and took us out. Hindsight does tend to be the clearest sort of vision.

And now, Dr. Armstrong seemed to be the political forerunner, and he didn't have the backing of either party. Everyone, responsible citizen and loony conspiracy theorist alike, was buying what he was selling.

Things were so much worse than Max had let on.

I turned back to the glossy covers, at once entranced and repulsed by the repetitive images, and noticed that Dr. Armstrong was frequently pictured alongside a rail-thin, oily-looking, little man.

“Who's the creepy sidekick?” I asked, grabbing a copy of
Politics and Poetry
. Max glanced at the cover, his jaw tensing.

“Langston Phillips,” Max ground out. “He's Armstrong's right-hand man.” I was amazed at the animosity in Max's voice, the hatred in his eyes. When Max had talked about Dr. Armstrong, he had just relayed the facts and let me make my own conclusions. But, by the way he was staring at the magazine in my hands, it looked like he wanted to rip Langston's throat out.