The Pledge
Authors: Kimberly Derting
Praise for
The Pledge
by Kimberly Derting
“A girl reluctantly faces her destiny in this gripping dystopian fantasy. More great suspense from a prolific new writer with a vibrant imagination.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
“Danger, dread, mystery, and romance are a potent combination.”
—Booklist
“Derting’s chilling dystopia envisions an America ruled by monarchy, most of its cities razed, and its citizens straitjacketed in a caste system divided by language. . . [and is] right on when depicting the bonds of family, friendship, and first love.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fast-paced and engrossing.”
—VOYA
“A unique blend of dystopian, fantasy, and fairy tale . . . The Pledge certainly has all the earmarks that fans of The Hunger Games will enjoy. Derting has created truly one of the most original stories I've seen hit the YA shelves in a long time –crafting her own genre out of existing themes, and weaving together a story that will keep you up late into the night reading.”
—The Examiner
“Gripping, seductive, and wholly original.”
—Novel Novice (
http://novelnovice.com/2011/11/15/book-review-the-pledge-by-kimberly-derting/
)
M
y breath is my pledge to worship my queen above all others.
My breath is my pledge to obey the laws of my country.
My breath is my pledge to respect my superiors.
My breath is my pledge to contribute to the progress of my class.
My breath is my pledge to report all who would do harm to my queen and country.
As I breathe, I pledge.
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Contents
To Abby, Connor, and Amanda. You know why.
acknowledgments
Each book has its own cast of “characters” who deserve special thanks. For this book, I have to start off by thanking one particular woman who, when I met her, shared heart-wrenching stories of her early childhood years in WWII Germany. Marie Lucas, somewhere in your reminiscing you sparked the very beginnings of what would eventually become
The Pledge
. Thank you for telling me stories about a frightened little girl who was awakened in the night by air-raid sirens and was then thrown over the fences by her older sisters so they could hide in the mineshafts outside of town until the fighting had passed. And thank you, too, for telling me about the battered little rag doll you treasured. You are the original Angelina.
As always, I have to thank my fearless and tireless agent, Laura Rennert. Thank you for being on
my
side.
And to my incredible editor, Gretchen Hirsch, for believing in me not once, but twice, and for being intuitive and patient and brilliant. I truly love working with you.
To the Smart Chicks, for letting me sit with the cool kids. To Jenny Jeffries and Shelli Johannes-Wells: thanks for staying up late to read for me. To Erin Gross and Heidi Bennett: thank you for being such great cheerleaders. To everyone at the Debs and the Tenners: thank you for making me feel sane in this crazy publishing world! And to my wonderful friends Jacqueline Sander, Tamara McDonald, and Carol Hildebrand, for helping me plan such fabulous launch parties for my books. (Seriously, I think the three of you should open your own business . . . or at least charge me for your services.)
To my husband, Josh, for being my first beta-reader, my patient advisor, and a sympathetic shoulder all rolled up in one. To my children, for being willing to eat fast food again and again and again. To my mom, for constantly telling me I could do anything . . . and genuinely meaning it. And to my dad, for always making me laugh when I need it most.
And a special thank-you to my brother, Scot, who I’ve both loved and hated over the years (as most sisters do), but who has taught me the incredible value of having siblings. There’s no one I would rather have shared my childhood with . . .
I love you!
PART I
prologue
142 years after the revolution of sovereigns
The air crackled like a gathering thunderstorm the moment the girl entered the chamber. She was just a child, but her presence changed everything.
With effort, the queen turned her head on her pillow as she watched the little girl pad into the chamber on slippered feet. The child kept her chin tucked tightly against her chest as her fingers clutched the sides of her nightgown, clenching and unclenching nervously.
Maybe the queen’s guards weren’t even aware of the charge in the air, but she was suddenly conscious of the blood coursing through her veins, the quickening of her pulse, and the sound of each breath that she took—no longer ragged and wheezing.
She turned her attention to the men who’d escorted the child. “Leave us,” she declared in a voice that had once been filled with authority but now came out hoarse and papery.
They had no reason to question the command; certainly the girl would be safe with her own mother.
The child jumped at the sound of the door closing behind her, her eyes widening, but she still refused to meet her mother’s stare.
“Princess Sabara,” the queen said softly, in her quietest voice, trying to gain the young girl’s trust. In her daughter’s six short years, the queen had spent little time with her, leaving her in the care of governesses, nurses, and tutors. “Come closer, my darling.”
The girl’s feet shuffled forward, but her eyes remained fastened on the floor—a trait reserved for the lower classes, her mother noted bitterly. Six was young, maybe too young, but she’d delayed for as long as she could. The queen was young too; her body should have had many good years remaining, but now she lay sick and dying, and she could no longer afford to wait. Besides, she’d been grooming the girl for this day.
When the girl reached her bedside, the queen held out her hand, tipping the child’s small chin upward and forcing the young princess to meet her eyes. “You’re the eldest girl child born to me,” she explained—a story she’d told the child dozens of times already, reminding her of just how special she was. How important. “But we’ve talked about this, haven’t we? You’re not afraid, are you?”
The little girl shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears as they darted nervously one way and then the other.
“I need you to be brave, Sabara. Can you be brave for me? Are you ready?”
And then the girl’s shoulders stiffened as she steadied
herself, finding her queen’s eyes at last. “Yes, Mamma, I’m ready.”
The queen smiled. The girl was ready; young but ready.
She will be a beauty in her time,
the queen thought, studying the girl’s smooth porcelain skin and her soft, shining eyes.
She will be strong and powerful and feared, a force to be reckoned with. Men will fall at her feet . . .
. . . and she will crush them.
She will be a great queen.
She took a shaky breath. It was time.
She reached for the girl, clutching the child’s tiny fingers in hers, the smile evaporating from her lips as she concentrated on the task at hand.
She ushered forth her soul, that part deep inside of her that made her who she was. Her Essence. She could feel it coiling tightly inside of her, still full of life in ways that her body no longer was.
“I need you to say the words, Sabara.” It was nearly a plea, and she hoped the girl didn’t realize how badly she needed her, how desperate she was for this to work.
The little girl’s gaze remained fastened to the queen, and her chin inched up a notch as she spoke the words they’d rehearsed. “Take me, Mamma. Take me instead.”
The queen inhaled sharply, the muscles of her hand seizing around the girl’s as she closed her eyes. It wasn’t pain she felt. In fact, it was closer to pleasure as her Essence unfurled, misting and swirling like a dense fog as it spread through her, breaking free from its constraints at last.
She heard the child gasp, and then felt her struggle, trying
to free her fingers from her mother’s grip. But it didn’t matter now; it was too late. She’d already said the words.
The overwhelming sense of ecstasy nearly shattered her, and then dulled, fading again as her Essence settled into a new space, curling into itself once more. Finding peace at long last.
She kept her eyes squeezed tight, not ready yet to open them, not ready to know whether the transfer had worked or not. And then she heard the faintest of sounds, a soft gurgling. Followed by nothing.
A deafening silence.
Slowly—so very slowly—she opened her eyes to see what it was . . .
. . . and found herself standing at the side of the bed, staring into the empty eyes of the dead queen. Eyes that had once belonged to her.