The Sun Dwellers (26 page)

“I’m doing it,” Tawni says, sounding more like Adele than herself.

With a toss of her head she throws back her long, white locks, bats her eyes, and then strides from behind the corner. I fight off the urge to spring from our hiding spot and charge the guard when she says, “Oh my gosh, I’m so glad I found you.”

“Ma’am, you’re not authorized to be here,” the guard says professionally.

“Don’t I know it,” Tawni replies. “You see, I seem to have gotten turned around somewhere. I was on my way to the party and then I made a left. Or was it a right? I can’t remember. In any case, I’m hopelessly lost. Can you by any chance direct me?”

“I’m assuming you have an invitation?”

“Of course, silly, how do you think I got through the front gate. It’s right he—well, that’s funny, I had it right here in my hands. I must’ve dropped it somewhere on the lawn. Can I trouble you to help me find it?” Flawless. That’s the only word for it. Who knew Tawni was an actress? Her tone of voice, the light way in which she requests help, and I’m sure her body language, too: it’s all so disarming that even the most well-trained guard wouldn’t feel threatened by her approach.

“Well, uh, I shouldn’t really leave my post…”

The fish starts to swim away.

“Oh, please, sir. They won’t let me in without it and I would be devastated if I missed out on the best party of the year. I might just give you a little reward for being my hero, too,” she says flirtatiously.

She wiggles the bait one more time.

“Well—I—uh—I suppose I could help for a few minutes, but then I have to get back. Now where did you say you lost it?”

Hooked!

My muscles tense in preparation for violence. “I got this,” Trevor whispers in my ear.

“No!” I shoot back. All we need is to fight over who takes out the guard that Tawni has practically gift-wrapped for us.

“Just around this corner, somewhere on the lawn, I expect,” Tawni’s voice rings out.

When she rounds the corner, her feet tangle together and she tumbles to the grass, crying out as she falls. “Ma’am, are you okay?” the guard says before coming into view. He passes us, not noticing our forms hidden in the shadows. His entire attention is on Tawni. A damsel in distress and a potential reward. “And where are your shoes?”

As he bends over to help Tawni up, I rush him, molding my fists together like a club, which I bring down on the back of his head. “Oof!” he says, but then collapses face first on Tawni.

“I get the next one,” Trevor says, striding up.

“Get him off me,” Tawni squeals.

“Gladly,” I say, pushing him off with the toe of my boot. “You did awesome, by the way.”

“I did?” Tawni says, accepting a hand from Trevor.

“Not bad at all,” Trevor adds, pulling her up.

“I was scared to death,” she admits. “But it was kind of thrilling at the same time.” She tucks a wayward piece of hair behind her ear.

“Time to take this operation inside,” I say.

After dragging the guard into the shadows cast by the building, we tiptoe across the lawn to the now-unprotected entrance. I open the windowless iron door, silently praying there’s no guard just on the other side coming to relieve the now unconscious doorman. The red-carpeted hallway inside is empty, save for the familiar ornamental wall sconces positioned every few feet.

I move inside, holding the door for Tawni, who holds it for Trevor. “We’re east of the throne room,” I say quietly. “Follow me and I’ll try not to get us all killed.”

“Thanks for that,” Trevor says.

Due to the sheer size of the place, there are a number of paths that can be taken between any two points, so I’ve got some choices to make. We could cut through the kitchen and risk a meeting with a stressed and angry knife-wielding chef, where it’s likely that a broken plate or clattering pot will alert half the subchapter to our presence. Or we could take the long route through my brother’s and my adjoining bedrooms where we might bump into a maid or steward who decides to scream upon seeing us. Or we could take the fastest and most direct route down the main hallway, through the grand foyer, and into the government wing, where we will likely butt heads with at least a dozen guards, have to dodge an army of servants, and possibly face my greatest arch nemesis, Mrs. Templeton, the palace housekeeper, more loyal to my father than even his most trusted advisors. Not someone I hope to see tonight. I opt for a more creative route.

Halfway down the hall I cut to the right, past a set of double doors, behind which is a lounge room with large flat-screen teleboxes on all the walls, and dozens of plush lounge chairs around the edges. It’s where my brother and I used to spend our evenings sometimes, watching the best entertainment the Sun Realm has to offer. Those days are long past.

Although I think the route I’ve chosen is the safest path, we’re completely exposed now, with nowhere to hide if a servant or guard happens to turn the corner at one of the many cross hallways that intersect the long hall we’re making our way down. Or they could suddenly exit one of the many carved-oak doors that flash by on either side. As luck would have it, we make it to the end unseen, having worked our way to the northernmost point of the east wing. And it’s here where I do the unexpected.

I take the stairs to the second floor.

“Dude, is the throne room on the next level?” Trevor asks, taking the steps two at a time to catch me from behind.

“No,” I say.

“Then what are we—”

“I grew up here,” I say, cutting him off. “Just trust me, it’s the safest route.”

I can tell he wants to say something, but he doesn’t, falling back to cover the rear again. When I reach the top, I freeze, right away wishing I could take back the words I said to Trevor. For striding toward me are two of the biggest palace guards I’ve ever seen.

Adele

T
he palace gardens feel so unreal that it’s weird when we emerge from them to find the largest collection of buildings I’ve ever seen. I half-expected the palace to be a really giant tree, complete with windows and doors cut into the sides of the trunk, balconies propped delicately on the branches.

Instead the palace is a series of interconnected buildings, grandly designed with large, intricately cut granite blocks along the base and wide sheets of shiny, dark marble that rise ten stories up and hundreds of yards in every other direction. Dozens of sharp, white, knife-like spires shoot above it all, nearly scratching the tip of the cavern roof. Three-dimensional, multi-faceted windows protrude at equidistant intervals along each wing, each glowing with a different color from within: green, or blue, or red. Unlike many of the windows in the Lower Realms, no bars protect the glass portals.

In front of us is a grandly overstated entrance, framed by a half-dozen black pillars, cut from what appears to be marble, shiny and lustrous under the shine of the brightest yellow evening lamps I’ve ever seen. Although the lights seek to illuminate anything and everything within their bounds, for us, who remain outside of their perimeter, they have the opposite effect, shrouding us under a healthy cloak of shadow.

The entranceway is a buzz of activity, as party invitees arrive in cars of shiny pink, purple, yellow, and every other bright color imaginable. Each car pulls up, the occupants exit the vehicle wearing the gaudiest clothing I’ve ever seen, and then a white-, or dark-, or brown-skinned servant gets into the driver’s seat and whisks the car away to some hidden storage lot. At least they don’t discriminate here. To be a servant the only requirement is being poor.

We watch for a while, me because I’m in awe of the strange world I find myself in, and Roc because he’s probably scoping things out to decide the best way to infiltrate the palace. Although my attention should be sufficiently held by the extravagance of the sun dwellers—there goes a woman wearing a hot-pink dress that resembles a wagging tongue, a curved flap rising high above her head and casting a soft gray shadow across her face; her shoes are blood red and have four-inch heels—I find myself thinking about Tristan’s revelation from earlier. People inhabiting the surface? A huge cover-up by the Nailin family, sans Tristan and his mother, who have vowed to tell the world? A giant-bubble-covered city where sun dwellers live and moon and star dwellers serve? If Tristan hadn’t looked so serious and scared the whole time he was telling us, I might’ve thought it was all a lot of exaggeration or even an outright lie. But I believe him, and now that the thought is in my head—e
arth dwellers
for goodness’ sake!—I can’t seem to eradicate it.

“We’ll head west through a servants’ entrance in the side,” Roc says, interrupting my thoughts.

“I’m right behind you,” I say, gawking at a man with a blue-capped, yellow-brimmed hat so tall it’s nearly knocked off by the ten-foot-high door frame.

Following Roc’s lead, I creep along the edge of the gardens, resisting the urge to stop to touch, smell, and feel the beautiful flowers and bushes that slip past with nearly every step. Another time, perhaps. We’re soon out of sight of the crowded entrance, as both the gardens and the buildings curve to the right.

“We have to cross the driveway to get over to the buildings,” Roc points out, “but it should be easy—there are always large gaps between the cars.”

So we wait for our opportunity. A gorgeous white car with gold trim slips past, rounds the bend, and disappears from view, its red and yellow rear lights the last to fade away. Our chance. We run, knees bent, shoulders hunched, arms flapping unnaturally at our sides. Across the lawn between the gardens and the drive, and onto the cobblestone road, which turns out to be at least twice as wide as it appeared to be from our shadowy vantage point.

When we’re almost halfway across, headlights hit us like a spotlight. There’s nowhere to hide; there’s no time to hide. For some odd reason I feel the instinct to freeze but know that makes no sense whatsoever. Stopping in the middle of the road—particularly when a two-ton vehicle is bearing down upon you—rarely makes sense. I charge ahead, get out of the light and off the road, turn to find Roc.

He’s standing in the middle of the road, his arm out, palm facing forward.
Halt!
his body language urges the car. I start to run back, prepare myself to tackle him out of the way before the car flattens him into human goo on the road, but then pull up when the car slows, slows, slows, and finally stops mere inches from Roc’s determined form.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

Roc’s head turns slowly, almost lazily, as if he’s in a daze. I guess watching a car roar toward you, wondering if it will stop will do that to a person. “We’ve already been seen. We have no choice. He’ll sound the alarm if we don’t stop him.”

By
him
he means the guy behind the wheel, one of the many servants responsible for parking the guests’ cars. Through the glass windshield is a perplexed man, with wrinkles on his forehead that are curled in much the same manner as his thin mustache. His hands are frozen on the steering wheel, his eyes focused on Roc for a moment, then me, then back to Roc. He’s confused, doesn’t know what’s happening, but will soon recognize one, or maybe even both of us—Roc from working in the same household with him and me from the telebox—and then he’ll run Roc over while simultaneously raising the alarm. Time to act.

I stride over to the passenger door, trying not to look threatening, open it. The whites of the guy’s eyes are huge and shiny against the dark interior of the car. “Who are you?” he says.

“A friend of the President’s,” I say. “We need to borrow your car.”

Without waiting for his response, I grab the top of the car and swing in feet first, slamming both heels into his jaw, rocking him back against the inside of his door, hearing a sickening crunch when his head hits the window. He slumps forward and for a frightening second or two, his forehead lays on the horn, blaring the loudest, most obnoxious sound across the palace grounds. I’m sprawled out awkwardly on the seat, my head and arms hanging out the door. But then Roc opens the other door and pulls him away from the wheel, stopping the ruckus.

“We were meant to take control of the vehicle quietly,” Roc says, pulling the guy out and muscling him into the back seat.

I pull myself into the seat, shutting the door behind me. “I didn’t think you were going to hijack one of the guest’s cars,” I fire back. “Do you even know how to drive one of these things?”

“Sure. We all had to learn so we could run errands around the city.” Easing the backdoor closed, he hops in beside me, the car lurching forward before his door is fully shut. “Don’t you have cars in the Moon Realm? I think I’ve seen them there.”

“Few people have them.”

We curl around the bend, across a wooden bridge, and onto a large cement slab. “Get down!” Roc cries.

I’m already ducking when he says it, having seen the danger up ahead. Dozens of servants, having parked cars, are walking across the lot, working their way back to the entrance to collect more cars. From my low position, I see Roc wave casually as he passes a few of them.

“Will they recognize you?” I whisper.

“It’s too dark in here. I probably just look like one of them,” he says.

“We can’t park it here. Someone will see the guy in the back.”