Legend Trilogy Boxed Set

  Does Anden know the truth of how my parents and Metias were killed? That their disloyalty cost them their lives? Does the Republic value me so much that they’re hesitant to execute me despite my recent crime and traitorous family ties? “How did you see me around the Drake campus?” I say. “I don’t remember hearing that you visited the university.”

  Anden cuts into a heart of palm on his plate. “Oh no. You wouldn’t have heard it.”

  I give him a quizzical frown. “Were you . . . a student at Drake while I was there?”

  Anden nods. “The administration kept my identity a secret. I was seventeen—a sophomore—when you came to Drake at twelve. We all heard a lot about you, obviously—and your antics.” He grins at that, and his eyes sparkle mischievously.

  The Elector’s son had been walking amongst the rest of us at Drake, and I didn’t even know it. My chest swells with pride at the thought of the Republic’s leader taking notice of me on campus. Then I shake my head, guilty for liking the attention. “Well, I hope not everything you heard was bad.”

  Anden reveals a dimple in his left cheek when he laughs. It’s a soothing sound. “No. Not everything.”

  Even I have to smile. “My grades were good, but I’m pretty sure my dean’s secretary is happy I won’t be haunting her office anymore.”

  “Miss Whitaker?” Anden shakes his head. For a moment he drops his formal façade, ignoring etiquette by slouching back in his chair and making a circular gesture with his fork. “I’d been called in to her office too, which was funny because she had no idea who I was. I’d gotten into trouble for switching out the heavy practice rifles in the gym for foam ones.”

  “That was you?” I exclaim. I remember that incident well. Freshman year, drill class. The foam rifles had looked so real. When the students had bent down in unison to pick up what they thought were heavy guns, they’d all yanked the foam ones up so hard that half the students toppled over backward from the force. The memory gets a real laugh out of me. “That was brilliant. The drill captain was so mad.”

  “Everyone needs to get in trouble at least once in college, right?” Anden smirks and drums his fingers against his champagne glass. “You always seemed to cause the most trouble, though. Didn’t you force one of your classes to evacuate?”

  “Yes. Republic History Three-oh-two.” I try to rub my neck in momentary embarrassment, but my shackles stop me. “The senior sitting next to me said I wouldn’t be able to hit the fire alarm lever with his training gun.”

  “Ah. I can see you’ve always made good choices.”

  “I was a junior. Still kind of immature, I admit,” I reply.

  “I disagree. All things considered, I’d say you were well beyond your years.” He smiles, and my cheeks turn pink again. “You have the poise of someone much older than fifteen. I was glad to finally meet you at the celebratory ball that night.”

  Am I really sitting here, eating dinner and reminiscing about good old Academy days with the Elector Primo? Surreal. I’m stunned by how easy it is to talk to him, this discussion of familiar things in a time when so much strangeness surrounds my life, a conversation where I can’t accidentally offend anyone with an offhand class-related remark.

  Then I remember why I’m really here. The food in my mouth turns to ash. This is all for Day. Resentment floods through me, even though I’m wrong for feeling it. Am I? I wonder if I’m really ready to murder someone for his sake.

  A soldier peeks through the chamber entrance. He salutes Anden, then clears his throat uncomfortably as he realizes that he must’ve cut the Elector off in the middle of our conversation. Anden gives him a good-natured smile and waves him in. “Sir, Senator Baruse Kamion wants a word with you,” the soldier says.

  “Tell the Senator I’m busy,” Anden replies. “I’ll contact him after my dinner.”

  “I’m afraid he insisted that you speak to him now. It’s about the, ah . . .” The soldier considers me, then hurries over to whisper in Anden’s ear. I still catch some of it, though. “The stadiums. He wants to give . . . message . . . should end your dinner right away.”

  Anden raises an eyebrow. “Is that what he said? Well. I’ll decide when my own dinner ends,” he says. “Deliver that message back to Senator Kamion whenever you see fit. Tell him that the next Senator to send me an impertinent message will answer to me directly.”

  The soldier salutes vigorously, his chest puffed out a little at the thought of delivering a message like this to a Senator. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  “What’s your name, soldier?” Anden asks before he can leave.

  “Lieutenant Felipe Garza, sir.”

  Anden smiles. “Thank you, Lieutenant Garza,” he says. “I will remember this favor.”

  The soldier tries to keep a straight face, but I can see pride in his eyes and the smile right below the surface. He bows to Anden. “Elector, you honor me. Thank you, sir.” Then he steps out.

  I observe the exchange with fascination. Razor had been right about one thing—there is definitely tension between the Senate and their new Elector. But Anden is no fool. He’s been in power for less than a week, and already he’s doing exactly what he should be: trying to cement the military’s loyalty to him. I wonder what else he’s doing to win their trust. The Republic army had been fiercely faithful to his father; in fact, that loyalty was probably what made the late Elector so powerful. Anden knows this, and he’s making his move as early as possible. The Senate’s complaints are useless against a military that backs Anden without question.

  But they don’t back Anden without question, I remind myself. There’s Razor, and his men. Traitors in the military’s ranks are moving into place.

  “So.” Anden delicately cuts another slice of pork. “You brought me all the way here to tell me that you helped a criminal escape?”

  For a moment there’s no sound except the clinking of Anden’s fork against his plate. Razor’s instructions echo in my mind—the things I need to say, the order I need to say them in. “No . . . I came here to tell you about an assassination plot against you.”

  Anden puts his fork down and holds two slender fingers up in the direction of the soldiers. “Leave us.”

  “Elector, sir,” one of them starts to say. “We’re not to leave you alone.”

  Anden pulls a gun from his belt (an elegant black model I’ve never seen before) and places it on the table next to his plate. “It’s all right, Captain,” he says. “I’ll be quite safe. Now, please, everyone. Leave us.”

  The woman Anden called Captain gestures to her soldiers, and they file silently from the room. Even the six guards standing next to me leave. I am alone in this chamber with the Elector himself, separated by twelve feet of cherrywood.

  Anden leans both of his elbows on the table and tents his fingers together. “You came here to warn me?”

  “I did.”

  “But I heard you were caught in Vegas. Why didn’t you turn yourself in?”

  “I was on my way here, to the capital. I wanted to get to Denver before turning myself in so I’d have a better chance of talking to you. I definitely wasn’t planning to be arrested by a random patrol in Vegas.”

  “And how did you get away from the Patriots?” Anden gives me a hesitant, skeptical look. “Where are they now? Surely they must be pursuing you.”

  I pause, lower my eyes, and clear my throat. “I hopped a Vegas-bound train the night I managed to get away.”

  Anden stays quiet for a moment, then puts down his fork and dabs his mouth. I’m not sure if he believes my escape story or not. “And what were their plans for you, if you hadn’t gotten away?”

  Keep it vague for now. “I don’t know all the details about what they had planned for me,” I reply. “But I do know they’re planning some sort of attack at one of your morale-boosting stops along the warfront, and that I was supposed to help them. Lamar, Westwick, and Burlington were places they mentioned. The Patriots have people in place too, Anden—people here in yo
ur inner circle.”

  I know I’m taking a risk by using his first name, but I’m trying to keep our new rapport going. Anden doesn’t seem to notice—he just leans over his plate and studies me. “How do you know this?” he says. “Do the Patriots realize you know? Is Day involved in all this too?”

  I shake my head. “I was never supposed to find out. I haven’t spoken to Day since I left.”

  “Would you say that you’re friends with him?”

  A bit of an odd question. Maybe he wants to find Day? “Yes,” I reply, trying not to distract myself with memories of Day’s hands entwined in my hair. “He has his reasons for staying—I have mine for leaving. But yes, I think so.”

  Anden nods his thanks. “You said there are people in my inner circle that I need to know about. Who?”

  I put my fork down and lean forward across the table. “There are two soldiers in your personal guard who are going to make an attempt.”

  Anden blanches. “My guards are carefully chosen for me. Very carefully.”

  “And who chooses them?” I cross my arms. My hair falls over one shoulder, and I can see the pearls gleaming from the corner of my eye. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. Investigate. Either I’m right, and you won’t be dead, or I’m wrong, and then I’ll be dead.”

  To my surprise, Anden gets out of his chair, straightens, and walks over to my end of the table. He sits in the chair next to mine and scoots it closer to me. I blink as he studies my face.

  “June.” His voice is so soft, barely above a whisper. “I want to trust you . . . and I want you to trust me.”

  He knows I’m hiding something. He can see through my deception, and he wants me to know it. Anden leans against the table and tucks his hands into his trouser pockets. “When my father died,” he begins, saying each word slowly and very quietly, as if he were treading dangerous waters, “I was completely alone. I sat at his bedside as he passed. Still, I’m grateful for it—I never had that chance with my mother. I know how it feels, June, being the only one left.”

  My throat tightens painfully. Win his trust. That’s my role, my sole reason for being here. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I whisper. “And about your mother.”

  Anden inclines his head, accepting my condolences. “My mother was the Senate’s Princeps. My father never once talked about her . . . but I’m glad they’re together now.”

  I’d heard rumors about the late Princeps. How she’d died of some autoimmune disease right after giving birth. Only the Elector can name a leader for the Senate—so there hasn’t been one in two decades, not since Anden’s mother died. I try to forget the comfort I’d felt while talking to him about Drake, but it’s harder to do than I thought. Think of Day. I remind myself how excited he’d been about the Patriots’ plan, and about a new Republic. “I’m glad your parents are at peace,” I say. “I do understand how it feels to lose loved ones.”

  Anden contemplates my words with two fingers pressed to his lips. His jaw looks tight and uncomfortable. He may have taken ownership of his role, but he’s still a boy, I realize. His father cut a fearsome figure, but Anden? He’s not strong enough to hold this country together by himself. Suddenly I’m reminded of the early nights after Metias’s murder, when I wept until the dark hours before dawn with my brother’s lifeless face burned into my thoughts. Does Anden have the same sleepless nights? What must it feel like to lose a father that you aren’t allowed to publicly mourn, however evil that father was? Did Anden love him?

  I wait as he watches me, my dinner long forgotten. After what feels like hours, Anden lowers his hands and sighs. “It’s no secret that he’d been ill for a long time. When you’ve been waiting for a loved one to die . . . for years . . .” He winces visibly here, allowing me to see very naked pain. “Well, I’m sure it is a different feeling from when that passing comes . . . unexpectedly.” He looks up at me right as he says the last word.

  I’m not sure whether he’s referring to my parents or to Metias—perhaps to both—but the way he says it leaves little doubt in my mind. He’s trying to say that he knows what happened to my family. And that he disapproves.

  “I know what your experience with assumptions is. Some people think I poisoned my father, so I could take his place.”

  It’s almost like he’s trying to talk to me in code. You’d once assumed that Day had killed your brother. That your parents’ deaths were accidents. But now you know the truth.

  “The people of the Republic assume that I’m their enemy. That I’m the same man my father was. That I don’t want this country to change. They think I’m an empty figurehead, a puppet who simply inherited a throne through my father’s will.” After a brief hesitation, he turns his eyes on me with an intensity that takes my breath away. “I’m not. But if I stay alone . . . if I remain the only one left, then I can’t change anything. If I stay alone, I am the same as my father.”

  No wonder he wanted to have this dinner with me. Something groundbreaking is stirring in Anden. And he needs me. He doesn’t have the people’s support, and he doesn’t have the Senate’s. He needs someone to win over the people for him. And the two people in the Republic with the most power over the people . . . are me and Day.

  The turn in this conversation confuses me. Anden isn’t—doesn’t seem to be—the man the Patriots described; a figurehead standing in the way of a glorious revolution. If he actually wants to win over the people, if Anden is telling the truth . . . why would the Patriots want him dead? Maybe I’m missing something. Maybe there’s something about Anden that Razor knows and that I don’t.

  “Can I trust you?” Anden says. His expression has changed into something earnest, with lifted eyebrows and widened eyes.

  I lift my chin and meet his gaze. Can I trust him? I’m not sure, but for now, I whisper the safe answer. “Yes.”

  Anden straightens and pushes away from the table. I can’t quite tell if he believes me. “We’ll keep this between us. I’ll tell my guards about your warning. I hope we find your pair of traitors.” Anden smiles at me, then tilts his head and smiles. “If we do find them, June, I’d like for us to talk again. We seem to have a lot in common.” His words make my cheeks burn.

  And that’s it. “Please, finish dinner at your leisure. My soldiers will bring you back to your cell quarters when you’re ready.”

  I murmur a quiet thanks. Anden turns away and heads out of the chamber as soldiers file back inside, the echoing clatter of their boots breaking the silence that had permeated this space only moments earlier. I turn my head down and pretend to pick at the rest of my food. There’s more to Anden than I’d first thought. Only now do I realize that my breath is coming out shorter than usual, and that my heart is racing. Can I trust Anden? Or do I trust Razor? I steady myself against the edge of the table. Whatever the truth is, I’ll have to play this all very carefully.

  * * *

  After dinner, instead of being taken to a typical prison cell, I’m delivered to a clean, luxurious apartment, a carpeted chamber with thick double doors and a large, soft bed. There are no windows. Aside from the bed, there’s no furniture in the room at all, nothing for me to pick up and turn into a weapon. The only decoration is the ever-present portrait of Anden, embedded into the plaster of one wall. I locate the security cam immediately—it’s right above the double doors, a small, subtle knob in the ceiling. A half-dozen guards stand ready outside.

  I doze fitfully throughout the night. Soldiers rotate shifts. Early in the morning a guard taps me awake. “So far, so good,” she whispers. “Remember who the enemy is.” Then she steps out of the chamber and a new guard replaces her.

  I dress silently in a warm velvet nightgown, my senses now on high alert, my hands shaking ever so slightly. The shackles on my wrists clank softly. I couldn’t have been sure before, but now I know that the Patriots are watching my every step. Razor’s soldiers are slowly getting into position and closing in. I might never see that guard again—but now I study the face o
f every soldier around me, wondering who is loyal, and who is a Patriot.

  ANOTHER DREAM.

  I’m up way too early on the morning of my eighth birthday. Light has just started filtering in through our windows, chasing away the navy and gray of a disappearing night. I sit up in bed and rub my eyes. A half-empty glass of water balances near the edge of the old night table. Our lone plant—an ivy that Eden dragged home from some junkyard—sits in the corner, vines snaking across the floor, searching for sun. John’s snoring loudly in his corner. His feet stick out from under a patched blanket and hang off the end of the cot. Eden’s nowhere to be seen; he’s probably with Mom.

  Usually if I wake up too early I can lie back down and think of something calming, like a bird or a lake, and eventually relax enough to snooze a little longer. But it’s no good today. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pull mismatched socks over my feet.

  The instant I step into the living room, I know something’s off. Mom lies asleep on the couch with Eden in her arms, the blanket pulled up to her shoulders. But Dad isn’t here. My eyes dart around the room. He just got back from the warfront last night, and he usually stays home for at least three or four days. It’s too soon for him to be gone.

  “Dad?” I whisper. Mom stirs a little and I fall silent again.

  Then I hear the faint sound of our screen door against wood. My eyes widen. I hurry over to the door and poke my head outside. A rush of cool air greets me. “Dad?” I whisper again.

  At first, no one’s there. Then I see his shape emerge from the shadows. Dad.

  I start running—I don’t care if the dirt and pavement scratch me through the threadbare fabric of my socks. The figure in the shadows walks a few more steps, then hears me and turns around. Now I see my father’s light brown hair and narrow, honey-colored eyes, that faint scruff on his chin, his tall frame, his effortlessly graceful stance. Mom always said he looked like he stepped right out of some old Mongolian fable. I break into a sprint.