I laugh again. “No. At least not for me. It’s just strange, that’s all.”
“Okay.”
Silence ensues, as awkwardness palpably churns through the air, which is unusual for Tristan and me. I guess something has changed.
Thankfully, the top of the climb isn’t far off, the steps peaking at a small landing. I wave the light around to take in my surroundings. Curved rock walls rise maybe fifteen feet to a bare ceiling. The space is empty save for a thin gray ladder attached to one of the walls. At the top of the ladder: a circular metal porthole.
“Up and out?” I say, when Tristan steps beside me.
He grins and moves to the ladder, taking the lead. When he’s a few rungs up, I grab the third or fourth hold and begin to climb. Twelve steps later, we’re at the top and Tristan is running his hands along the underside of the portal. “I don’t see a latch,” he whispers.
“Just push on it,” I hiss.
Placing his hands palm side up in the center of the circle of metal, Tristan tries to force it upwards. It doesn’t budge.
“Maybe if we both push,” I say. “Move over.”
Obediently, Tristan shifts to one side, keeping one foot on the top rung while the other dangles precariously off the side. Pushing off with my legs, I squeeze myself beside him. I’m as close to him as I’ve ever been, as close as we were when Cole tackled us, saving us from death by arrow, as close as we were last night when he held me to sleep, so close that his breath tickles my neck. My scalp might not be buzzing, the tingles notably absent from my spine, but there definitely are feelings—and lots of them. No, nothing has changed. At least not as far as I’m concerned.
The look on Tristan’s face—blue eyes shining under the soft glow of the flashlight, lips parted slightly, eyebrows raised—tells me he’s feeling the same way. Here we are, on the Sun Realm’s doorstep, and maybe death’s too, and I’ve got the urge to kiss him.
I force back the impulse and say, “Ready?”
He blinks hard, as if snapping out of a daze, and notices my hands on the portal. He raises his arms and places his palms next to mine. “On three,” he says. “One, two…”
Right on three, I shove upwards with all my might, Tristan doing the same beside me, his arm muscles bulging as he strains against the barrier. The portal gives way, but doesn’t fly up, as I expected; rather, it pops up an inch and then meets a strange resistance that offers weak, but adequate defense against our entrance. “To the right, to the right,” Tristan says, grunting.
We shift our direction of force to the side and the disc skims along the floor, settling with the hole half-uncovered. Or half-covered, depending on who you ask.
But we still can’t see anything, because something is covering the hole. I reach up and touch it, finding the object to be fuzzy and soft. A carpet or—
“A rug,” I say.
Together we push on what is clearly a rug, and then fold it over the portal, revealing only gray darkness beyond. Poking my head up, I take in my surroundings, ready to clamber down the ladder at the first sign of trouble. Even without a flashlight, I have no problem seeing. It’s dark—clearly nighttime—but not like it gets in the Moon Realm. Night there is not so much darkness as it is the absence of light.
“I don’t see anyone,” I whisper to Tristan.
“Okay, let’s go in, but be careful,” he says. I nod. Square my jaw. Instinctively clutch my mother’s necklace. Ready myself.
When I pull myself into the room there’s a burst of glow filtered through a clear, glass window. I approach the window in awe, eating up the light with my eyes. It’s like no artificial light I’ve ever seen before—so real, so complete, so…
“Moon,” I murmur, no louder than a breath.
In the night sky—could it really be the sky?—so dark and blue-black and endless, there’s an orb of light, a perfect circle, casting light upon all under its watchful gaze. It’s perfect. Too perfect.
The pictures of the real moon I’d seen in old books at school made it appear friendly, full of winks and dimples and smirks and nods, but this version of the moon is sterile, staring, man-made. But I still love it.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Tristan says quietly.
My head jerks to the side where Tristan is now standing. “Amazing,” I say. “Have you always had a moon?”
“My father’s scientists developed the first artificial moonlight twenty-five years ago and hung it on the roof of subchapter one before we were born. But for a decade and a half every Sun Realm subchapter has had their own moon.”
And this remarkable technology hasn’t been shared with the other Realms? Of course not. I turn away from the selfish moon, my eyes searching the rest of the room. A table and chairs crowd the corner. The flat surface is made of something brown and knotted with circles and thin fibers. “Is that…wood?”
“Yes,” Tristan says. Another revelation. Since the moment I was born, my world’s been dominated by stone. Buying something made of wood costs a small fortune. A whole table? Impossible.
The flare of light comes just before the demanding voice:
“What the hell are you doing in here?!” the voice yells.
Chapter FourTristan
I’m momentarily blinded by the bright ceiling light. The effect is worsened due to the fact that I’ve been in the darkness of the Moon Realm for so long.
I blink the spots away and glance at Adele, who is opening and shutting her eyes and waving a hand in front of them. She’s probably never seen a light this bright, so adjusting will take her longer.
In front of me is a young guy, perhaps my age, perhaps a year younger or older depending on whether he looks his age. He’s wearing the seal of a sun dweller guardsman on his red sleeping tunic. His hair is disheveled and his face weary with sleep. His eyes are darting from me to Adele and back again. Over and over. “But that’s impossible. You’re…you’re…”
“Supposed to be in bed recovering from temporary insanity?” I finish for him. “Yeah, that was a lie my father told.”
“But she’s…”
“A wanted criminal. I know, but look, it’s not what you think,” I add, taking a step toward him, my hands extended peacefully.
“Tristan, I can’t see,” Adele says from behind me.
Still facing the young guard, I say, “Keep them closed and open them a little more every few seconds. What subchapter are we in?” I ask the guard.
He’s caught off guard by the simple question—because who wouldn’t know what subchapter they’re in?—and therefore, like most people, his natural inclination is to answer it. “Eighteen, but why…” This guy can’t seem to finish a sentence.
I take another step and suddenly he’s on the defensive, the tiredness in his eyes replaced with alertness; I can almost see the big red flashing lights going off in his brain. None of this makes sense to him, as it shouldn’t, and his instincts and training are about to kick in. Which makes him dangerous. And deadly. Despite his young age, I know how well trained my father’s guardsmen are.
He takes a step back toward the exit.
“We’re lost,” I lie. “I’m trying to bring my prisoner in, but I seem to have made a wrong turn. Do you know where the nearest Enforcer station is?”
Another step back. “I’ll just call my supervisor,” he says warily. I consider going for the gun lashed to my calf but think better of it; a gunshot would surely alert others to our presence.
I mirror his step, like we’re performing a ballroom dance together. “That’s not necessary. If you can just direct us to the Enforcers, we’ll be on our way. I’d hate to have to report your lack of assistance to my father,” I add in a last-ditch effort to force his cooperation.
His eyes widen and I think I’ve finally gotten through to him, but just as quickly they narrow and I know no amount of talking will save us now. My father’s probably told his guardsmen that I’m not thinking clearly, or some rubbish like that, and if they see me to apprehend me immed
iately.
Not today.
I spring into action, closing the gap between us in one second flat, ram my forearm into his cheekbone, and there’s a satisfying crunch of small shattered bones. But as I knew he would be, the guy is a professional, taking the blow like a champ and spinning away, rushing for the door. Strength in numbers is the guardsmen motto, and he knows if he raises the alarm, they’ll have us cornered.
Surging forward, I dive at his legs, tackle him to the floor, and he grunts as the breath rushes out of his lungs. His fingernails scrape the stone floor, his feet kick at my face, and he generally does everything in his power to get away from me, but I hold on fast, pulling him back to where I can silence him.
In an unexpected change in strategy, he thrusts his body back at me and deadly steel glints in the light—he’s pulled a knife from somewhere, his butt for all I know.
I release his legs and grab his wrist, stopping the knifepoint less than a foot from my throat. I’m the son of the President and yet he’s striking to kill. Is my father’s order to kill me on sight? As I stare at the razor-sharp tip of the knife, my mind whirls with anger. How dare he? I’m his son for God’s sake! But then I remember: My order is to kill him too. Maybe the world is in alignment after all. A father/son grudge match. Brought to you by the politics of the Tri-Realms.
I let the warm flow of anger course through my muscles, strengthening me beyond my own power. I twist his arm hard and he cries out, dropping the knife as his wrist snaps. He’s howling in pain but no one comes to help him. Either they’re impressively deep sleepers or he’s manning this guard station alone.
The fierce hot fury toward my father, toward this young (stupid!) guard, toward my heritage—the Sun Realm—swarms all over me like a horde of angry bees, looking for something—anything!—to sting, to prick, to ravage. To kill. KILL!
I have an out-of-body experience.
My soul rises above my clenched body, as if I’m trying to remove myself from the muck of human violence, and I watch, watch—
—as, in one swift motion, I snatch up the knife and jam it into the guardsman’s chest with the force of a wild beast, my eyes bulging, my teeth snapping, my grip like iron on the handle. He’s not crying out anymore, just wheezing with sharp gasps, sucking at the air as if it’s some magic potion that can save him from the death wound my body has already inflicted. And it is my body, acting of its own volition, that’s done it, that’s killed this boy—for that’s what he is: just a teenager.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself, as I hover above the blood that’s creating a crimson pool on the floor. It wasn’t me! Not really, I reason with myself. I’m up here and he’s down there.
My argument is crushed to rock dust as my mind, my soul, my heart swoop down and back into my heaving body, so close to the boy’s blood I taste it on my tongue. Horrified, I push with the bottom of my feet, scrabble backwards, doing everything in my power to distance myself from the smell of death.
“Tristan,” Adele says, and I jerk my head back, my lips mangled and creased. I duck my head, not wanting her to see me like this, the animal I’ve become.
“I heard noises. What happened?” she asks and I really look at her for the first time. She’s squinting, her green pupils a thin line through her slitted eyes and long, feathery eyelashes.
And with that one question, I’m back. The level-headed, instinct-driven Tristan who doesn’t make mistakes. “We have to go,” I say. “There’s not a minute to spare.”
I don’t want her to see the guy, to see the truth of what I’ve done—although somewhere in the back of my mind I know she’ll understand—so I guide her to the hole in the floor without turning on the light.
“Are your feet on the ladder?” I ask.
“Yes, but Tristan, please, what’s going on? What happened?” she asks.
“I killed him,” I blurt out.
Adele’s face is unreadable as she squints up at me. Silence. She hates me. She thinks I’m a monster. I’ve lost her. “You did what you had to do,” she says. “He would have raised the alarm.”
I know she’s right. “Go,” I say. “Get the others. We’re entering subchapter eighteen.” I begin to move back into the room, but Adele grabs my arm.
“I won’t tell them,” she says.
I nod. “Thanks,” I reply, and then she’s gone, clambering down the ladder three times as fast as we climbed them. Her feet slap the rock steps, each footfall more distant than the one before it.
There’s no time to lose. Trying not to look at the guy’s eyes, which remain open in an eternal stare, I drag him by his feet to the corner, use an old military tarp to cover his bloodstained form. There’s an iron-gray sink and a brown towel against one of the walls, which I use to mop up most of the bloodstains before they set too deep into the valleys between the stone floor tiles.
I stuff the soiled towel beneath the tarp before turning off the light.
In darkness once more, I wait with my thoughts and regret.
The red-hot fire is gone.
I am stricken with sorrow. I clench my hands together to stop them from shaking. He was going to kill me. He was going to raise the alarm. All my friends would have been killed. Adele would have been killed. Like Adele said, I did what I had to do.
Thankfully, the others arrive quickly, saving me from myself. The flashlight beam comes first, and then the flashlight, gripped by Adele’s pale fingers. By the time her head pops up, I’ve shaken off my dark thoughts and I’m all business. As the others climb through the gap, heads bobbing around the room, I say, “The moon’s bright enough that we won’t need our flashlights, and they’ll only draw attention to us anyway.” Like Adele, Tawni and Trevor gaze out the window at the false moon, like they’re seeing the real thing for the first time. Now that would be something worth getting excited over—the real thing.
Roc, who has seen many artificial moons in his day, moves to my side. “What are we doing? What is this place?”
“A royal guardhouse,” I say, my eyes darting to Adele, who’s watching Tawni and Trevor.
“What?” Roc says, his face as flat as cardboard.
“I don’t think anyone’s here though,” I say. Not anymore, I think, my eyes naturally resting on the rumpled tarp with the human-sized bump in the corner.
Ram’s by the door, beckoning to the rest of us with his eyes, his impatience thinly veiled. “This is no sightseeing mission,” he growls.
“Let’s go,” I agree.
The guard station is really a small tower, only large enough for a couple of guards, even during the day—and apparently one guard at night. We’re on the first floor, so exiting is as easy as leaving the room, locating an outer door in a semicircle hallway, and pushing into the cool air.
Unlike the stagnant air in the Lower Realms, a gentle breeze wafts through the subchapter; another one of the luxuries developed by my father’s engineers and reserved solely for the use of the Sun Realm. Although the taste of privilege became bitter to my mouth long ago, I prefer it to the coppery tang of death that sits on the back of my tongue like a frog on a stone.
The city is sleeping and I wonder why. Typically sun dweller cities are alive late into the night, as the citizens try to get the most enjoyment out of each and every day. “It’s quiet,” I murmur.
Roc’s frowning. “Doesn’t make sense,” he says. “Maybe because of the war?”
I shake my head. “I doubt a little thing like a war would stop these people. They probably think the whole thing will be fought in the Moon Realm.” And they’re probably right, I think darkly.
“Wait—what day is it?” Roc says.
“I have no clue. Why?”
Roc’s counting with his fingers, trying to figure out the damn day of the month. For what purpose? I wait to find out.
“Oh, God,” Roc says finally, his eyebrows narrowed. “It’s the eve of the Sun Festival.”
What? “But that’s not for weeks,” I say.
/> “Yeah, when we left the Sun Realm weeks ago it was,” Roc says. “Now, it’s tomorrow.”
“Surely it’ll be cancelled,” Adele says. “They do know a war’s on, right?”
“No way,” I say. “Maybe some other year, but not this one. This is the big one.”
“Celebrating five hundred years since Year One,” Roc agrees.
“My father will use the day to reinforce how lucky we all are, try to garner support for ending the war peacefully.”
“Yeah, he’ll be talking peace while bombing the bejesus out of the Moon Realm,” Ram adds.
“Probably,” I say.
“So that’s why everyone’s inside? Because of the Festival?” Tawni asks.
“Absolutely,” I say. “This is the event of the year for these people. You’ve seen it on the telebox before, right?”
Adele and Tawni nod. “Sure,” Adele says. “Everyone watches it.”
“Well, what you don’t see is how everyone goes to bed early the night before, so they are well-rested for the forty-eight-hour party that starts the next morning.”
“So the Sun Realm’s going to be swarming with people for the next two days,” Roc adds. “Our timing couldn’t be worse. It’s the calm before the cave-in.”
“Shit,” Ram says. I look at the faces around me, their lips pursed, their expressions grim.
“Why wouldn’t my mom have told us?” Adele asks, practically pulling the question right out of my mouth.
Trevor sighs. “She did. She told me.”
Adele’s head snaps to face Trevor. “What?” A flash of pink appears on her cheeks and her fists tighten at her sides.
“She told me,” he repeats. “She thought the Festival would likely be cancelled, but she told me just in case it wasn’t—so we’d have a contingency plan.”
“Why didn’t she just tell all of us?” I ask, still not understanding all the secrecy.
“She didn’t want to worry everyone about something that probably wouldn’t matter,” Trevor explains.
No one speaks for a moment as we ponder his statement. Finally, I ask, “What’s the contingency plan?”