Dreamfever (15 page)

If a queen she would become,

one of two things have begun:

a martyr's death to seal her ruse,

or lead to Death Dream Walker True.

Mirren read the parchment three times before balling it up in her fist and hurling it across the room. Then she stormed into the bathroom and yanked the pins out of her hair.

If a queen she would become …

“Absurd,” she muttered.

The pins fell into the sink.
Plink, plink, plink.

 … one of two things have begun …

“An absurd, appalling scare tactic dreamed up by
pathetic
control freaks.”

The last of the pins fell into the sink, and she briefly tried to brush her snarled hair before slamming down the brush so hard that the handle snapped off.

 … a martyr's death to seal her ruse …

“Who has ever heard of a clause in a scroll?” she shouted, stomping into the bedroom and kicking off her shoes. “
If
I try to become queen, then I'll either die a martyr—”

She grabbed at the zipper of her dress, catching it on the second try and yanking it to her shoulder blades, where it stuck.

 … or lead to Death Dream Walker True.

“Or what? Magically summon the True Dream Walker, and then kill him? It's
absurd
! It's a forgery! It's Aunt Collena trying to ensnare me again. If she can't control me physically, she'll control me mentally!”

Mirren jumped up and down, grabbing at the dress's zipper, which had stuck in the most awkward, unreachable spot. After cursing aloud at it, she gave up, ran back into the living room, and retrieved the ball of parchment from under the desk.

She knew it wasn't a forgery. She recognized the handwriting of the seer who had written it; his name was Freigh Vescomballetti, and she had studied a number of other scrolls he'd composed. Her aunt might have torn it from a scroll other than hers, but how many other people had tried to become queen
and
had scrolls written by Freigh? The odds were too high to seriously consider.

At the sound of a knock on the door, Mirren folded the parchment and hid it in her sleeve. Through the peephole, she saw Haley standing alone in the hallway.

“Something feels wrong,” he said when she opened the door. “I got worried.”

Mirren stepped back to let him inside.

“Will you unzip this?” she asked, turning her back to Haley.

“Um…” he said, and only then did she realize she was asking him to undress her.

“Please. I would rather be immodest than spend another minute in this taffeta tar pit.” She gained a small measure of relief when she felt the dress come loose around her. “I'm going to change.”

She went into the bedroom and closed the door partially. After removing the dress, she changed into the outfit
she'd
wanted to wear to the presentation: straight gray slacks and a white silk blouse with sheer sleeves. Feeling calmer, she fished the scrap of parchment out of the dress and stuck it in her pocket.

When she returned to the living room, Haley was examining the brooch. “The
Anna Karenina
jewels,” he said.

“Yes.” Mirren smiled faintly as she took the brooch from him. It was one of the jewelry pieces she and Katia had worn while acting out scenes from
Anna Karenina
.

She ran her thumb over the brooch's face. How many times had she pinned this brooch to a nightgown and had “afternoon tea” with Katia, both of them sticking their pinkies out as they raised their cups, discussing princes who didn't exist and—inexplicably—speaking in English accents? They had pretended to be princesses then. How cruel that the same brooch that had inspired so many royal fantasies was now being used to crush Mirren's royal ambitions.

Mirren held out her arms and Haley wrapped her up in his. She closed her eyes and just felt how alive and real he was—his body warm and moving, a field like energy rising off him to surround her. None of those tea party princes had ever been so real.

If she died, he would hurt. Maybe his heart wouldn't break to pieces, but it would at least ache. Mirren wondered if she had the right to risk his emotions that way. And Davita—Davita would be devastated. Mirren
knew
she didn't have the right to take chances with someone's feelings like that. And her cousin Katia—her heart's sister—would lose her only friend.

“What do you want to do?” Haley asked.

Truthfully, she wanted to spend the afternoon letting him hold her. But that wasn't the direction her life was pushing her.

“I want to tell the junta I'm here,” she said.

“Do you need to change?” Haley asked.

“No.” Mirren picked up the brooch from the coffee table and affixed it to her blouse. “This is what I'm wearing.”

*   *   *

Realizing that her bid for queen was likely a kamikaze mission filled Mirren with a strange fearlessness. She had to slow her stride as she entered the amphitheater in order to keep from barreling into Josh, who was walking in front of her. Will and Haley flanked her sides, with Whim and Deloise behind them, and Davita brought up the rear, all of them wearing hastily donned robes in various colors.

Sound rose in a flutter of whispers and then stopped short, silent as Mirren passed by. Whim's blog had posted the news of her return the day before, but even he hadn't expected it to be taken seriously. Mirren allowed herself to meet people's eyes as she passed, giving them a serene smile no matter how hostile their looks. Most of them, though, appeared curious rather than angry.

Except for one man who spit on the floor near Mirren's feet, causing those nearby to admonish him and Will to unsheathe his machete. Mirren just laughed as she sidestepped the wet spot and continued toward the stage.

I'm going to get killed doing this,
she told the man silently.
Your spittle does not frighten me.

The amphitheater stretched endlessly upward like a dovecote, with rows upon rows of balconies and mezzanines. At the bottom, the ocean of audience broke around a raised circular platform. Josh stepped to the side of the stairs leading to the platform, allowing Mirren to ascend alone.

The platform's polished wooden boards shimmered like gold. Mirren kept her chin up as she took a seat on a single ottoman placed before the junta's seven thrones, and she folded her hands loosely in her lap.

She recognized all seven members of the junta from her studies. Of course, identifying Peregrine Borgenicht was easy, even before he leapt out of his throne in a sparkling green robe. Mirren had looked at hundreds of photos of him, starting the day her uncle pointed Peregrine out as the man who had set fire to her parents' palace. She had memorized the jumble of oversize features that made up his face: the giant, rheumy eyes; the red ears with lobes like hanging fruit; the thick, perpetually wet lips—all of them mounted on an undersized, bald head.

He looks like he's going to do magic,
Mirren thought, taking in his sequined robe, and she had to stop herself from laughing. He was, after all, a dangerous man.

“Before we begin,” Peregrine said, giddy with excitement, “I want to clarify what you want us to call you. Should I call you Lady, or Princess, or Your Royal Highness?”

Mirren didn't flinch. “Miss will be fine.”

“Miss? That's odd. It is the understanding of this court,” Peregrine said, striding toward her, “that you are claiming to be Amyrischka Rousellario.”

“The court is misinformed.” Mirren locked her eyes on Peregrine's and ignored the surprised murmurs of the onlookers.

“Is it?” Peregrine asked.

“Yes. To say that I am claiming to be Amyrischka Rousellario implies that I am asserting something that may or may not be true. Since I am, in fact, Amyrischka Rousellario, and have already proven such with DNA, my claim has already been verified. Furthermore, since I am not a princess of any existing monarchy, the most appropriate form of address is
miss
.”

Be calm. Be polite. Be brief.

Davita's advice rang in Mirren's ears, but she couldn't follow it—not with the rage and the carelessness that were running through her veins.

“Well then,
Miss
Amyrischka, would you like to tell us why you're here?”

“To submit a proposal for a constitutional monarchy to the Accordance Conclave.”

Shocked rumbling came from the crowd. Even Peregrine's eyebrows darted up—for an instant.

“A noble intention. But why would you think the dream walkers would elect someone who has been convicted of abdication of duties, betrayal of moral duty, and treason?”

Peregrine moved continuously. Mirren would have thought he was pacing except his expression was one of exhilaration and not anxiety. He looked more like he was an actor making use of every inch of the stage.

“Because I was convicted,” Mirren said as amiably as she could, “in absentia, of crimes I supposedly committed as an infant.”

“You're still a criminal,” Peregrine replied curtly. “As of this moment, I am taking you back into custody in order to fulfill your original sentence.”

The crowd filled with voices, but Mirren—who had anticipated something similar—said, “Beheading, wasn't it?”

“Yes.” Peregrine's mouth twitched, and then he shuddered as if with repressed pleasure.

“Wait a moment,” one of the other junta ministers interjected. Mirren was pleased, but not surprised, to see that the speaker was a middle-aged, dark-skinned man with glasses. His name was Ithay Innay, and he was one of Mirren's favorite ministers of all time. Although his deep thoughtfulness sometimes led to indecision, the stands he took were well reasoned and rooted in compassion.

Minister Innay stood up from his throne and motioned the audience to quiet down. “We aren't going to impose a death sentence on someone whose convictions were clearly symbolic. At the very least, she should be retried.”

Peregrine smiled smugly. “I have no issue with that,” he said. “Let's put it on the books.”

Dammit,
Mirren thought.

He'd danced her right into a corner.

Having pending criminal charges would make Mirren ineligible to submit a proposal to the Accordance Conclave.

“No,” said Minister Speggra, a giant bearded man who looked like a cross between a biker and a Viking. Mirren held her breath despite her desire to appear calm; Speggra was one of the ministers Davita had anticipated would be against Mirren.

“We aren't going to waste time retrying her,” Minister Speggra declared. “She was an infant, for God's sake! If she weren't a Rousellario, we'd laugh at the idea of charging a baby with treason.”

As little as Mirren had been expecting Speggra to come to her aid, she got the feeling Peregrine had anticipated it even less. “But,” he began with an actual sputter, “we brought those charges to ensure that no one could reestablish the monarchy—”

“
You
brought those charges against her,” Speggra replied, “back when this council really was a fascist junta. I want a vote. All in favor of vacating the previous conviction against Amyrischka Rousellario, rise.”

Five judges rose from their seats while Peregrine scampered to sit back down in his.

I can't believe this,
Mirren thought.

“Then that's that,” Speggra said. He settled back into his throne; despite its size, the wood still creaked beneath him. “Ithay, tell them what we decided yesterday, when Peregrine conveniently failed to mention he was going to pull this stunt.”

Mirren had forgotten how much Speggra hated “malarkey.”

Minister Ithay rose.

“To clarify,” he said, “no one is doubting Miss Rousellario's identity. However, because she has no experience in our current form of government and has been raised in hiding, outside the bosom of the dream-walker community, she will be required to pass Agastoff's Trials before her proposal will be accepted.”

Agastoff's Trials,
Mirren repeated in her mind.
I should have thought of that.

Agastoff's Trials had been created to prove the worthiness of rulers who were either not of royal blood or only distantly related to royalty.

“For those of you who haven't read your dream-walker history, there are three trials. The first is the Learning, an exhaustive interview intended to test the knowledge of the applicant regarding our history, laws, culture, and traditions. The second is the Tempering. However, because no one has ever seen Miss Rousellario dream walking, we will instead ask her to prove her ability to dream walk by resolving three nightmares that the junta will select for her. The third is the Proving, a terrible task that will test the applicant's cleverness and loyalty. Miss Rousellario, do you accept Agastoff's Trials as a means for determining your worthiness?”

What could she say? Historically, she had little room for argument. Agastoff's Trials had been the accepted course for more than a thousand years. She could have argued over the modifications, but she wasn't certain she'd win.

Davita met her eyes from the crowd and shook her head.

Mirren knew that Davita would tell her to go on the defensive and demand to know what evidence they had that she wasn't loyal, well trained, and well educated. But Davita's main goal was to protect Mirren, even more than to see her succeed. She'd proven that an hour ago when she'd given Mirren the envelope from home. And what Mirren realized was that enough of this audience was against her that she needed to win their affection. If they needed to see her triumph over impossible odds, she'd show them that.

Or die a martyr trying.

“I agree,” Mirren said.