Elected (The Elected Series Book 1) (19 page)

25

I see Tomlin first, his back to us
, one hand on his hip, the other on his forehead. Then I see five guards. They’re crowded around Tomlin. For a second I have a sickening feeling they’re arresting my tutor. My friend. This is the second time now I’ve been worried for him. I want to reach out and pull him away from the guards. I’m about to do so, with one arm already outstretched to him, when I see the guards surrounding someone else. Someone else has his hands tied behind his back in thick ropes. Someone else is the prisoner.

And before I can actually see who it is, Griffin pushes past me into the room.

“Apa!” he exclaims.

Vienne puts a hand to her mouth, suppressing a gasp. I don’t speak, but I watch as Griffin pulls the guards apart so he can get to Maran. Whatever Maran has done, I’m suddenly worried Griffin will do something now to defend his father and throw himself in harm’s way. That he’ll attack the guards to get his father free.

But he doesn’t. Once in front of his father, Griffin closes in, standing with his face mere centimeters away from his father. He growls much like his father’s voice sounded when speaking to me in the stable less than an hour ago.

“How could you?” Griffin asks. “You promised me you’d stop after the town hall attempt!”

Maran gives a harsh, guttural laugh. “You would protect this weakling? This one who will pull our country down into the mud? I step up for righteousness. I take action to give us a future.”

I walk up close to Griffin and Maran. The guards stand by to protect me, even though Maran’s hands are sufficiently bound.

“Maran, you were the assassin?” My voice is tight.

“I’m surprised you didn’t figure it out in the stable today,” he says, expelling his words so spittle lands on my cheek.

I wipe it off roughly. “No, I would never have guessed that about you, no matter what your opinions. You’ve worked loyally for my parents for years. And this whole time you’ve been plotting against us?”

He guffaws. “Plotting
for
this country. I thought the assassination attempts would confuse you into blaming Mid Country. Then you’d have at least begun building defenses and using technology again. But no, still you did nothing. You protect your precious Accords, but you do nothing to propel your people to greatness. You would rather uphold an outdated policy than begin building again—begin creation of technology that will let your people survive. That will let your people procreate safely. Griffin’s mother could have been saved! We could be years ahead of the other countries if your family just let us build unfettered. East Country could take back the entire continent, if you’d only let it!”

My voice is thick as I respond to him, wanting everyone in the room to hear my side. My reasons. “This is exactly why the Accords must be upheld. You talk like you’ve walked straight out of the twenty-first century. When countries competed to see who could build the bigger weapons. Machines that caused our eventual destruction. You would send us straight back to a time when pollution, oil consumption, war, and greed caused the collapse of our environment. My goal is not to rise up against Mid and West Countries so East Country can rule the continent. My goal is for East Country to live in peace. In isolation. You are in the minority, Maran. You alone want these things for us. Even the Technology Faction doesn’t wish for what you do.”

He laughs, a high pitched, crazy hoot. “They are weaklings too! I go to them, angry at you, ready to make a real attempt right this instant with their help, and what do they do? Instead of banding behind me, giving me the recognition and help I deserve, they turn me in. They lead me straight into the hands of the guards.”

“Enough!” yells Griffin. “You do not speak to the Elected like this! Apa, I stood by you. I didn’t turn you in when I found out you were the assassin. Because you got down on your knees to me. Promised no other attempts would be made. Said you’d made a mistake. But you were lying! I came here to be the Electeds’ bodyguard, to specifically guard them against you. To make doubly sure you would cause them no harm. And you try again? Damn you to hell!”

He stares down at his father with such hate in his eyes I fear it will eat him from the inside out. That this hate will come back to haunt him later when he remembers his dead father. I must diffuse this, if only for Griffin’s sake.

“Maran,” I say. “You know what you’ve done. You’ll be sentenced to the prison. This is your last chance to speak to your son. Do you have any last words for him?”

I hope what he will say will be kind. That it will be enough for Griffin to remember his father with at least some good thoughts in the years to come.

Maran is checked by this, at least somewhat. “Griffin, I always kept you in mind. I was always thinking of your future. Your family. Your future sons and daughters. You may not realize it now, but one day you’ll know I was right. You’ll look back upon this moment and know East Country needed to build technology again. To guard itself against intruders. I only hope it isn’t too late—that you realize all this while there’s still time to take action.”

He leans forward to kiss Griffin’s cheek. Griffin deftly moves out of the way, avoiding his father’s touch.

Maran looks at Griffin with a crooked smile. “I understand, Son. I know why you guard the Elected. It wasn’t just a way to protect them from me. There is more. But you are wrong to be so infatuated with them. They’ll cross you. Leave you desolate. I, alone, love you. I did all this for you.”

Griffin refuses to meet his father’s eyes, but I see his eyes welling. He struggles to hold back. Vienne walks forward and puts an arm around Griffin. He doesn’t shake off this embrace.

“Take him away now.” Griffin gestures at the other guards.

Tomlin nods to them in agreement, and they take Maran by the arms, leading him out of the room.

I look at Vienne. She knows now is not a good time to tell our news. We both turn to look at Griffin. He’s fallen onto the big couch by the unused fireplace and stares blankly ahead.

Tomlin puts one hand on Griffin’s shoulder. Then he glances toward me and Vienne, and without speaking, takes his leave.

I sit across from Griffin, but Vienne is the first to talk, “I’m sorry, Griffin. So sorry.”

He just nods, eyes still glazed and unblinking.

Then he turns to look at me. “I knew, and I didn’t tell you.”

“Now I understand why you couldn’t tell me. Why you didn’t turn in your own father.” I speak softly, trying to convey the depth of my feeling. I can understand a relationship with one’s parents is complicated. That we have such a short time with them as it is.

But he shakes his head at me. “I’m an accomplice because I didn’t give you his name. You have every right to put me in prison too.”

At one time this is what I would’ve wanted. But now it’s different. I care for this man. He’s fathering my child. I couldn’t sentence him now.

Vienne breaks in, picking up on all of this too. “Never, Griffin. We would never.”

“And your father is wrong,” I say. “We won’t forsake you. Vienne and I will stand with you to our dying breaths. We’re a team now.”

“I wanted to keep you safe,” he says. “I thought my father was telling me the truth. That he gave up the idea of assassinating you. That his views weren’t quite so strong after all. But I was wrong. He was still a threat.”

“He will no longer be a threat,” says Vienne. “But we still want you to guard us. To stay here with us.” She looks over at me for confirmation. “Isn’t that right, Aloy?”

“Right,” I say.

We leave the room, Griffin and Vienne going together to tell Griffin’s stepmother, Brinn, what happened. I stay behind in the house, thinking about what it will be like to preside over Maran’s suicide. Griffin might be upset with his father, but Maran will always be his Apa. And no matter what, I’m afraid Griffin will hold the fact I presided over Maran’s death against me. I will always be his father’s killer. It all feels like a seam slowly ripping, the threads starting to tug in opposite directions.

As custom dictates with a violent offense, I will preside over Maran’s assisted suicide this same day. So I only have a few excruciating hours to think about it before walking over to the prison.

I leave the White House, worry over the “bump” on my head now far in the past. No one frets as I leave through the front door. A set of guards come with me, but now that the assassin is found, they are more relaxed.

I wander through the town, not knowing where I’m heading, nodding at the townspeople who smile at me. I think about the fact I’ll soon be a parent. That Vienne will be the best mother ever to bear a child. That I will make sure Vienne has the utmost in medical care we have to offer. That I’ll have the purple pills ready if she shows the slightest sign of needing one.

I make my way to the edge of the town and realize where I’ve been going the whole time. It’s the graveyard. The plot is located behind a short iron gate that’s always left open. I step through it and find the specific stones I’ve yet to visit. They are side by side and bear the names Claraleese and Soyor. The given names of my parents.

I sit down in front of them and notice my guards have made themselves scarce, standing at the entrance to the graveyard with their backs to me.

Even though my parents technically left, didn’t die, our custom is to forge gravestones for them anyway. As far as East Country is concerned, they are dead.

I touch the hard stones and start talking to them. “Ama and Apa, I know you’re still alive. I know it in my soul. But your being gone hurts just like you’re dead. I miss you so much. The things I’ve done, you wouldn’t believe. In just a few hours I have to put Maran to death. How can I do it? How can I watch him suffer? How can I watch any of our people suffer?”

I look to my left and see a small boy talking to a grave a few hundred yards away from me. Every now and then he waits, listening for a response. Then he laughs out loud like his dead companion just said something funny.

I turn back to the stones signifying my parents.

“Vienne is having a baby, Ama. We’ve done it. We figured it out. Thing is, it’s not really my baby. But I’ll treat him or her like she is. And I’m not even hoping for a boy. I’ll be happy with either. I don’t think it’s right only boys can rule. Vienne would do a fine job, even if she’s focusing on getting pregnant.”

I’m rambling. Telling my parents everything in my head. Spilling my thoughts out like sand coursing through fingers. I gush about my feelings for Vienne. And my feelings for Griffin. How I love and want to protect one. And how I long to kiss the other. I wonder what Maran would think if he knew Griffin were to be the father of the next Elected. I stay bent over my parents’ graves, continuing to talk, even as my calves begin to scream. As the sun begins to set, I know it’s time to say goodbye to my parents and head over to the prison. I stare at their fake gravestones and then turn, not looking back.

Once outside the Old Executive Office Building, I walk up the old steps like it’s my own execution. I keep my head down as I pass by the guards in the lobby. They don’t say anything as I make my way through the narrow corridor and am led to Maran’s door. I stand outside of it for a few seconds, longer than normal, trying to take a last, deep breath before going inside. I glance at the guard to my side, say thank you, and turn the door handle.

My side of the room is set up as usual, with one wooden bench facing the glass. I peer in to see Maran standing on his side of the clear wall, palms planted against the glass, waiting for me. He bangs on the armor glass as he sees me. I’m sure he’s hitting it hard, but I don’t hear anything. I see his lips moving, but I can’t hear his words. My room is bizarrely quiet in contrast, almost church-like in its reverence to the scene unfolding.

From the door off of Maran’s side, a guard brings in a small crystal glass filled with the clear liquid. He sets it down on the floor and then quickly exits again as Maran starts to rush at him. Maran looks at the glass and then laughs, banging on our separation again, clearly trying to get my attention. He opens his mouth wide and gives a primal yell, although I still can’t hear a sound.

I see him move sideways and swiftly kick the crystal cup. It launches across the room, shattering on the armor glass in tiny pieces. I’m startled, jumping backward off my small, wood bench. I watch as the hemlock streams over the floor in stripes and Maran steps on the liquid, scattering the droplets with the sole of his boot.

In the assisted suicides I witnessed, I’ve yet to see someone refuse the drink. I know the mechanics of the following custom, though. As if I could predict the script in a play, I watch the next scene commence. This time, two guards walk into Maran’s room. They bring him a second glass full of hemlock. They set it down on the floor and exit again.

Maran looks at the second cup and gives another yell. This time he must also let out a high-pitched laugh because the octave of his voice does resonate slightly through the glass. He beats against the material, and I think of my father’s reassurances weeks ago—armor glass won’t break.

Maran picks up the cup, and I think this time will be it. He’ll drink it down, and this gruesome episode will be finished. I take a deep breath.

But instead of lifting the cup to his lips, Maran smashes it down against the ground. It breaks, not into a hundred small shards, as it did on the armor glass, but into three sharp pieces. Maran picks up the largest shard and presses it to his arm. I think maybe he’s choosing his own method of dying. Perhaps he means to take his life by cutting into a vein instead of drinking the poison. This too will be gruesome, but I hope it’ll happen quickly. That it will not, in fact, cause him too much pain.

Maran doesn’t cut into his wrist, though. I watch with wide eyes as he draws blood from his arm, slicing the glass through the skin from the inside of his elbow down his arm. He lets the blood bubble up for a minute and then sticks a finger into the long wound. He draws his pointer finger out again and wipes his own blood on the armor glass.

I don’t understand what he means to do, but soon his intentions are clear. He’s writing a word on the glass, so he’ll be able to communicate one final message to me.