Marked (24 page)

FIVE MONKS, RED-ROBED AND HOODED, ASCEND THE STEPS OF
the palace. They trail the queen's personal guard, Captain Landalau Fahra. Each of the monks carries a jar of water, drawn from a sacred well, specially blessed for a king's coronation. The monks are solemnly welcomed. Quickly, they are ushered past soldiers and servants, through the throne room, up the grand stairs, and into the hallway outside the royal chambers. There, they are met by two dozen of the queen's most loyal guards, and by the doors, they wait to be announced and presented. All are impostors.

One is an old politician.

One is a rebellious pilot.

One is a grieving father.

One is an exiled prince.

And one—the last—has been many things. Street racer. Corporate circuit driver. Sixer heiress. Suspected terrorist. A girl who was once fearless, then frightened, and now . . . almost free. Inside the palace, she's nearly there.

Not Phoebe.

Not Phoenix.

Just me. Phee.

Behind the next set of doors, Prince Dakesh and Her Majesty are waiting for us, their ceremonial attendants. Along with their servants and advisors, and a couple of special guests—Prime Minister Prejean and, of course, Charles Benroyal. The great peace-maker. Castra's earnest, forgiving, ever tireless savior.

Or he was, forty-eight hours ago.

Fahra steps forward. His men open the doors. They announce us. On the threshold, we wait to be summoned in.

I scan the chamber. To my left, gauzy curtains sway in the breeze. Morning light shines through the transparent bulletproof barrier between the balcony and the screens and cameras and the teeming crowd. You can hear them—a hundred thousand subjects packed in the courtyards and streets below. A low-level hum, like steady crackle on a faraway feed. To my right, archways to other rooms. My eyes don't linger there. They're pulled straight ahead.

Before us, an empty cistern rests on a pedestal. It's
perched between us and the royal entourage. They stand opposite us, a wall made of splendor. Jeweled fingers and silken gowns and sharp suits shadowed by a few bodyguards and many, many more IP.

Dak—the preening, would-be king—sits in the middle of it all, trussed up in full regalia. He's brooding in his gaudy, gilt chair. His mother stands at his right, sober-eyed and subdued, draped in a dark shade of crimson. The look on the queen's face tells me this day's something to endure. My gaze slides over her, moving to the man on Dak's left.

Benroyal.

I look at him, then Prince Dak. Their expressions match. I guess news travels fast; looks like today doesn't taste as sweet as it should.

Impatient, Dak barks something in his own language, but it's obvious he's scorched that we're late for the party.
Hurry up,
he's probably cursing,
let's get through the formalities.
Fahra bows to him and steps aside.

We walk in. One by one, we empty our jars into the cistern. As the scent of balm leaf drifts from the splash, I suck in a breath to savor the fragrance. Holy water to anoint a king. We put the jars down and they ring the pedestal. After, we kneel before Dak's clumsy throne.

Cash rises first and pulls off his hood. “Hello, brother,” he says.

His smirk is sharp as a knife. It carves the glower from Dak's face, which pales, melting from shock into fear and then anger. Cash's eyes darken into something far more steely. He jerks his chin at Fahra. Cash's command comes low and steady. He's still weak, but he's not letting it show.

“Captain,” he says, tearing off his robes. “Clear the room.”

The whole room snaps. A few of Benroyal's men try to make a move, but the royal guard takes care of that quickly enough. In seconds, they've disarmed his personal detail and the scattering of IP soldiers. Fahra's done his job well—he packed the chamber with his most trusted sentry. Some in the entourage are shocked, like Prime Minister Prejean. Some are fussing, like Negendra, Dak's thick-necked foreign minister. Others struggle and fight, but it doesn't matter. All the extras, they get swept out of the room.

Finally, one of Fahra's men moves on Benroyal. I stop the guard before he can drag him out of the chamber. “Leave him here,” I say. “We're not finished with him yet.”

The guard obeys and forces King Charlie into a chair. I shrug out of my robe and reach behind me, where Benny's gift is tucked in my waistband.

“This is an outrage,” Dak says, springing up. “Treason! I will have you all—”

Cash rounds the cistern, and with one vicious, straining punch, he lays his brother out. Dak crumples. He scrambles to get back on his feet, but Cash grabs him by the collar before he's even halfway up.

“You want to talk about treason?” Cash snaps. He drags his brother to the bowl and forces him over it, toppling three of the empty jars around the well. They shatter against the floor. Dak trembles; his face hovers an inch over the surface of the water. “You want a coronation? This is as close as you get. I should pour it all out and drown you in our father's blood.”

“Cashoman!” his mother cries out.

Her voice is the only thing that reaches him. He growls. “She just saved your life,” Cash says to Dak, before tossing him to the floor. Disgusted, he turns away from his brother. “Get him out of my sight,” he tells Fahra. “I don't want to see him again, until we can call a tribunal.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the captain says. Dakesh kicks and spits and curses in Biseran as half a dozen sentry drag him from the room.

Under the shouting, there's a softer voice. I turn and catch the tail of Benroyal's words. “. . . Joanna. But of course, it's not too late to discuss your mother.”

In the space of a breath, I'm right up in his exhaust,
pistol raised. “Don't you say another rusting word about my mother, or I will end you right now.”

He smiles. “I could be persuaded to strike another deal. For—”

But then he stops. Looks behind me. Quiet-eyed, Toby Abasi limps another step closer. He touches my shoulder, peering down at Benroyal. “And what kind of deal have you to offer now?” he asks. “Now that the Spire is burning?”

King Charlie doesn't pale the way Dak did. His mask slips only an inch. Just one small twitch of the upper lip. “It's of no concern. Capitoline has always—”

Now it's Abasi's turn to smile. “You believe the Domestic Patrol will suppress the riots. How many officers have you there? Enough for the half million protesters lining the Mains?”

Benroyal tries again. “But of course, the Interstellar—”

Abasi pretends surprise. “Haven't you heard? The IP abandoned defense of the Exchange and the Chamber and Assembly houses. Revolutionaries have taken them all, and are commanding a good number of your men now. I expect to join them after we are finished here. You wanted peace, did you not?”

Benroyal's frozen. He can't bring himself to nod.

“Peace is coming, yes,” Abasi says. “But not silence. The
people have seen the truth. And it is too late to quiet them now.” Another knowing smile. Abasi pauses. “But I suppose you're probably thinking of the Strand, and your forces there. Ease your mind on that account, my friend. Your admirals have already sensed the shift in the wind. I hear they are set to offer terms of surrender to the Cyanese this very hour. And so I have to wonder, Mr. Benroyal . . . exactly what kind of deal are you offering now?”

Benroyal lifts his eyes to me. Rage is quietly blazing behind his crumbling grin. “My life for your mother's. I leave, of my own accord, and I'll let you—”

“She's being held in Cashoman's chambers,” the queen interrupts. “In the suite next to mine.”

Fahra makes the call. For a tense line of seconds, we watch him, his flex to his ear. Finally, after a minute or more, he turns to me. “We have her.”

Benroyal's last card. He knows it's been laid bare on the table. He opens his mouth and tries to stand, but I shove him back in his chair, pushing the unforgiving end of the pistol against his forehead. “Don't. Say. Another. Word,” I tell him.

I sense everyone closing in, but I shut out their pleading. I don't want to stay calm. I don't want to stop and think about this. “Stay back,” I snap. “Nobody move.” Then I slide the safety off and savor the warmth of the trigger.

Three shots left.

One for my father. One for Mary. The last one, for Bear.

Gods and stars, I see his face even now. I watch him drift away.

One pull of the trigger and it'll be over.

I take a deep breath and look into Benroyal's eyes. But there's something so astonishing and alien in them that it puts a shake in my grip. He is . . .
afraid.
The cold-sweat panic strikes me like a forgotten wave, and I see myself through Benroyal's twisted lens. I am the sneering monster of his propaganda. The stone-cold killer. The crazed, unstable girl they've made me out to be. I shoot, and he wins.

“Phee . . .” Hal says. “No. Not like this.”

I don't answer. I'm still locked on Benroyal.

I imagine lowering the gun and backing away. I fantasize about taking the high road. About letting King Charlie face whatever courts are left, back on Castra. But I'm not as disciplined as Cash. And my mother—my
real
mother, Mary—is not here to stop me. So I'll have to compromise, and steal a little justice for myself. Just for now. Just for one moment.

I look at Benroyal again. He's practically quaking now. I circle his chair. Behind him, I lean over his shoulder and hover at his ear. “You see, there's no need for a new deal . . .
I fear it's too late for that, and justice must prevail.
You will have to be dealt with.
In prison, you sap-sucking bastard.”

Safety on. Pistol whip to the back of the head. Lights out.

I win.

After Benroyal slumps forward, the tension breaks, and all the fury drains out of me. The guards haul him out and I'm left frozen, all shivers and chattering teeth. Cash takes a breath and finally relaxes, too exhausted for words. We embrace each other. He runs his hands down my shoulders, and I'm glad for the warmth. Hal hugs me. No more tears tonight. We've got nothing left.

As Hal backs away, Captain Fahra clears his throat. “Your Highness,” he says to Cash. “Perhaps it is time . . . ?”

Softly, Cash smiles at me. He straightens once more. “Are you ready for this?”

“Ready for what?” I say.

He turns toward the balcony. As Fahra's men pull back the curtains, there's a fresh wave of noise and expectant shouting. The people wait for a new king. I step back and try to let go of Cash's hand. “Go to them,” I say.

He shakes his head and gently reels me back in. “Together,” he says.

The guards part for us, and we step out and onto the
riser. For a moment, the light through the bulletproof glass is so blinding, I have to shield my eyes. Cash's face appears on the flex screens below. And that's when they realize he's not Dak at all. Finally, they recognize Cash. To them, he's larger than life. Stronger than the fiercest lion. A roar erupts, and the air trembles with their cries.

At first, their shouts are nothing but ecstatic clamor. But then, their voices knit together and thunder as one.

Ay-khan. Ay-khan banat bakar. Eb banat bakar.

I know these words. They're the same ones the people chanted when Cash last entered the city.

The Evening Star. He returns.

But this time, their prince—their all-but-anointed king—is lit up a thousand times brighter. Tears shine in his eyes like unfallen stars. He is here at last. He is theirs. He is home.

I lower my hand and lose myself in the rhythm of their joy. Cash turns to me. His arms reach out and he pulls me close. And when his lips find mine, I yield. Before the crowd, we share the sweetest, tenderest kiss. Finally, we break and I see my face on the screen, next to his. The people cheer more wildly than ever before. Soon, they begin a new chant.

Beharu. Beharu. Ay-khan. Beharu.

“What are they saying?” I ask Cash.

He shakes his head; he can't hear me.

I shout to be heard. “What are they saying?”

He laughs. “
Beharu.
You have a new name.”

“Behar-what? What does it mean?” I say.

“Never mind what it means. They love you.” He smiles, then kisses me again, then once more for good measure. “As do I.”

Laced tightly, we turn back to the crowd. We wave for a long time, and drink in their roar.