Marked (9 page)

I'm not laughing anymore.

The suit touches the panel again. Makes an adjustment. The prisoner hisses. I'm sure it's him and I know that it's not, and I'm certain I'll break if either is true. Stretched between horror and wishful thinking, I strain to get a better look. I shudder when his hand jerks up, struggling against the cuff of his wrist restraint. His fingers stretch and he reaches out, as if to me.

I can't see his face. I need to see his face.

Shaking, I try to stand, but Fahra's hand falls on my shoulder. “Watch,” he commands.

I obey, because I cannot look away now. The suit leans over the prisoner again. “Who are your contacts in Manjor?” he barks. “Give us a list, and I'll stop. One name and I'll turn down the pain.”

Another breath, but still no answer. The prisoner strains to make a fist.

I'm desperate to leap forward, but I'm rooted to the chair. My mouth dries up and suddenly, I'm shaking, gasping for breath.

“Stop it,” I beg, teeth clacking.

The ambient hum intensifies. The prisoner screams, breaking at last. Tears stream down my cheeks. I need this to stop as much as I need it to be true.

Behind me, the queen falters. A breath catches in her throat.

“That's enough.” In the virtual stream, a voice commands the man through a speaker on the cell wall. “No more for today.”

The suit complies, tapping a flex and putting it back in his pocket. Roughly, he pulls the electrodes from the prisoner's body, then, in a blur of movement, walks around the table. The prisoner's lying still, his head lolling, but his interrogator grabs a fistful of hair at his crown. He pulls hard, until we finally see the prisoner's face. “Smile at the camera, inmate four-oh-three,” he says. His tone's laced with a mix of boredom and cruelty. “Smile, and say hi to Mommy.”

Silent, Cash refuses.

His eyes aren't defiant. They are empty.

QUEEN NAPOOR SHUTS DOWN THE VIRTUAL FEED, AND WE'RE
plunged back into the present. The room spins like a sideswiped rig, and when I move to stand, my legs fail me. “I'm going to be sick,” I manage to spit out.

Fahra reaches out, and I lean on him. He guides me into a side room, a royal lounge complete with a water fountain, mirror, and sink. The captain won't leave, but I'm too far gone to care. After heaving everything up, I rinse and splash my face and stare in the mirror. The cold sweat, the nausea, the thrum in my chest—it's all gone.

“Take me to Miyu,” I say to Fahra.

He does as I ask.

Turns out I shouldn't have worried. Miyu was being held in the next room all along. And by “being held,” I
mean showing off and trading defensive moves with three royal guards who are probably supposed to be babysitting her. When we walk in, she and the soldiers are debating (and demonstrating) the virtues of open-handed versus closed-fist strikes. They see us and freeze; it's as if we've busted up a party.

“So I guess it's safe to say you're all right.”

Miyu crosses the room and stares at me, as if checking for damage. Not sure I pass inspection; her look's a little uncertain. “And you?” she asks.

“I'm fine.” I turn on Captain Fahra. “Despite getting black-bagged.”

“My apologies,” he says. “We weren't yet certain if you could be trusted.”

“And now?” I say.

He bows. “I should not have doubted.”

I nod, and turn on Miyu. “I saw him.”

“Saw who?”

“Benroyal has him. He's . . . Cash is alive.” I'm too shaken to elaborate, and Miyu doesn't get much time to react.

She opens her mouth, but Fahra interrupts.

“Please follow me,” he says.

We trail him to the queen's sitting room.

At Her Majesty's command, Miyu and I take a seat. I must still look pretty wrung out, because Fahra hands me
the medicine-soaked cloth. This time, I'm more than happy to take it. A few deep breaths and my head starts to clear.

“I was right to bring you here. You do care for my son.”

“Very much,” I say.

There's a quiet beat, and as she studies my answer, I know the soft shine in her eyes is the closest thing to an apology I will ever get. But it doesn't really matter. We both know why we're here. No need to work at cross-purposes, as Miyu would say.

She takes a deep breath. “What you saw was a recording one of Benroyal's couriers delivered to me, at the palace in Belaram, three days ago. Captain Fahra tells me an analysis of the feed's . . . What did you call it?” She turns on him.

“Metadata?” Miyu volunteers.

Fahra nods.

“Yes, that's it,” the queen adds. “It indicates the feed was recorded nine days ago.”

My throat is thick and tight. “So he's still alive.”

Her Majesty frowns. “At the very least, he was alive a week ago. It all depends on how much one relies upon Benroyal's word.”

“He has Cash.” I'm on the edge of my seat now. “Where is he holding him? How soon can we get there?”

“Good questions. I, Captain Fahra, and what few loyal palace guard remain, have tried in vain to answer them.”

“If the feed's metadata tells you when it was taken, why not track its location as well?” Miyu asks.

“The location was scrubbed from the file before it arrived,” Fahra answers.

“I see.” Miyu perks up. “Benroyal wants you to know
when
the feed was shot, but not where.”

“Precisely,” the queen replies.

I stand up. The movement leaves me prickly-headed as the blood rushes to my brain. I speak through the fog. “There has to be a way to find him. We have to track him down, and you have to—”

“I have to watch my every move,” the queen answers sharply. “My firstborn trusts no one, least of all me. I cannot so much as leave the palace without Dakesh's permission.”

“But you're still the queen. That has to mean something. Don't tell me you don't have some influence left. You're not going to even try to help him?”

When the hard line of her mouth softens, it's like watching a last battalion fall. “I
am
trying to help him. Why do you suppose I brought you here? I have done everything. My spies, my servants, my guards, every lead and remaining connection . . . I have exploited them all, to no avail. And if Dakesh catches one whiff of betrayal, not only will he have my head, but he'll have Cashoman's. Why do you think Benroyal sent this to me in the first place? For sun's
sake, they want me to know his life's at stake. Message received. I will not risk it.”

“You stay silent and out of the way,” Miyu says. “So your subjects believe all is well and continue to submit to Dakesh while Benroyal pulls the strings.”

The queen pauses, bottling up a sigh. The frustration blazing in her eyes . . . She is so like Cash. “It's the bargain I've been forced to make. If my Cashoman is to have any hope at all, I cannot break my contract with Benroyal. It's the only thing protecting his life. I had no choice but to sign it.”

And there it is. In one breath, she's laid it out—the thread that's drawn us together and forced us here, our backs against the wall. I know something of bargains and contracts. I've seen enough of Benroyal's to calculate the no-win exchange. “So you need my help.”

She nods.

The press of unshed tears aches in my jaw. I can barely get the words out, but I force myself to straighten. “I will find him, Your Majesty. I will bring him home. I swear it.”

“Whatever we can do to help,” Miyu offers. “You have our word.” It's an unexpected vow, and I am more than grateful for it.

But Her Majesty shakes her head, as if our promises carry no more weight than Benroyal's. “There's been no trace of him anywhere, not here or on Castra. Not even a
whisper of gossip, as we'd expect from our usual sources. We can't find him at all.”

“My uncle said as much,” I say.

“Pardon?” The queen raises an eyebrow.

“My uncle. James Anderssen.”

“I'm aware of who your uncle is. But I was under the impression that he was . . . dead.”

Miyu shoots a warning glance, but I catch the mistake too late. I'm sure James is going to love that I just blew his cover. I think very hard about my next few words. “He left me plenty of intel and resources.”

Her Majesty doesn't ask me to elaborate. “As you will. I have secrets of my own; I've no qualms with you keeping yours. All I ask is that you use those resources to rescue my son. And in return—”

I shake my head. “No. This isn't a bargain. I want Cash home and alive as much as you do. I'm not asking for anything from you.”

“Perhaps.” She wears a smile that'd rival any diplomat's. “But I think you might change your mind after a visit to my gardens. There's a rare bloom I'd like you to see. She needs a little tending.”

When I don't catch on quickly enough, she adds, “Let's check in on your mother.”

There are the things you see, the things you're told, and the things you still can't believe. And as I stand in the prince's old nursery courtyard, my body pressed against the cool stone and vine-twisted lattice of the garden wall, my eyes squinting through the tiniest gap between leaves, all of those things collide.

What I see is a much larger garden on the other side. A rippling fountain and the gray-tiled walk and a splash of red buds against creeping green. Beside the water, a low set of chairs and tables. And a woman. Dozing in a cushioned settee, she is pale and thin, a scrap of cloth stretched too tightly against the light.

My mother. Joanna Anderssen Benroyal. She has fallen so far, so fast, in the past few months. Even from here I can see the black sap addiction's nearly pulled her under. I taste the curse words—a whole string of them crouch behind my teeth, but I don't let them out. I don't make a sound.

Her Majesty tells me Benroyal's sent her here to summer in a kinder climate than Castra's. To take comfort in the cool, moist air and breathe in pure balm leaf from the royal groves. She's here because home's hell this time of year. Because anti-gel can heal a lot of things, but it can't bring back a broken mind. Because the doctors have done all they can.

I still can't accept it. My mother is steps beyond this wall. And she is dying.

Her eyes flutter, then close again. She sighs, and the soft wince is enough to gut me. Instinctively, I back away from my hiding spot, as if I'm somehow disturbing her rest.

I should never have left her behind.

My chest tightens, but the rage doesn't come. I've cried so many tears, I'm broken. Just a shred of a girl, fragile and paper hearted. I turn away from her and slip back inside.

When everyone else follows, Fahra closes the doors behind us.

I glance around the old nursery, at faded cushions at the window seat and the tiny table and chairs. I wonder if this was once Cash's little kingdom, and if there's anything left of him here.

In the rest of the queen's wing, there are murals on the walls, each one made of millions of bits of blown glass. They shine like stolen starlight, spun into history. You can watch Bisera's rise and fall marching down the long hallways. But here, in this child-sized suite, there are no more lessons, only fables and storyfeed tales. I only recognize two.
The Barden's Song. The Legend of the Castran Sun.

“I still don't understand,” I say. “Benroyal hardly lets her out of his sight. There's no way he'd just dump her here.”

“It was a surprising concession on his part,” Her
Majesty replies, and it's as if the real Queen Napoor—the steely-eyed predator—has returned. “But he has my son, and he still needs my silence. If I were to speak out, Benroyal knows it would spark a very messy, very costly civil war. So I've been given a hostage of my own, in exchange for Cashoman.”

Of course. Forced allegiance is Benroyal's favorite game. “And if something happens?”

“He dies, she dies. It's his little show of good faith. A false one, but still. Besides, someone's got to take care of her.”

The jab's good enough to stir the last ember in me. “You wouldn't kill her,” I say. “He wouldn't let you.”

“Perhaps Benroyal doesn't value your mother quite as much as you think he does. It wasn't hard to sell him on this end of the deal.”

“My mother's not some chip to bargain with,” I protest.

For a split second, Her Majesty seems to soften. “Oh, child. You must know by now . . . she always has been.”

The words cut me to the heart, but the queen huffs, half annoyed, half amused. “For sun's sake, you insult my hospitality. I have no plans to execute anyone. Not today, at least. And truly, if you didn't want her leveraged as a political prisoner, why didn't you keep her at your side?”

The question stings. I don't answer. In the silence, I see
my mother's face, her image saved on my father's flex. I never had the chance to see that dazzling smile in person. Just hollow cheeks and vacant eyes. Joanna, haunted. It's the only version of her I've ever known.

“Give her to me.” I turn on Her Majesty. “We have allies in Cyan. They can help me keep her safe. Let me take her.”

“For now, she stays here. But find my son,” Her Majesty says. “And she is yours.”