Stitching Snow (29 page)

I had no idea whether I’d be able to keep that promise.

When I’d seen the last one—an old man who looked like gravity alone should have broken him—I returned to the head of the tunnel and pounded on the door. Dane had done nothing but follow me in silence, glaring the whole time. He still didn’t want to leave them. I wondered if he’d forgive me.

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The door opened, bringing a warm draft of fresh air. Mostly fresh, with an undertone of onions. The prison’s three guards were eating lunch.

“Done what you came to do, then?” asked one of the men who’d accompanied us.

Dane kicked the back of my heel. It took me half a gasp to fi gure why. The guard hadn’t shown the proper respect.

I crossed the room to where he lounged at a console, using a knife to pick scum from under his fi ngernails. “Did you address me,
guard
?”

He took his time replacing the knife in its sheath. “Forgive me . . .
Your Highness
. Do you wish to return to the palace now?”

“I do.”

I didn’t wait, going straight to the transport with Dane right behind me. The pair of guards followed after delaying just long enough to make it clear they didn’t feel I was in any position to order them. Dane refused to look at me as the craft lifted into a hover and moved away from the prison.

Away from the prison, but not back the way we’d come.

“Guard, where are we going?” I demanded.

“Don’t worry yourself,
Highness
. We need to check the perimeter outpost before making the return trip.” Plausible enough, but all I heard in my head was Dimwit’s electronic voice.
Wrong way wrong way.

I kept a sharp eye on the scenery. Overgrown trees and shrubs, scarcely enough room for the transport to pass, and nothing resembling a path to follow. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. The route to and from a secret prison wasn’t likely to have markers and signs at every turn.

Neither was a route to a secluded area perfect for killing an 277

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unwanted princess. My hand drifted to the top of my boot, reassuring myself that my knife was securely in place.

After several minutes, though, an antenna assembly came into view. It probably detected anyone who wandered too close to the prison. The transport came to a stop, and the guards turned.

“If you don’t mind, Princess, you’re handy with tech like that drone-pet of yours, and we could use some help checking the relays,” one said.

Dane’s eyes said no, absolutely not. But the tight confi nes of the transport pressed on me in sudden claustrophobia.

“Anything to speed it up,” I said.

They made an “after you” gesture. Turning my back on them sounded like a truly bad idea, but I didn’t dare put up a fuss.

Dane stepped in right behind me. Didn’t matter that he was mad at me. No one could get to me without going through him fi rst.

I didn’t like that any better.

My back prickled with three sets of eyes watching it. Every instinct said to forget appearances and just run. Two steps away from the transport, I surrendered to panic and spun around.

Good thing, too. Dane sidestepped the guard behind him, pivoting at the same time to smash his fi st in the man’s face.

But the second guard already had a gun out, pointed straight at my head.

His fi nger wasn’t on the trigger yet. Idiot thought the gun alone would be enough to scare me.

I moved like Dane taught me, knocking the gun from the guard’s hand before he had time to blink. He blocked my second strike, his eyes shifting, taking me seriously.

Round one.

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The gun was lost in the undergrowth, but the good news ended there. I attacked; he blocked. He attacked; I dodged. We each got some glancing contact in, but nothing to make any real progress.

Then he stopped playing around.

A fi st to my gut knocked the wind from me. An elbow to the side of my head sent sparks across my vision.

Back up, Essie, get some space, some room to breathe.

Too slow. He had a grip on my wrist. A fll ash of sunlight glinted off silver.

Knife!

“Essie, get down!”

I dropped to a crouch, nearly falling forward. The hand released my wrist, and the knife plunged into the ground just a few sniffs in front of me. I lifted my eyes. The black and pew-ter handle of another Midnight Blade weapon stuck out from the guard’s neck, his eyes glassy with surprise. He swayed and fell. I turned to see Dane standing with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. The other guard lay on the ground nearby, unmoving. I watched his chest.
Really
unmoving.

Dane had killed to save me. He’d ended two lives.

I hadn’t even thought to pull my own knife. Maybe the habits of cage fi ghting. Maybe I was too afraid of using such deadly force.

I wanted to vomit, cry, or curl up and go to sleep forever. Instead, I stayed still, wishing the wobbly world would do the same.

“Are you hurt?” Dane asked between gasps.

“I’m fi ne. You?”

He didn’t answer. He turned and walked several steps away, both hands gripping his hair. His shoulders shook, and he fell to his knees.

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Then a noise like nothing I’d ever heard. A cry, a howl, a roar.

All of those. None of them.

It had nothing to do with Olivia’s guards and killing them.

The horrible sound that tore through my ears was the pain he’d held in since the prison, since learning his father was long dead.

I knew I should go to him, comfort him, but I didn’t know how.

Then fi gure it.

The dizziness had faded enough that I could push myself to my feet. He was only a few steps away, but it felt like a hundred links. When I got there, I still wasn’t sure what to do. I started with resting a hand on his shoulder, trying to steady its shaking. He reached up and closed his hand over mine, squeezing it tight. Something warm passed through me, burning through fi ssures in my heart.

It hurt.

All I know is pain running through every nerve, every vein. My ribs ache, but it’s not the bruises of the fi ght with the guard—

—the guard I killed—

—the blood—

—dead—

—Father dead all these years. I’ll never see him again.

Never—

I yanked my hand away. “I—I didn’t mean to, Dane, I’m—”

“I didn’t stop you,” he said, his voice rough. He stood and returned to the transport. “We need to get out of here.” For two heartbeats, I just stared at my hand. I’d Transitioned 280

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for the fi rst time since the ball, but aside from the effects of the fi ght, I felt fi ne physically.

It had been easy. Like with Mother.

I kept my mouth shut and boarded the transport. Disabling the security lockout so Dane could pilot it was easy enough. He hesitated before engaging the engines.

“There are only three of them at the prison now,” he said.

I couldn’t stand what I was about to say, but the words came out just the same. “We can’t, Dane. There’s not enough room for all of them, they need doctors, and we’re too far from the fll eet—it’s not time. All we’d do is get them and ourselves killed.

We need to fi nd a way back to the palace without passing the prison again.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.”

He got the transport moving, picking a route that would take us in the right general direction. I could only let the silence hang for a few minutes.

“Dane . . . I’m sorry about your father.”

“It’s not your fault.”

Those words felt like a gyro-compressor squeezing my chest.

“But it
is
my fault.”

“Essie, don’t,” he said sharply, his eyes fastened to the controls. “It isn’t.”

But it is.

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26

ARRIVING AT THE PALACE

was nothing like the last time.

No escorts at battle-readiness. No concerned father waiting anxiously. As far as anyone knew, we were expected and on schedule. Only one person would realize how false that was.

Dane maneuvered the transport into its dock but didn’t move to get out yet, his hands still resting on the controls. We’d been silent for most of the journey, but now he turned to me.

“You could tell your father what happened, but I’m not sure you should.”

Tell Father that his wife had made ongoing efforts to kill me?

“I don’t know, either.”

“Would he believe you?”

That was the question without an answer. “He might. Or he might not. Either way, it would be too easy for Olivia to turn it around on us, especially when we’re standing on so many lies.

Better not risk it.”

Dane nodded. “What about Olivia?”

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That would be tricky. “I’ll handle her. Alone.”

“No. Not alone, Essie.”

I slipped the cylinder of varitane gas out of my pocket. We’d given Dimwit over eight hours to get his job done, and Olivia typically changed outfi ts at least three times a day. “I have this if I need it. You go back to the suite and I’ll meet you there.” He opened his mouth to continue his protests, but I cut him off.

“Don’t argue, Dane. Do as I say.”

I pressed a hand to my mouth, but it was too late to catch the words. The look he gave made me feel like my insides were full of baby harri-harra maggots. I’d spoken to him like a princess to her guard, only there wasn’t anyone around to justify the act.

An apology lodged in my throat.
Those
words wouldn’t come out. Instead, I walked away.

Once inside the palace, I asked the fi rst servant I saw where I could fi nd the queen. I was directed to one of the libraries.

Olivia stood at a full-desk computer display, but I couldn’t see what was on it. Nothing good, certainly. She looked up when I entered, and for once, her masks failed her completely.

Fury. Pure and clear.

I kept one hand in my pocket, lightly holding the canister.

“Good evening, Olivia. I’m afraid there was an incident at the prison, and your guards were unable to return with us. Thought you should know.”

She still had the option of making up a story to tell Father, something to turn him against me. It all depended on how confi dent she was in her ability to convince him.

Slowly, carefully, her mask of indifferent benevolence reas-serted itself. “Terrible shame to lose good guards. I’ll have to make sure they’re better trained next time.” 283

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Translation: Eventually I’ll succeed.

I knew she would. But she hadn’t managed it yet. At that rate, I had a pretty good chance of surviving long enough to make my murder the last thing she did as queen of Windsong.

That would be worth it.

“I’m sure you will,” I said. “Thank you for arranging my visit to the prison. I know who my enemies are now. Good night.” I walked out of the library, half expecting a knife in my back before I reached the door. Too messy for her, though, and no convenient Exiles to blame for my death in a prison riot.

Back in the suite, Dimwit sat alone in the corner. “Did you get the job done?” I asked.

Two beeps. Done, yes. Whether or not it had been botched . . .

only one way to fi nd out.

With the drone stationary and muted, silence wove through the air. The door to Dane’s room was closed. I thought about checking on him. Maybe apologizing. Defi nitely apologizing.

But I left him alone.

Days of nothing passed.

I kept busy enough. I recorded a video message to use when the Candaran fll eet launched the attack. It took fi fteen tries before I was satisfi ed, and the message got added to the data-chip with the gun scan tucked safely in my locket.

Meanwhile, Dane and I attended meetings with Father and militia commanders where I offered suggestions for a counterof-fensive in the outlands. My ideas were heard, thoughtfully considered, and added to a list of things that would never happen 284

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because Father controlled both sides. Still I went, showing all the passion and hatred of the Exiles that he wanted to see, hoping he would give me more information. Sometimes I thought I saw a hint in his eyes that he would let me in on the secret soon. But not yet.

The social events didn’t let up, either. I visited military academies where recruits for the various royal guards trained.

I visited women’s clubs where ladies with nothing better to do discussed the betterment of the Royal City, such as rearranging the fll owers lining the causeways. Everywhere Princess Snow went, the people were thrilled to see her.

Almost everywhere.

Dane and I kept up our act when in public. When we were alone, we rarely talked at all. He grieved for his father. Thanks to my Transitioning slip-up, I knew exactly how much it hurt, and I didn’t know how to help. How could I help, when the man would’ve been alive if not for me?

I kept a chart in my head, counting down the days until we’d be close enough to the fll eet to set things in motion. The count proceeded with equal parts dread and anticipation. Whatever Dane and I did, I might not survive it. But it would be over.

Twelve days . . . nine . . . fi ve. The last few passed in a blur of more military strategizing and smiling for image captures.

“The queen would prefer you wear one of the dresses for the school visit,” Dane said when he saw me on the morning of Day Zero. “Says a good impression is particularly important right now.”

I entertained the idea of turning around and changing into a dress for about half a nanosecond. Then I fi nished pulling my 285

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boots on. “I don’t take orders from Olivia. Children don’t need to see a fancifi ed princess in a gown, do they?”

“Whatever you say—you’re the princess.” He’d said that a lot over the last several days. So much that my ears hurt when I heard it. This was one time too many, and the pain snapped something inside.

“Didn’t exactly ask to be a princess, did I? Didn’t ask to be chased off to Thanda or taken away again or any blazing thing except to come here and stitch this mess, and I’m doing the best I can.”