The Queen of All That Lives (The Fallen World Book 3) (15 page)

Chapter 29

The King

“How could this
have happened?” I pace up and down one of the rooms in the royal house we’re staying at. We’ve been here mere hours and already I’m itching to drag my wife back onto our plane and return to my palace.

If my regional leaders can be taken, then so can Serenity.

“Akash’s servants were found slaughtered and there were signs of forced entry,” one of my men says.

My eyes cut to my queen.

She sits in an armchair, her expression stormy. She’s been sitting there brooding since we entered the room.

“Serenity,” I say, my voice softening.

Her gaze flicks to me, returning from wherever she wandered in her mind.

“Are they dead?” she asks.

One of the men behind me shakes his head. “We don’t know, Your Majesty.”

She looks to me because she knows I won’t euphemize the situation.

“If it’s the West,”—and it surely is—“they’ll be tortured. All of them. Even the kids.”

She flinches at that. Buried beneath all my queen’s violence is something soft and righteous.

“How old?” she asks.

“Eight and five,” one of the dignitaries says.

She gets up from the couch, and everything about her looks heavy. Evil does that; it weighs you down, makes you weary. I know all about it.

Serenity removes her father’s gun from its holster, and everyone tenses just a fraction. She flips it over in her hand.

“How easy we kill,” she murmurs. She sets the gun on the table in the center of the room. “It never solves our problems.”

Something about her words and her voice has my hackles rising. Only recently Serenity discovered the art of scheming. It’s a talent of mine, one I fear she’s taken a liking to as well.

“We will get them back,” she swears to the room.

“Serenity,” I cut in.

There are some promises we cannot make, and that is one of them.

“We will get them back, Montes,” she reiterates, her eyes glinting.

I stare her down. We might get them back, yes. But they might not be alive by then.

“Leave us,” I tell the men.

Once the room clears, I approach her. “You can’t save everyone,” I say.

She leans her knuckles against the tabletop and bows her head. “I know,” she says softly. She lifts her head and I see resolve in her eyes. “But I owe your subjects,
our
subjects, safety for their allegiance.”

It’s almost too much, seeing her like this. She might be the best decision I’ve ever made.

“How did our plans get leaked?” she asks.

“You already know,” I say.

Even surrounded by honest men, I have traitors in my midst.

She presses her lips together and swipes her gun off the table, holstering it at her side. She might’ve hesitated killing me, but she won’t when it comes to our enemies.

“If this continues,” I say. “I’m pulling the plug on this campaign.”

Her eyes flash. “Montes—”

I stride towards her slowly, well aware that when I’m like this, I’m intimidating.

Even to her.

And that’s the point. She will not question me on this.

“This is your chance at peace,” she says.

I shake my head slowly. I’ve had a hundred years to devise ways to end the war. I know she feels there’s some rush to save the world, but we’ve gotten by without that elusive peace for a century now.

“It’s not worth your life,” I say.

Just the thought has my knees weakening. At times like this, I feel regret that she’s not still in the Sleeper where I can keep her safe. Losing her,
really
losing her, could very well be the end of me.

And then she says something that has my blood curdling.

“But it
is
worth my life, Montes.” She looks out the far window. “It is.”

Serenity

I’m essentially on
house arrest.

One little comment was all it took for Montes to double up the original number of guards, bar the doors of the mansion and secure the perimeter of the property.

All so that I never have the chance to put my life on the line. Already our itinerary is being changed to accommodate his paranoia. Less time in each location, extra security around each building we’ll be meeting in. He’s even pulled extra troops to guard the large stadiums I’ll be speaking at.

I can barely piss without someone watching over my shoulder.

Anyone who thinks that with power comes freedom is wrong. I’m a prisoner to it, and it doesn’t matter that I never wanted this for myself.

Morning sunlight streams into our bedroom, and I swear it looks different here. A part of me yearns to linger in this place just see all the ways the sun shines differently.

But there are things to do—loyalties to sway.

I sit on an ornate couch in our room, my weaponry and ammunition spread out along the coffee table. Gun oil, cleaning rods, and rags are littered between them.

I’m sure I’m quite a sight, clad in the dress and heels I’ve been forced to wear, my face painted and my hair coiffed for today’s speech.

Cleaning my weapons is my little act of rebellion.

The door to the room opens, and even though I don’t look up from my work, I know it’s the king that steps through. Perhaps it’s the heavy sound of his footfalls, and perhaps it’s the power of his presence alone.

I hear him pause. “Should I regret giving you those guns?” he asks.

I lift an eyebrow but otherwise ignore him.

The narcissistic king doesn’t like that very much. He strides over and places a hand over mine and the gun that I hold.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I lower the weapon and raise my eyes. “What?”

He narrows his. Before I can object he sweeps his hand across the coffee table, brushing aside all the items I have laid out.

I curse as they clatter to the ground, beginning to reach for them.

He catches my wrist. “No.”

“In a hundred years you haven’t managed to be less of a control freak,” I bite out.

“Hazards of being king,” he replies, his voice hard.

Only then do I notice he’s wearing his crown. Just like the last time I saw him in it, he looks devastatingly deadly.

It’s then that I notice he’s holding another. And it’s not just any crown. By the looks of it, it’s
the
crown I wore when I was coronated.

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” Montes counters.

I stare at the crown in his hands.

“
No
,” I repeat more vehemently.

I’ve already compromised enough with the day’s attire. The deep blue gown I wear is far too tight along the bodice and the heels I’m forced to wear will break my ankles if I need to run. I allowed it all without complaint.

But a crown?

“You might find this hard to believe,” he says, and now his voice gentles, “but people don’t carry the same stigmas they did a hundred years ago. They’re not going to see the crown as you see it.”

I don’t want to concede, I don’t want to give this man anything. But the truth is, he might be right. I really don’t know this world and the people in it. Perhaps a queen is what they want to see. Their lives and their pasts are so very different from mine. I can’t presume to know their hearts.

While I hesitate, Montes places the crown on my head, his hands lingering.

“Does getting your way all the time really make you feel good?” I ask.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Not nearly as much as your charming personality does.”

His hands drift down, towards the low neckline of my dress. Maybe I hear his breath catch, or maybe the action itself is enough.

Does this man’s passion ever wane?

“I look forward to your speech,” he says. “And I look forward to after.”

Chapter 30

Serenity

I am a
fool.

That’s all I can think as I climb the steps of the dilapidated stadium, the king at my side, his men fanned around us.

I am a soldier, not a public speaker. At times like these, I’d rather lay my life on the line than stand in front of an audience. And that’s just what I will have to do.

Over two dozen times.
A speech for every city I visit.

Like I said, I am a fool.

I can hear all those lines I memorized, each one jumbling with the next. The words lodge themselves in my throat.

As we near the top of the stairs, my gaze moves to the horizon.

My heart pounds as I get my first glimpse of the pyramids of Giza.

Or what’s left of them.

They’re mostly rubble. The ancient blocks that were painstakingly placed one on top of the other thousands of years ago now look like anthills someone’s kicked over.

I run my tongue over my teeth, remembering the footage I watched yesterday. And now a renewed sense of purpose drives away my anxiety.

As we summit the steps, the event’s coordinators descend on us from all sides, boxing us and our guards in. Most wear headsets and carry fancy equipment.

“My king,” one of the women says, “you will go up first, and my queen, he will introduce you shortly thereafter.”

Our entire group is shuffled to a small waiting room, where couches and platters of food wait for us.

Montes takes a seat at one of the couches, lounging back against it, his legs splayed wide. He looks completely at ease.

Oh, how I envy him.

Relaxing is the last thing I’ll be able to do. I’m already amped up; my body doesn’t know the difference between this and going into battle.

We don’t wait long. Not five minutes later a woman raps on the door, then opens it a crack. “Your Majesties,” she says, “it’s time.”

We head out
of the waiting room, towards the stage. More technicians and event planners crowd our group. The farther we walk, the more king’s men break away from our cluster.

I do a double take of the hallway wall when we pass a poster with my face on it. Without realizing it, I’ve stopped.

It’s almost identical to the one the First Free Men showed me. The sight of it is a shock to my system.

I approach the faded image and touch the worn paper. I keep forgetting what I am to these people, perhaps to the entire world.

“Serenity.” I feel the king’s eyes on me.

“It’s old.” I state the obvious.

The colors are muted, the paper has yellowed; the poster has obviously been here for months at the very least.

“People have believed in you for a very long time,” he says.

I drop my hand, and reluctantly I resume walking, keenly aware of the crown on my head. I can’t even fathom how strange this must be for the rest of the world. To find out the woman who symbolized freedom was not just alive after all this time, but also unchanged.

We stop in the wings of the stage. All that’s left of our group is now Montes, me, Marco, and two guards that stand some distance away from us.

There we wait, the noise of the crowd drifting in. It sounds big.

I crack my knuckles, then my neck, shaking them out.

Montes leans in, about to make a comment, when a man with an earpiece approaches us.

“Your Majesties,” he says, bowing to each of us in turn. “They’re ready for you.”

The king bends down and brushes a lingering kiss across my lips. It’s soft and gentle—sweet. These moments always come as a shock to me.

His crown catches the light as he straightens, and he gives Marco a penetrating look. “Keep her safe.”

It’s all I can do not throw up my hands. I’m not some simpering damsel needing saving.

As though he knows what I’m thinking, Montes winks at me, and then he’s gone.

After the king
leaves, I’m left alone with Marco. The king’s right-hand stands to my side, far too close for my comfort. Despite choosing to ignore him, I know he won’t ignore me. He’s taken a keen interest in me since we met in the palace’s secret passageways.

I wait for him to break the silence, counting off the seconds.

“Nervous?” he asks, as soon as it stretches on for a smidgen too long.

I clench my jaw, but don’t respond.

Beyond the stage, I hear the audience roar; it sounds like something infernal and ferocious.

“Why do you despise me?” This time, Marco doesn’t pretend to be jovial. His voice sounds sad, dejected.

I close my eyes. I should be thinking about my speech, about an entire hemisphere whose needs I now must represent. Instead my own emotions bubble up.

I’m being unfair to him. And I’m being petty.

“I don’t despise you,” I sigh out. “I despise the man that came before you.” I have to force my next words out. “It’s not your fault, but every time I see you, I relive those final moments with my father.” And out of all the memories I have of him, that’s the one I want to dwell on the least.

One of those people wearing the fancy headsets cuts into our little heart-to-heart. “Serenity, you’re on in thirty,” he says, waving me forward and saving me from continuing the conversation.

I’m led to a door at the end of the hallway, where he explains down to every minute detail how my entrance and exit should be executed. Then he leaves and I wait once more.

A countdown begins, and my pulse speeds up. These final seconds seem the longest as my adrenaline mounts.

And then the door I stand in front of is thrown open. As I move away from the wings, towards the stage, Giza unfolds before my eyes. I almost stagger back from the number of people gathered. A sea of them stand in the field in front of me, and many more fill the rows upon rows of stadium seats that wrap around it.

And as soon as they see me, they go crazy.

The soldier in me tenses. I almost reach for my gun before logic overrides the reaction.

The king still stands at the podium, and now he turns away from the audience, his deep eyes trained on me.

I walk up to him, and his hand falls to the small of my back. He resumes talking to the crowd, but I’m not listening. The audience has me mesmerized.

This can’t be my life.

I’ve somehow gone from a dying soldier living out her limited days in a bunker to a mythic queen.

It feels like such a farce. Like
I’m
a farce.

I feel the king’s eyes on me. He laces his fingers through mine and brushes a kiss against my fingers. When he straightens, he gives me a slight nod then leaves the stage.

Now it’s my turn.

I take a deep breath as my gaze travels over the countless faces.

“The last time my eyes took in the world, it was at war,” I began. “That was over a century ago.”

If the crowd was silent before, now it goes dead.

“I slept for a hundred years and woke only to find the world is still at war. That should not be the way of things.”

I take a deep breath, feeling the cameras on me. I’m going to have to be vulnerable, something I’m bad at in the best of situations. And this is far from the best of situations.

“One hundred and twenty-four years ago, I was born in the Western United Nations …”

I don’t know how many minutes pass by the time I bring people up to the present. I’m not even sure what I’ve told them matters. I wanted them to understand me, to know that for all our differences we are very much the same, but my life story isn’t terribly relatable. It’s mostly just sad. These people don’t want a sad story. They want something to drive away the nightmares, something to hold onto when life gets tough.

“The world can be at peace,” I say. “It was, long ago, and it will be again. I will make sure of it.”

My gaze travels over them. “I was awoken for a reason. My sleep has ended because it is time to end the war. I can’t do it alone. I need each and every one of you. War ends when
we
decide it does. So I ask you this: believe in me and believe in humanity. Fight alongside me when the East needs it, and lay down your arms when our land no longer requires it. If you can do this, then the world will know peace once more.”

The crowd goes quiet.

I’ve been too vague. Too optimistic. Too fumbling with my words. I feel it all in the silence.

I’m about to bow my head and walk off stage when one person somewhere out in the crowd begins to pound their fist over their heart.

Another person joins in. And then another.

Soon people are joining in handfuls at a time, then dozens, until eventually, the entire audience is thundering with the sound.

They begin to shout, and I can’t make out the words at first. Eventually, the voices align and I hear it.

“
Freedom or death! Freedom or death!
”

I stare out at them.

A hundred years of life to become whatever it is you want.

And a hundred years of death to become whatever it is they want.