The War Outside Page 17

  Daniel continues to embrace me as I am wracked with sobs and tears. Chest heaving, mind racing, I am struck with the reality of it all.

  My father, dead.

  My mother, at home.

  The men, who come yearly.

  The story, as it will be told:

  It will be said that a woman arrived with open arms of gratitude, and that in her wake she left a fortune—of food, of drink, of supplies, of weapons. They will say there was to be a great dinner to honor the men at war, but that, before it could occur, it fell, like a star in the night.

  They will say that that woman was there to comfort Jonathan Byron before he died; and when my mother will ask, Who? They will say, His daughter.

  And she will weep for all she has lost.

  As the thoughts overwhelm me, and as I begin to feel dizzy, I tighten my grip on Daniel and pull away gently, careful not to lose my balance. My legs feel weak, my heart thunderous, my thoughts racing like white horses through a river of mud.

  I was once so innocent and pure.

  Now?

  Blood stains my hands, my person, my conscience. Worst of all: there is nothing I can do to change it.

  Settling myself into a chair, I close my eyes, take several deep breaths, and say, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Daniel asks.

  “For going.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… because I…” I pause once more, waiting for a moment of inspiration to strike me. When I am finally able to tilt my head up, I simply say, “Because such a horrible thing happened.”

  “They haven’t allowed me to watch the news,” Daniel says. “They cut the television, wouldn’t deliver a paper, wouldn’t let me use my wristwatch. Kel… what happened while you were gone?”

  “The North attacked,” I say. “My father… he—”

  “Your father was at the Rita Blanca sector?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “Kel,” he whispers, his eyes sad, his lips curled into a frown. “Did he…”

  My nod is answer enough.

  Sighing, Daniel leans forward and takes me into his arms again. All he can say is, “I’m sorry.”

  Those words are enough to make me cry once more.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he asks. “Can I get you something. Do something. Anything?”

  “No,” I whisper, my voice so low that I can barely hear it. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… this war…” I close my eyes. “This war is evil.”

  There are no words that could ever answer my declaration. Not from me. Not from Daniel. Not even from the Countess herself.

  I revel in the silence that follows—because after all this screaming, all this crying, all this rage, I feel a sense of peace, as shattered as it happens to be.

  They say that kingdoms, once fallen, can never be put back together.

  Maybe they just never tried to pick up the pieces.

  I struggle to eat when the food arrives. Pushing tomatoes, flipping lettuce, poking at meat, watching sauce dribble—this all seems elementary and inconsequential, for in the shadow of my father’s death, I can’t help but wonder if there was something more I could’ve done.

  Of course there wasn’t, my conscience says. He was bleeding to death in the middle of a warzone. What could you have done?

  I could have called out. I could have tried to stop the bleeding. I could have done something—anything—to try and save him. But what had I done? I’d simply sat there, holding his one remaining hand, knowing, but not truly wanting to believe, that he would soon be gone.

  I bow my head for what seems like the tenth time and sniffle.

  “I wish there was something more I could do,” Daniel says.

  I nod, say, “It’s okay,” and try my hardest to push my emotions down, but to no avail.

  “You need to eat, Kel.”

  “I know.”

  “Did you even eat on the road? Or when you were at that farmhouse?”

  “I ate soup.”

  “That’s not enough for two days’ worth.”

  “Please… just stop. I’ll eat when I’m ready.”

  Sighing, Daniel leans back in his seat and considers me with his calm gray eyes before saying, “You could stop, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Your Purpose. You could declare something else.”

  “I’m entrenched in it now, Daniel. Seeing what I saw… and experiencing what I did… there’s no way I could turn my back on it now.”

  “You could’ve died.”

  “But I didn’t,” I counter. “Something—or, maybe, someone—spared me. I have to consider that fact and decide from there.”

  “Putting yourself in danger isn’t going to change anything if something happens to you.”

  “Those who face danger are always remembered in history.”

  “Yeah, after they’ve died.”

  I sniffle, but manage to keep myself in check and instead begin to pick at my food once more.

  Daniel lowers his gaze to my level and says, “You’ll at least consider what I’m saying. Right?”

  “I’m not going to change my Purpose, Daniel.”

  “Then what are you going to do? Just follow it until you die.”

  “If that’s what it takes, then so be it.”

  He blinks, stunned.

  I shove a bite of salad into my mouth and force myself to chew, though who it’s in defiance of I can’t be so sure. Is it the government? Daniel? Myself?

  Though I can’t be for certain, I think the person I am attempting to defy the most is me.

  For my preconceived notions, for all of my teachings, for my mother’s upbringing, my father’s lessons, my community’s ministrations—all this, and more, has shaped me into the person I was before I arrived in the city.

  But outside—

  I shiver.

  Being outside, I think, is what has changed me the most.

  Once shattered, nothing can ever truly be remade.

  I realize, here and now, that I must take that pain and use it constructively. Otherwise, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  Sixteen

  I struggle to sleep on a night when it feels as though everything has gone wrong. As thoughts bombard my conscience like missiles in the night, tempting me with feelings I’d rather not have, I look to the ceiling in an effort to find answers, but find there are none to the questions I have.

  Did I do everything I could? I think.

  Was there something more I could have done?

  Did I run too fast, leave too soon, say something that could have caused, in the grand scheme of things, the attack to have happened?

  I think back on the televised interview I did and wonder: could it have reached the North? Could they, with advanced technology, have infiltrated the network, or whatever it is that compels such videos to the masses, and seen what it was I had said? It would make sense, in a matter of speaking, but that would not explain how they would have known I was going to the Rita Blanca.

  If they knew.

  Perhaps the whole thing was a random attack—and because of that, my appearance or words had no bearings on it. If that were the case, then I would be absolved of most of my guilt.

  But still…

  I sigh; and though knowing that I could possibly disturb Daniel by doing so, roll out of bed and pace to the window. There, I look out the window, and try to imagine a world that could change beneath my influence.

  The city, risen.

  The war, held back.

  The people, happy.

  And me? Well, I don’t know what I’d do. I’d probably bask in the glory of accomplishment, for throughout my life I have never considered the fact that I could be so influential, so special, so completely and utterly dynamic that people would want to look at me, to touch me, to desire me—

  Or worse: kill me.

  I shiver in the unnatural chill of the air cond
itioning as it comes on, and once more feel the weight of the world upon my shoulders.

  I sigh, tremble, try my hardest not to cry, but still the tears come, and still the realization that I will be the center of attention come tomorrow morning haunts me.

  The Countess will want to know what happened, the Commandant what went wrong.

  What will I say to the two most powerful people in the Great South?

  That I don’t know.

  “So,” the Countess says the following morning. “I want you to tell me everything that happened.”

  “Everything,” the Commandant adds.

  Their arrival was unexpected, their entry even more so. Still in our underwear and pajamas, Daniel and I had been forced to stand before the leaders of our country vulnerable and ashamed, and therefor bear all our flaws and insecurities to them.

  Standing here, in this room, with them watching and waiting, is like waiting for a killer star to fall. The looming dread over my head feels apocalyptic in nature, and as such, I find it hard to focus.

  “I—” I start to say. “I don’t—”

  “Isn’t this a little informal?” Daniel asks, cutting me off before I can finish.

  Both the Countess and the Commandant turn their heads to look at Daniel.

  The young man shuts his mouth and settles back down on the bed.

  “Okay,” I say, expelling a trapped breath that I’ve been holding since I’ve spoken. “It all started like this…”

  And I tell them everything—from our departure, to our arrival, to the conversation Mother Terra had with General Becker, to our arrangement within the tent at the far edge of the campsite. I am loathe to tell them about meeting my father, for it may be seen as juvenile and therefor a sign of weakness, so I leave him out of the story entirely. I know, beyond a measure of a doubt, that it will not change anything, nor sway the Countess or the Commandant in my favor. My loss is personal. It changes no one but me.

  When I finally finish, the Commandant frowns and asks, “Do you know if your presence was noticed?”

  “I don’t think so,” I reply. “I mean… I can’t say for sure, but, well… there was so much going on, and—”

  “The tent they took you to,” the Countess interjects. “Was it on the north or south side?”

  “The north.”

  She frowns. “You could’ve easily been spotted,” she says, “by advanced objects. Perhaps the North meant to retaliate against us by destroying something we consider beautiful.”

  “What purpose would that serve, though?”

  “It would show that the Process can easily be shattered, therefor instilling a sense of disbelief within the people. It could also have caused panic—for if a Beautiful One can be killed with armed guards around her, then what good are those men and women who protect us?”

  “All those bombs,” I say, “all that gunfire—”

  “Is that how Revered Mother Terra was injured?” the Commandant questions.

  “It was shrapnel, sir. At least… I think it was.” I swallow the lump in my throat and ask, “How is she doing?”

  “She is recovering from surgery as we speak. She will heal within the coming weeks.”

  “Thank the Great God,” I say.

  The Countess steps forward to face me. She considers me for several long moments, during which time I struggle to contemplate what she might want. When she finally does speak, it’s to say, “Now… about your place within the city.”

  I swallow.

  “Do you wish to continue with your Purpose?” she asks.

  “My Purpose?” I frown. “I—I don’t—I mean—”

  “I am giving you an exit. The only question is: will you take it?”

  “Why would I give up on my Purpose? Wouldn’t that make me seem—”

  “Weak?” the Countess questions, to which I respond with a simple nod. “It could, yes.”

  “If she leaves,” the Commandant interjects, “she will be seen as unforgiving toward those she once claimed she wished to champion. It could be seen as an act of defiance by the North.”

  “Sir?” I ask, turning my attention on him. “Do you… I mean… know if they, well… knew?”

  “Knew… what?” he frowns.

  “If I would be there? If I was there. I… I considered the idea that they might have seen the broadcast where I declared my Purpose.”

  “Even if they saw the broadcast,” the Commandant replies, “and that’s a definite if, how would they have known which sector you were going to arrive at?”

  “Maybe they guessed,” the Countess offers, “and got lucky.”

  “Or maybe,” the Commandant says, “there’s a mole in our midst.”

  I struggle to comprehend if that could be the case.

  Who, I wonder, could it be?

  Why, I think, would they want to expose me?

  And how, I dare question, would they have gotten word back to the generals of the Terrible North?

  I shiver while contemplating the thought, drawing my arms about as if this place has just experienced a great cold, and wonder if he could be right.

  Standing there, before the two most powerful people in the country, I wonder: are they right? Could they be wrong? Could it be one big misunderstanding?

  I don’t know—and that, I understand, is what makes this whole thing so horribly complicated.

  Daniel opens his mouth as if to speak, but stops as I turn my head to acknowledge him.

  “This is nothing for you to worry yourself over,” the Countess says. “We knew going into this that this could place you in a dangerous position. We weren’t wrong.”

  “What you should concern yourself with is whether or not you wish to keep representing the military as you are,” the Commandant adds. “And if that’s the case, how you’ll respond to the attack.”

  I swallow. “Respond?” I ask.

  “Word of the attack will soon reach the public. It’s up to me to speak first. To do that, however, I need to know if you’re stepping down.”

  “I’m not stepping down,” I say, knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I need to stand my ground.

  “You’re in a place of hurt, Kelendra. I can see that something happened in the Rita Blanca, whether you wish to speak about it or not, and I know that your judgment is clouded by your emotions. Please,” the Commandant says, “rest a while, and see if you begin to think differently. I will arrive in a few hours to hear your decision.”

  “I—” I start, then stop. I give myself a moment to process my thoughts before finally saying, “Thank you, sir.”

  “Let us go, then, dear.”

  The Commandant and Countess turn, and with that, leave the room, and me, behind.

  My shoulders drop the moment the door closes behind them.

  “Well?” Daniel asks, standing.

  “I need to think,” I say, and turn to make my way toward the window.

  This will not be a decision made lightly.

  So, with that in mind, I settle down in the long lounging chair and begin to think—if not for myself, then for the city that will expect a response.

  I spend the majority of the morning thinking, some of it dozing. Exhausted both physically and emotionally, I try my hardest to combat the feelings of helplessness that follow, but to no avail.

  Thoughts rush through my mind like running waters from the fiercest of rivers, prompting me to consider every hurdle that could rise.

  Was I right?

  Am I wrong?

  Will I make the right decision?

  Should my Purpose be saved?

  Maybe I chose wrong when deciding my Purpose. Maybe, through irrational thinking, I simply opened my mouth and barked out the first thing to come to mind. I was so mad, so scared, so absolutely and utterly incensed with the state of my world and place of mind that I had just blurted out the one thing I wish I could change, and that thing just so happened to be the war.

  Now, I think, my father is dead, and the
re is nothing I can do to make it better.

  Maybe, I start to think, then stop when I hear the sound of the bed creaking, of Daniel rising.

  I draw my arms around my legs as he approaches, but keep my gaze focused to the outside world.

  “Kel,” he says. “It’s almost time.”

  “Is it?” I ask. It seems like I’ve only been sitting here for a short while.

  Daniel sets a hand on my shoulder.

  I tense, he sighs. He leans forward to turn my head with the tip of his finger and says, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” I ask.

  “For everything you’ve been going through. For everything you will go through after today.”

  “I—”

  “I know you’re not going to stop, Kel. You’re a force of nature—a hurricane, a tornado, an avalanche. Nothing will prevent you from getting what you want.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so.”

  I frown and turn my head back to the window once more. “I’m just… I’m so scared, Daniel.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of making things worse for everyone.”

  “How would you do that?”

  “So many things have happened since I came here. The train, the wedding, the Rita Blanca… there’s so much blood on my hands now that I can’t look in a mirror and see the same person I used to be anymore. Now I see someone else.”

  “It’s because you’ve grown, Kel.”

  “Through tragedy, or triumph?”

  Daniel sighs.

  Rising, I spin to face him, only to find that his face is a portraiture of confusion and pain. Long gone is the placid fear he’d expressed before the Countess and the Commandant. In its place, fear has come, and on its white horse it has arrived to make our lives a living Hell.

  I, without much thought, lean forward and embrace him.

  “Everything’s gonna be okay,” he says, though I know he’s speaking more to himself than he is me.

  “It has to be,” I say. “It just has to.”

  Whether or not that’s true I can’t be for certain. However—the more I think about it, and the more I believe in my words, I know this to be a truth evident and without fault.

  With that in mind, I break apart from Daniel, then head into the washroom.