The War Outside Read online

  It’s time to face my fears.

  It’s time to face the people of the Glittering City.

  They apply my makeup as if I am a doe caught in the headlights. Slowly, carefully, and with precision I feel is unnecessary, they paint me to resemble nothing more than a modern girl, albeit one whose position within the world is so much more than that.

  “Chin up,” the makeup designer says.

  I do my best to keep my gaze set forward, but am hard-pressed to do so, as at my side sits the Commandant—who, in a finely-tailored suit that is as gray as his disposition to all of this, waits patiently as his own stage makeup is applied. He seems far too composed considering the statements that are to come, but as his eyes catch mine, and as he offers a wink, I can’t help but wonder if he’s become used to this.

  Of course he has, my conscience offers. He’s the leader of the South’s military. How couldn’t he be used to this?

  It’s hard for me to imagine. What blood is on my hands as a result of my experiences is enough to reduce me to shambles. Him, though? Or Countess Aa’eesha Dane? If one were to truly show the blood they’ve spilled, they’d both be covered in the stuff.

  And me?

  I repress a shiver as the makeup artist finishes applying the setting powder to my face.

  “There you go, dear,” she says.

  I can’t remove myself from the chair fast enough.

  Just as I am about to make my way over to where Revered Mother Merissa is waiting for me, a hand settles on my shoulder, catching me off-guard.

  “You’re all right,” the Commandant says, his deep voice soothing yet at the same time chilling. “You’re here as a formality. If things go according to plan, you won’t even have to speak.”

  “When have things ever gone according to plan?” I ask.

  The Commandant frowns, but says nothing. Rather, he removes his hand from my shoulder, steps forward, and ushers me along with a wave of his index finger.

  I follow knowing that I don’t have much of a choice.

  Before the stage, well-lit and raised, is a single camera, beside which a screen is mounted on a simple metal rod. It is through these objects that we are to both speak and be spoken to.

  I don’t need to question why we are speaking to the press in this manner. A public audience would be disastrous, and likely come with a price that neither of us could afford to pay.

  “Are we ready?” the Commandant asks.

  “We’re checking sound one last time,” a technician says. “Then we will be ready.”

  The Commandant turns to me, smiles, offers a wink.

  I force my own smile in spite of the unease festering in my gut only to find that my lips barely move.

  With a nod, the man turns and approaches the edge of the stage—just far enough to where he can’t be seen by the camera, but close enough to where he can step upon it when the time comes. “Kelendra,” the man says, beckoning me forward with an open arm.

  I come to stand beside him and wait while the men and women operating the cameras and the lighting finish their work.

  “Don’t be nervous,” the Commandant reminds me. “There’s going to be a statement made, an overview given, and questions from the news outlets delivered via the teleprompter. You shouldn’t have to speak at all.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “We’re going live in thirty seconds!” a woman calls out. “Places everyone! Places!”

  “Where do I stand when we go on stage?” I ask.

  “To my left,” the Commandant says. “Always my left.”

  I nod; and after swallowing the lump in my throat, wait for the seconds to tick down.

  “Ten!” the woman calls. “Nine! Eight! Seven! Six!”

  Five, I think. Four.

  “Three,” I whisper. “Two.”

  “One,” the Commandant adds.

  The country’s anthem plays, and a woman’s voice announces, “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Great South: our Commandant, Logan Dane.”

  The man steps forward.

  I follow, careful to keep myself relaxed and composed as we make our way onto the stage.

  The lights settle on the Commandant. His eyes dilate. He lifts, then lowers his chin. “Good morning, everyone,” he says. “As you are all aware: at exactly seven o’clock PM yesterday evening, the Rita Blanca sector was attacked by the Terrible North. I am here today to offer clarity on the situation, and to answer select questions that have been asked by the city’s various presses.

  “First, I would like to state that this attack was unexpected, and that there was little we could have done to prevent it. Mortar bombs were fired at the camp, and though the initial strike was devastating, it was thanks to Kelendra Cross, my Ambassador to the War, that the acting general and his men had the weapons needed to repel the attackers.

  “Secondly, I would like to state that there were multiple casualties. Both me, and Countess Aa’eesha Dane, would like to offer our condolences to the families and friends of those men and Dames who were lost last night.

  “And last but not least, I would like to state that this attack will be met with retaliation. If the North is watching, they should cower, because it is we who are the dominant players on this field, not they.

  “Now—I will answer the questions asked of us by the city’s various news outlets.”

  The teleprompter flickers, then displays a single question.

  “What do you think caused this attack?” the same woman who’d introduced the Commandant asks.

  “We do not know what caused this attack,” the Commandant replies. “Though I wish to offer more detailed answers to this question, I cannot due to the safety of the men and the Dames who are currently stationed in the Rita Blanca sector.”

  The teleprompter flickers again.

  “What would you ask of those of us watching at home?”

  “I would ask that you pray for our fallen heroes, their families, and their friends,” the Commandant states, “and to offer whatever support you can. Donations to our armories are always useful. Your times in veteran’s shelters are appreciated. And your support is always necessary.”

  The teleprompter flickers a third time.

  “Will you begin the draft?” the woman asks once more.

  “No,” the Commandant says. “As of this time, we will not begin drafting people from the Glittering City to serve in this war.”

  The teleprompter flickers again.

  This time, however, the question is not prefaced with the Commandant’s name.

  No.

  It is prefaced by my own.

  Kelendra, it says. Will You Stand This?

  The Commandant swallows and says, “I don’t think this is a necessary—”

  “No,” I say, speaking up before the man can cut me off entirely. “I won’t stand for this. I will do whatever it takes to ensure that the people of my country are safe.”

  “And that concludes our press conference,” the woman who previously announced the Commandant says.

  The lights dim.

  The cameras are lowered.

  The teleprompter is switched off.

  The Commandant turns his head down to look at me.

  And I, not knowing what to do, merely frown and say, “What was that about?”

  “I don’t know,” the man replies. “I truly don’t.”

  Seventeen

  “So,” Daniel says in a voice that is cautious and unsure. “What was that about?”

  There is no way to truly answer his question. On one hand, I feel what was asked was merely something presented to us as a question from a concerned public. On another, however, the look on the Commandant’s face said it all.

  “I—” I start to say, then trail off before I can finish. I turn my eyes to the window and sigh.

  Daniel’s gaze flickers from me, to the window, then back again before asking, “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Know what? What happened?”


  I nod.

  “It just seems… odd,” the young man says, “that you were singled out for that one question.”

  “I know.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you?”

  It does bother me, but in a way I can’t explain. It’s like seeing a spiderweb and expecting to pick out every minuscule strand of silk—a feat impossible on one hand, but totally possible on another.

  But you’ve got one hand loose and the other tied, my conscience offers. You can and can’t do anything at the same time.

  I’m not sure I want to do anything, though.

  The look on the Commandant’s face—

  I shake my head.

  Daniel, in response, reaches out to press his hand over mine. “I’m sorry I questioned you. It’s just, after everything that you’ve been through, it seems like there’s—”

  “A target on me?” I ask, then wait for him to nod before adding, “Yeah. I know.”

  Daniel sighs.

  I lean back in my seat just in time for a knock at the door to come.

  “Should I—” Daniel starts.

  The door opens.

  Revered Mother Merissa steps forward, followed by four individuals in dark suits and glasses.

  “What is this?” Daniel asks.

  “We’re relocating you,” the Revered Mother says. “Speak no more.”

  “Why—” I say.

  Mother Merissa shakes her head. “Say nothing. There is a chance the room has been compromised.”

  Compromised? I think.

  “What do you—”

  Daniel clamps a hand over my mouth.

  The caution in his gaze is enough to keep me silent.

  Don’t, is all he mouths to me.

  Nodding, I reach up, gently pull his hand away, then turn toward the Revered Mother, who beckons us forward with a wave of her hand.

  There is no question about it.

  Something is wrong.

  This is made clear in the moments thereafter—when, while walking alongside Daniel toward the Revered Mother, the men in black begin to dismantle the room. They remove paintings from walls, the sheets from our bed, lighting fixtures from around the ceiling. Even the washroom is scoured; and though I do not know what they are looking for, I understand that it is of great importance, and a detriment to our safety.

  The moment we step into the hallway, six SADs surround the three of us. All are armed with automatic rifles.

  “Remain silent until I speak again,” Revered Mother Merissa says.

  I glance at Daniel out my peripheral only to find that the color has drained from his face.

  What could be happening?

  I don’t know, and that’s what troubles me the most—this silence, this existential dread.

  I shiver as I consider what is happening—what might have already happened—and find my hand searching for Daniel’s.

  When our fingers touch, I feel a small sense of relief.

  You are not alone, that grasp says. I am here with you.

  “With me,” I whisper, so softly that I can barely hear it.

  We step into the elevator and descend.

  A short moment later, we step out of the hotel and into the lobby. While I can’t see people’s faces, I can see their forms, all parting as we, their Beauty and Grace, are led by a Revered Mother toward the rear entrance of the hotel.

  One minute, we are standing within the Lion’s Mouth Hotel.

  The next, we are stepping outside and being ushered into an armored vehicle.

  When the time comes for Revered Mother Merissa to enter behind me, three of the SADs turn to block sight of us, while two others close and secure the vehicle’s backseat door.

  It is only when we start moving that dread begins to settle upon me.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “We now believe the attack on the Rita Blanca was purposely orchestrated by a contact within the city.”

  “What?” Daniel asks.

  “This means,” Revered Mother Merissa says, “that the North knew that a convoy from the city would be arriving, and that Kelendra would be accompanying it.”

  Neither of us speak. We merely stare.

  Revered Mother Merissa turns her head to look out the tinted window, only to say, “City intelligence believes that a bug was planted in your room.”

  “A bug?” I ask. “You mean… like a… beetle?”

  “No,” the Revered Mother says. “It is anything but.”

  “They’re devices that are almost impossible to see,” Daniel says. “Hence why they call them ‘bugs.”

  “But what do they do? Do they… listen to us?” I ask.

  “Yes. And transfer information.”

  “How?”

  “We suspect a member of the hotel staff was responsible for the delivery of the information,” Mother Merissa says. “The only people who had access to the room were the Countess, the Commandant, and the cleaning staff.”

  “You mean the Maids?” I frown.

  “No. There were no Maids present within your rooms. Only the cleaning staff, which consists of regular civilians, were present within your room. This means they were not heavily vetted, and could have been anyone, or serving anyone.”

  “You’re saying someone was spying on us,” I say, lowering my eyes to look at my hands. “Someone from the North.”

  “Yes, Kelendra. I am.”

  Though a troubling exhale is all I can offer in response, my thoughts run a gambit within my head.

  What did I say? What did I do? Could the mention of the Rita Blanca have gotten all that way to the North? And could I have somehow stopped it?

  Worst of all, I think: Could I have caused my father’s death.

  This is the most troubling of my musings, and the most painful, because if, by some right, or some manner, I could have saved him, and I hadn’t done it, that means I am solely responsible for the attack that killed my father.

  It is enough to bring tears.

  “Where are we going?” Daniel asks after several long moments of silence, pressing a hand atop my knee before squeezing it.

  “We are returning the two of you to the Spire. The Maids there are screened for security reasons. You will be safe there.”

  “Safe?” I ask, and can’t help but burst out laughing. “You think we’ll be safe there? After everything we’ve gone through?”

  “The attempts on your lives were devised within and carried out on public properties. The Spire’s security network is completely isolated from the rest of the city. Calls are screened, employees face vigorous background checks, nothing goes beyond the first floor without being scanned by metal detectors. You are, in a sense, the safest you can be within the city.”

  I can’t argue with her logic—not just because she is right, but because I am too emotionally drained to do so.

  Bowing my head, I allow myself to cry.

  My life was supposed to be grand, and have a meaning beyond myself.

  This—all of this—is just…

  I close my eyes.

  The word is too destructive to speak, but still, it flits across my mind, and speaks clearly a single word.

  That word is chaos.

  Returning to the Spire feels right, even though it doesn’t seem like, and will never be, home. Entering its pristine lobby, rising up its elevator, passing beyond floor twelve—it’s an emotional experience I know comes from exhaustion, and leaves me in a vulnerable state of mind.

  “How much further up are we going?” Daniel asks. His question is like a knife in my side, considering how silent everyone, including Mother Merissa and our accompanying SADs, has been.

  “You’ll be kept in a master suite on the nineteenth floor, directly beneath the presidential suite,” Mother Merissa replies.

  “You mean,” I start, “we’ll be beneath the Countess’ suite?”

  “Yes, Kelendra. You will be.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and force mys
elf to nod.

  Remaining content is possibly the hardest thing of all. Knowing that we are safe is one thing, but the reality that we will be? I couldn’t ask for anything more, but at the same time, safety isn’t guaranteed in this world, especially not when I believe I am being singled out.

  The thought hasn’t come without question. While I am more than aware that my face has been plastered throughout the city’s media, I do not know how far my influence has extended. I was, up until just a little while ago, of the belief that the news broadcasts couldn’t leave the city. But now, knowing what I do, I can’t help but wonder:

  Why?

  Am I meant to serve some twisted purpose? Am I, without rhyme or reason, being strung along by both sides? I know my place here in the city is to give birth to and raise children, but what of my position beyond the walls? Am I merely a beacon of destruction?

  Don’t, my conscience says.

  But I do, and instantly I see my father’s face before my eyes—his pale lips, his pained expression, eyes wide with shock.

  I love you, he says.

  And then he is gone.

  The elevator doors open just as I open my eyes.

  “Follow me,” Mother Merissa says.

  We advance into the corridor without the SADs and walk toward a single door, upon which the gold plate says The Master Suite.

  After lifting a card and swiping it through its reader, Mother Merissa opens the door.

  The inside is nothing short of amazing.

  Painted white, and with golden trim, the place looks immaculate, with its high ceilings, expansive kitchen, and breathtaking sun room.

  “The bedrooms are down the hall to the right,” Mother Merissa says.

  “Bedrooms?” Daniel asks.

  Mother Merissa nods. “Yes,” she says. “There are two. Normally, this is reserved for guests visiting the Countess and Commandant. Given Kelendra’s position, however, and the fact that the pair of you are being ruthlessly targeted, the Countess felt it best to keep you close to the capitol building.”

  “I see.”

  I step forward and run my hand along the back of a white couch with golden metal trim, then spin about to face the window, which looks out at the Glittering City from an awe-inspiring and terrifying height.