The Pledge (The Pledge 1)

Aron didn’t need to elaborate. Of course I’d already heard the latest gossip. I dropped my voice too, as I scooted closer to him on the stone bench. “Do you know if they got her whole family? Did they take her parents and her brothers and sisters?”

Brook joined us then and immediately recognized the hushed tone and the way our eyes darted nervously, watching everyone and trusting no one. “Cheyenne?” she asked in a half whisper.

I reached into my book bag and handed Brook the lunch my mother had prepared for her, just as she had every day since Brook’s own mother had died.

She sat down on the other side of Aron, our three heads ducking close.

Aron nodded, his eyes meeting first mine and then hers. “I heard they came in during the night and took only her. She’s being held at the palace for questioning, but it doesn’t look good. Word is, there was real evidence this time.”

We stopped speaking, sitting straighter as the young boy made his way across the grass, gathering garbage along the way. He didn’t talk to anyone, just moved slowly, methodically, minding his step. As a member of the Serving class he had only one language, Englaise. So within the walls of our school—except during the Pledge—he wasn’t permitted to speak. He simply stared downward as he gathered refuse.

He was scarcely older than Angelina—six, maybe seven B2;si sevenÔwith unruly black hair and calluses on his dirty bare feet. With his head down, I couldn’t see the color of his eyes.

He paused beside us, waiting to see if we had any trash he could collect. Instead, I reached into my own lunch and palmed a cookie my mother had baked. I held it out to him, making certain that no one else could see it in my hand. I raised my eyes, hoping he might lift his, but he never did.

When he was within reach, I slipped him the cookie, in the same way I would have given him garbage from my lunch. Anyone watching would’ve thought nothing of it.

The boy took the cookie, just as he did every day, and while I’d hoped to see eagerness or gratitude from him, I got neither. His expression remained blank, his eyes averted. He was careful . . . and smart. Smarter than me, it seemed.

As he padded away, I saw him slip the cookie into his pocket, and I smiled to myself.

Brooklynn’s voice drew my attention. “What kind of evidence did they find?” she asked Aron, her voice tight. News of Cheyenne’s imprisonment was making everyone edgy.

Unfortunately, however, Cheyenne wasn’t alone. Whispers of disloyalty to the crown had begun to take root, starting like a virus and spreading like a plague. It infected and corrupted ordinary citizens, as rewards were being offered to those willing to report anyone they suspected of subversion. People turned against one another, seeking information against friends, neighbors, even family members, in order to gain favor with the queen. Trust had become a commodity that few could afford.

And real evidence—the kind that could be substantiated beyond petty gossip—was deadly.

“They found maps in her possession. Maps belonging to the resistance.”

Brook’s lips tightened, and her head dropped. “Damn.”

But I wasn’t convinced. “How can they be certain they’re rebel maps? Who told you this?”

He looked up, and his sorrowful gold-flecked eyes stared back at me. “Her brother told me. It was her father who turned her in.”

I spent the rest of the day thinking about Cheyenne Goodwin.

What did it mean when father turned on daughter? When parent turned on child?

I wasn’t worried for me, of course. My parents were as solid as they came, as trustworthy and loyal as any parents could be.

I knew because they’d been keeping my secret for my entire life.

But what of everyone else? What if the rebellion continued to gain momentum, if the queen continued to feel threatened?

How many more families would cannibalize their young?

THE QUEEN

Queen Sabara drew the wool throw over her lap and smoothed it with her crooked fingers. She was too old for the chill, her skin too thin now—nearly paperlike—and her lean flesh clung to her tired bones.

Two servant girls entered the room, crouching low and speaking quietly to each other so as not to startle her where she sat.

It was ridiculous, she thought. She was aged, not skittish.

One of them—the newer of the two—foolishly reached for the switch on the wall that would turn on the electric lights overhead. The other girl stopped her just in time, clamping her fingers around the girl’s wrist before she could make that mistake. Clearly, she hadn’t been there long enough to know that her queen detested the glare of an electric bulb, that she much preferred candlelight.

Sabara watched the pair cautiously—her eyes sharp as ever—as they added more wood to the hearth and stoked the flames. After a moment, she turned to gaze through the wall of windows overlooking the verdant lawns of her estate.

She had much to think about and her heart was heavy, bearing the burden of a country in turmoil . . . her country. She couldn’t help wondering what would become of her throne if the rebel forces were not soon stopped. Already they were doing too much damage, and her body ached in sympathy from the injuries they’d done to her lands, and to her subjects.

She wondered how much more an old woman could bear.

But she once again reminded herself that she had no choice. If there had been another to take her place, she would gladly have stepped aside. The bitter truth was, there was no one.

This body had failed her, and she cursed it for providing her with just one heir, and a son at that. One lowly male child.