The Forever War (The Queen Trials Book 4), page 24
How many people had to die to decorate their garb? Fourteen bones in the human hand, two hands each… I stop myself before I go too far down that creepy path.
Instead, I take a deep breath as Snow, Shellor, and I reach the table. “Greetings. I am Princess Cliodatra Fathom, and this is my brother and sister, Shellor Fathom and Princess Snow Perosa. Thank you for meeting with us today.”
All five of the Souris stand in unison, the bones on their long waistcoats swinging and tinkling against one another. The man in the middle speaks, but rather than introducing himself in return, he looks down his long nose at me. “You are late.”
The women on either side of him nod and cross their arms over their chests.
I am not going to start this meeting with an argument, even if they’re wrong. “I apologize,” I say. “I believe we must have had a miscommunication, perhaps based in cultural assumptions. While that could be a frustrating start to our negotiations, I prefer to view this as motivation. We obviously have so much to learn from one another.”
The women shift their eyes to the man in the middle, who seems to be the one in charge. I can’t tell what the men on the ends of the group are doing; my peripheral vision doesn’t include them. I wish I’d had a moment to confer with Snow and Shellor to ask them to keep a special eye on those two. I have to assume they’ll figure that out.
I don’t know what to expect out of these unfriendly people, but I get a panicky sense that they’re about to turn as one and walk away. Before they can do that, I pull out my own chair and seat myself. Snow and Shellor quickly do the same.
Now it would be awkward for the Souris to simply depart from the table, and they seem to know it.
I fold my hands gently on the tabletop and only have to wait a few seconds before they reseat themselves, the bones on their uniforms clinking disturbingly as they resettle in their chairs.
What do I do now? I feel woefully underprepared, as I realize that I expected to find a receptive audience at these talks. I believed in my heart that surely the Souris want to end the war just as much as I do. It has to be just as hard on their people as it is on ours.
But then again… it’s not hard on the Rotunda. It’s only hard on the localities. And the Rotunda doesn’t care about those people. With a sickening lurch of my stomach, for the first time, it occurs to me that the Souri government might be just as indifferent to the suffering of their own fighters as the Rotunda is.
“Again, I’m Cliodatra, this is Shellor, and this is Snow. What are your names?”
As I take in the unyielding expressions across the table, I begin to wonder if they’re ever going to tell me. Finally, the man in the middle makes a noise that’s halfway between a grunt and a sneeze. “My name Garuth. This Enz, this Fra.” He indicates the women on either side of him. “That Vighot, that Braz,” he finishes, jerking his head to either end of the table, where the other two men sit. That appears to be all he’s willing to say.
I make a decision. I’m not going to try to appeal to their better natures because I’m not convinced they have them. This discussion is not going to be about the sanctity and the dignity of human life. If these negotiations are going to succeed, I must understand what makes these five individuals tick. What would the Rotunda want to get out of this situation? The answer is easy. Money and power.
No one on their side of the table seems inclined to say anything further. Instead, they sit in hostile silence. This is on me, to make an impassioned plea that will resonate with them and sway them to agree to a truce. This whole idea started when I learned about Nengland and our trade relationship with them, so that’s where I begin.
I lick my lips and sit up ramrod straight in my chair, my palms pressed firmly against the tabletop so that I can’t ball them into fists at my sides. “Our countries have been at war with one another for years.” ‘Years’ isn’t strong enough. “Generations,” I say, correcting myself. “And where has it gotten us?” I look around the big, dimly lit area and pick up my hand to wave it around a bit. “A drab tent in the middle of a dusty clearing.”
I set my hand back down and look up and down the table, meeting the eyes of each of the five people sitting across from me. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”
I watch as expressions of surprise flit across the faces of those opposite me. I don’t know what they were expecting me to say, but it wasn’t that. Surprise is good. Surprise is something I can work with, far better than antagonism.
“Rustonia is not alone in this world, and we realize that. We are not at war with all peoples. We have friends. Nengland, to our east, is a powerful ally and trade partner.”
Powerful ally? I’m not so sure that’s accurate – I know next to nothing about their country – but in this situation, I don’t think it hurts to compliment another nation.
“Nengland and Rustonia both benefit from our friendly association. Our countries are more financially stable and more powerful because of our relationship with one another. I’m one hundred percent certain that Souri and Rustonia could build each other up through a trade alliance, rather than tearing each other down through war.”
My eyes rove up and down the table again, once more making eye contact with each of the Souri representatives. “Obviously, we each have something the other wants. And we have been trying – with little success, for decades – to take those things by force. Again, I say to you. It doesn’t have to be this way.”
I fall silent, sensing that I need to give them the opportunity to speak. It doesn’t take long for Garuth to look down his nose at me again. “You are only here because you won wish. Like fairy tale.”
His accent is more pronounced now than it was when he first accused me of being late. He clips his consonants and draws out his vowel sounds in a way that seethes with aggression, but I’m not going to be baited into a sparring match just because I’m not used to the way his people talk.
I do need to address what he said, though, because I can understand how he might have concerns that this is all part of a Rotunda game. I would probably have the same reason for hesitation if I were in his place. “Yes,” I say, nodding. “I was granted this opportunity to come to this bargaining table and speak with you by winning a wish from my king. But it does not diminish my authority in the slightest.”
Garuth snorts derisively.
Undeterred, I lean forward in my chair. “I don’t know if this meeting between our people would have ever come about without my wish. Our history of combat may have seemed too insurmountable to attempt a peace talk. But isn’t it what we all would wish for, if we could? A fresh start, and a connection based on mutual agreements and understanding rather than following the same stale history of fighting because it’s what we’ve always known?”
I settle back in my seat as I finish. “So, yes, I may be here because of a wish, but it doesn’t mean we’re not serious. King Ergondy has granted me the right to negotiate terms, and I am prepared to make sure they are extremely favorable.”
Garuth breathes in through his nose and looks left, then right, as if seeking counsel from the others at his table. I wait it out, knowing that I have to let one of them make the next move. After an agonizingly long pause, it’s the woman to his left, the one named Fra, who finally leans forward, pointing her finger at me while she speaks in an accent that is even more pronounced than the man’s. “This woman, this princess of the realm. She insult. Call tent ‘drab and dusty.’” Her eyes flash. “You offend us.”
I push myself even further back in my chair in shock. After everything I said, that’s the Souri response? An aggressive defense of the tent?
Surely, the entire delegation is not going to agree with that statement.
But as they dart their eyes around at each other, and I watch their postures become stiffer, I realize they are. Is this entire endeavor going to fail because of a stupid offhand remark?
My stomach lurches again, as it’s been doing a lot this morning. It was a stupid offhand remark, when I should be doing my utmost to make these people feel comfortable and respected. Why did I say that? Did I breathe in too much glistening powder on the ride here and breathe out idiocy?
Again, I get the sense that the Souris are going to rise en masse and leave abruptly. I press my hands flat on the table, fingers spread. “I’m so sorry. I did not realize this was your structure. I thought it belonged to my country. I was under the impression we were still on Rustonian land, not Souri. Please accept my sincerest apology.”
Garuth clears his throat and his eyes flash beyond me. Who or what he’s looking at, I’m not sure. I don’t know what’s going on behind me. I find that I really don’t like having my back to the entryway, but I’m not going to turn around to find out. Either this man accepts my apology or this is over. If I swivel in my seat, they’ll all be gone by the time I turn back around – I just know it.
Garuth blinks slowly and breathes out through his nose. “Is Souri tent,” he says a bit petulantly, almost like a child caught in a lie. “On Rustonian land.”
“Of course it is,” I say quickly. “Because we’re working together. The way our two countries have the capacity to work together on anything. Fighting only weakens us both. Work with me. Create an accord today. Choose strength and prosperity."
The man at the far end of the table seated closest to Snow, the one named Vighot, speaks for the first time. “The princess calls Souri weak.”
“No,” I protest. I want to flop forward and bang my forehead on the table in frustration, but obviously, I can’t let myself do that. “That’s not what I meant at all. Of course you’re a strong nation. But don’t you want to be stronger? Don’t you want to save lives, conserve resources, and get more for your nation through trade and camaraderie?”
Enz takes a turn. “Princess implies Souri delegation confused.”
Snow reaches over and touches my leg gently, giving me the tiny, little bit of strength I need to not completely lose my mind. These people appear to be bound and determined to take absolutely everything I say the wrong way, to find the hidden offense lurking behind all of my words.
And that’s the way it goes – all morning. I don’t blame myself anymore. Yes, I made a gaffe or two at the beginning of the meeting, but these five men and women don’t seem to be here to negotiate at all. They only seem interested in picking apart my words and ascribing ill intent to everything I say.
Occasionally, Snow or Shellor will add something to the conversation, if only to try to save me from myself, but it goes no better for them.
When we break for lunch, the Souris stalk from the tent. I don’t know where they go, and I don’t attempt to follow.
Shellor, Snow, and I retreat to a corner of the tent and stand in a little cluster. I cover my eyes with my hands then rub them down my face. The last few hours make it feel like a year has passed.
Shellor fishes in his coat pocket and pulls out a nutritional wafer, offering it to me silently. I take it from him with a barely repressed growl and bite into it. It’s dry, and I’m so thirsty. I never used to note my thirst in Fourteen, where we were chronically dehydrated, but after just a few weeks of mostly unlimited water access, I really notice it when I’ve gone a while without drinking anything.
A pitcher and a stack of cups sits nearby on a round table covered with a black cloth. The pitcher is dewy, covered with condensation. “I need water. Anybody else?” I ask, starting to move in the direction of the table.
“Let me,” Snow says, scurrying around me to get there first. She looks at the pitcher, glances around the mostly empty tent, considers her index finger for a moment, then plunges it into the obviously cold water and swirls it around a few times.
She pulls her finger out and examines it again, then picks up the pitcher and three of the cups in a stack. “It’s safe,” she says, holding the cups out so we can pluck one of our own. She pours a glass for each of us and takes a long sip of hers while still clutching the pitcher in her right hand.
I haven’t taken a drink of my own water yet. Instead, I look back and forth between her and Shellor. “What is going on here?”
They exchange a brief look that I can’t quite decipher. It’s not guilt, but it’s something close. I lower my voice to a hiss. “What are you keeping from me?”
My brother and Snow exchange another loaded look. He takes a sip of his water. “I had a really weird dream last night. Intense.”
My eyes widen. Does Shellor know about dream walking? He must. Or… does he? Back when I learned of it, Glory told me it was highly illegal and heavily regulated. Snow knows. She and I have met in a dream walk before. Her guardian, Minerva, taught her ways to initiate one – ways that I don’t think required glistening powder. The princesses who participated in the Wishing Round all obviously know, but I realize I haven’t heard anyone chatter about it – ever. Relicant has referred to dream walks obliquely, and so has Blaylock, but no one comes out and discusses the topic in real life. Does Shellor know that some dreams are actually real?
“Tell me about it,” I say, reaching out and touching his wrist at the pulse point. I press my fingers against his skin, feeling his vein beat rapidly, the way it does when he’s close to one of his meltdowns.
He looks steadily at me, though, giving no sign that he’s about to wander away or mentally tap out. He spent last night in a fugue state. How quickly might he retreat into his own mind again?
“I was at some sort of menagerie show, with animals I’ve never seen before. I came across a pen of huge, hairy beasts with eight legs and six shiny eyeballs. The prince had one harnessed and saddled. He led it over to me.”
“Wait. Prince Relicant?”
Shellor nods and sips his water again.
My voice is barely above a whisper. “Snow dreamed of him too.” Relicant obviously had a busy evening. How many dreams did the prince barge into last night?
Shellor continues. “He told me to get on one of the animals, then he climbed on too. Once we were seated, the beast reared up on its back legs and smashed out of the pen like it was made of toothpicks. We tore across a barren land. The prince navigated by the stars, and I know he had a destination in mind, but I don’t know where it was because we never got there. I’m sure we talked of many subjects, but when I woke, I remembered only two things. They were incredibly vivid.”
Shellor’s pulse speeds up. He knows. He knows the dream was real.
“What did you remember?”
“He told me that the circumstances had changed, but he wasn’t sure by how much. He said, ‘If the tent is green, it’s still on. If the tent is brown, it’s not happening.’”
Now my own pulse is pounding as fast as my brother’s. “What an odd coincidence,” I say faintly. “With us here in a green-and-brown-striped tent the very next day. What do you suppose that means?”
Shellor scoffs. “What does it mean? It means nothing.” His voice takes on a preachy tone. “Dreams are just figments of our imaginations, the random misfirings of a brain trying to sort our experiences into categories and make sense of the world while we sleep.”
The vein in his wrist throbs erratically, the way it does when Shellor tries to lie. Shellor was a horrible liar back in Fourteen. Now, with the assistance of glistening powder, he sounds ultra-confident, and if I didn’t have my fingers wrapped around his wrist, I might never know he didn’t mean a word of what he just said. So he doesn’t know what to make of Relicant’s statement any more than I do. The tent is striped. Half and half. Are we on, or are we off?
“What was the other thing you remembered?” I ask. Maybe that will help me make sense of the tent situation.
“He said not to eat or drink anything I hadn’t prepared myself.” He laughs, a half-hearted chuckle. “Joke’s on him. I don’t know how to cook.”
“Why would you?” Snow interjects. “No one from Fourteen even has a kitchen. All we have is the community soup vat. What a strange dream, especially with King Ergondy’s edict coming when it did.” She doesn’t mention her own dream starring Prince Relicant, so I have to assume that he visited her first to talk through logistics. Things must have changed between when he visited her and when he dropped in on Shellor. Whose dream did he visit in the middle?
Shellor’s other hand, the one I’m not gripping like human-vise clamps, drifts subconsciously to pat his pocket, where I saw him tuck what I think is Glory’s tablet earlier, and I have a sudden flash of understanding. Shellor wrote that “weight loss” edict himself. He wormed his way into the system somehow and created that doctrine. Did that “edict” get distributed across the Queen Trials? Or did he only send it out to Glory’s device, then Bivka’s, when Glory asked for confirmation?
Glory. Oh, no. She ate breakfast anyway, then became violently ill on the way here.
Glory was poisoned. As I would have been if Shellor hadn’t stepped in to create a fake but legitimate reason for me to avoid Locality Five’s food.
Snow… She stirred the water with her finger. She knows too. The spores that live on her skin must have tested the water for her before she brought it over. What else might she know? I want to reach out and grab her wrist with my other hand, but I don’t know her well enough to read the fluctuations in her pulse the way I can read my brother’s.
I don’t know what to do.
Well, I mean, I guess I know not to eat anything but nutritional wafers unless Snow’s spores say it’s safe.
But that’s the easy part. What am I supposed to think about the green and brown tent? Are we escaping today or not?
I look around, my eyes seeking the dimmest corners of the tent, willing Relicant to step out of his invisibility bubble – if, in fact, he’s in one – and explain everything to me.
But Relicant doesn’t appear.
The five members of the Souri delegation do, though, as if I manifested them while wishing for Relicant. They walk through the open tent flaps as soon as my eyes turn that direction. I don’t think their eyes adjust to the change in the light level, because I watch them as their gazes sweep the tent. They literally look right at me, standing in the corner with Snow and Shellor, but they don’t seem to see me. Almost as one, they allow their postures to relax. Braz says something to Fra and she jostles against him, pushing him playfully with her shoulder as they walk to their side of the table and seat themselves.
