The Moon Dwellers Page 4

  I sigh. “I know, I know.” Roc is usually right. Flashing a grin, I say, “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “It’s the little things in life,” Roc says, smiling. His dark features look even darker as shadows fall upon the palace.

  “Like swords?” I say.

  “Yes!” Roc says, a bit too loudly. A passing servant woman glares at him. Mrs. Templeton—the palace housekeeper. She’s a nasty one.

  We make our way through the business end of the palace and into the residential quarters. The change in décor is like night and day. The government side is stark and official-looking, everything clean-cut, free of clutter, and stamped with the symbol of the Sun Realm—a fiery red and orange sun with wavy heat lines wafting to the sides. The living quarters still feel a bit too posh and sterile, but at least there are a few personal touches, all of which my mother added before she disappeared.

  There is the family portrait on the entry room table. Normally, I wouldn’t have any interest in a family photo. But this one I love, because it presents our family in such an honest light. My brother and I look bored, restless, with tousled hair and cheeky grins. My mother has her arm around the both of us, pulling us into her side. About a foot away, on her other side, is my father, not looking happy at all. The cameraman snapped the photo a split-second before he was able to turn on his friendly-President face, as I like to call it. You know, the one that’s so obviously fake it’s painful to watch. The kind of face you just want to slap.

  After that photo was taken, my father’s face went all red and he looked like he was ready to slug the photographer. But my mom managed to soothe him, rubbing her hand on his back and telling him how she liked the photo, how she wanted to keep it. That was back when she still had some power over him.

  Somehow she convinced him to display the photo prominently in our home. After she disappeared, I expected him to take it down. But either he’d grown to like it (which I doubt) or he’d forgotten it was even there (more likely). And so it remains, making me smile every time I pass by.

  A part of me clings to the hope that my father kept the photo there because he misses her, wants to remember her, but the more grown-up part of me knows better. Before my mother vanished, there was no love between them. It was purely another of my father’s business relationships, using my mother for the sole purpose of demonstrating stability at the top of the government.

  At some point in my parents’ relationship there must have been love—at least from my mom’s side—but I don’t think it lasted very long. As far back as I can remember he had the young, scantily clad servant girls. As a kid I thought they were just fun little helpers who giggled and helped my dad around the office. Almost like elves. That is one fantasy I wish I hadn’t outgrown. The truth is far too sickening.

  Roc is saying something. “Huh?” I say.

  He repeats himself. “You know it wasn’t your fault.”

  Roc’s words sound cryptic, but I know exactly what he’s talking about. My mother’s disappearance. Two years ago, but still as fresh in my memory as if it was yesterday.

  “I wasn’t thinking about that.” Well, not really. But it is on the fringe of my thoughts; it is always there. No matter if I am thinking about what to eat for lunch, or the next sword maneuver I will teach Roc, or even if I am thinking about a girl, like the one from today, thoughts of my mom are there, buzzing about on the edge of my consciousness, suffocating my heart.

  “It doesn’t matter what you were thinking,” Roc says. “I know you still blame yourself.”

  I don’t want to talk about it, don’t want to dredge up the memories again—they are too painful. I am fine to just let her memory cling to the edges of my mind where maybe, just maybe, I won’t have to face them. Sometimes talking to Roc is like talking to a shrink, only without the comfy couch to lie on.

  “Not now, Roc,” I say.

  “Then when?” he asks.

  “Maybe never,” I say honestly.

  Roc stops, grabs my shoulders with both hands, forces me to look at him. His dark eyes are serious. “Blaming yourself is like a curse eating you from within, a rogue virus, cancerous and poisonous. It will drive you mad if you let it. You’re my friend and I hate to see you like this. And your mother would hate to see her disappearance cause you to self-destruct.”

  I expected Roc to say something cliché like Blaming yourself won’t bring her back, Tristan, but instead, his words are like darts embedding themselves in my chest. I don’t want to let him down. Nor my mother. But I can’t help it. The pain is more than I can bear. The what-ifs are a cancer, like Roc said. What if I was a better son? What if I’d stood up to my father? What if I’d been with her on the day she disappeared, refusing to let her out of my sight? Would everything be different then? Would we be a happy little family?

  I want to believe the answer is yes, but in my heart I know it isn’t so. Accepting that fact will set me free. But I can’t…or won’t.

  Not that it matters. I will hang on to the what-ifs and continue to blame myself regardless of whether I truly believe I had any influence on the events that transpired.

  There isn’t much to believe in these days. I once believed in the love of a mother, but then she left me. I used to believe in honor, in chivalry, in the power that one person has to enact real, positive change in the world. My mother taught me all that. It vanished when she did.

  Now all I believe in is pain.

  Pain is the great equalizer, the cure to mental anguish, the antidote for a hopeful heart. It comes in all different forms—physical, mental, emotional, spiritual. Most days I like physical the best, choosing to throw myself into my training with unbridled aggression. I make my challenges impossible, sometimes facing twenty or more opponents simultaneously. And because I am the President’s son, they have to obey me, have to attack. At first they’re timid, afraid to bruise me, but after taking a whack or two from the broadside of my steel blade they change, becoming more ferocious than attacking lions.

  I still have scars from those training sessions.

  The beauty of physical pain is that it wipes out the other forms of pain. Not necessarily completely or for an extended period of time, but long enough to grant a reprieve from my tortured mind and soul.

  “On guard!” Roc yells, his teeth clenched together like a wild beast. He’s realized I’m not going to speak to him about my mother. I’m glad he’s given up for the time being. His new approach: beat it out of me.

  I don’t even have my weapon yet, but it doesn’t matter. Roc’s clumsy swings feel like they are in slow motion, coming in at awkward angles, without any attempt to hide his intentions: he is going for my head. He’s probably trying to knock some sense into me.

  He knows better than that—I’ve taught him better. Feinting is as important as the actual attack. Disguising one’s intent is the key to fighting. But he is on a mission. I know it’s because he cares about me—wants better for me—that he is trying to crack me across the skull.

  Not today.

  I spin to the left and drop to a roll, hearing Roc’s wooden blade crash thunderously into the wall behind me. When I fight it’s like I have eyes in the back of my head. I’m looking in the other direction, reaching for my own practice blade, grasping it, but I can picture Roc’s blade rebounding off the wall, him repositioning his feet like I’ve taught him, his next swing…

  I whirl around just in time, catching the tip of his sword low on my own. Thud! The sound is dull and won’t carry past the walls. We fight with wooden practice swords in the privacy of my room because no one can ever know I am training my servant to fight. It’s nearly as effective as using metal practice swords out in the yard—I can teach him the proper technique, the footwork, the positions—but I know at some point we will need to find a place to practice with real swords. If he is to get any better, that is.

  Instinct takes over. That and years of the highest quality training that money can buy. Without thinking, I bend my knees, str
aighten my back, keep my hips aligned with my shoulders. Roc attempts to do the same, but in the wall-length mirror I can see that next to me he looks amateurish, awkward.

  I’m not being vain. Just realistic. Roc needs lots of work on his posture. I can help with that. But not today. Today is about passionate fighting. At least for Roc. Me, I’m calm, unemotional, businesslike. Just like I’ve been taught.

  I easily parry Roc’s next three attempts at taking my head off, and then duck the fourth, moving in close to his body and elbowing him hard in the chest. One of the most important lessons in sword fighting—especially for real, life or death, fight-like-there’s-no-tomorrow sword fighting—is to use all parts of your body. Most people assume that because you have a pointy sword you should use it exclusively. Not so.

  With a grunt, Roc goes down hard. Lucky for him he crashes onto my bed, ruffling the perfectly ironed red comforter. One thing Roc has going for him is his athleticism. While not trained in the art of fighting, or of swordplay, he has a natural speed and quickness that is particularly effective on the defensive side. His speed temporarily saves him from another defeat at my hands.

  After crushing him with my elbow, I continue surging forward, following him onto the bed and attempting to get the point of my dull wooden blade under his chin and against his neck, which is the requisite for victory.

  He recovers beautifully, executing a graceful backwards roll, and manages to maintain his grip on the sword. He lands on his feet on the other side of the bed, grinning slightly. His brown skin is shining with sweat under the soft lantern glow. Outstretching his off-sword hand, he flicks his fingers back toward himself, as if to say, “C’mon, bring it!”

  I bring it. I launch myself over the bed, pointing my sword forward like a battering ram. Roc is forced to jump backwards, which allows me to land on my feet and go on the offensive. I feint hard to the left and Roc completely buys it. When I go right he’s left exposed. I connect sharply under his ribs and then whip a leg behind his knees, sweeping him off his feet. He smashes onto his back, losing his sword in the process. When he reaches for it, I step on the wooden blade.

  He gives me a wry grin.

  I give him my hand.

  Big mistake.

  He grabs my hand and pulls hard, throwing off my center of gravity and forcing me over the top of him. Although I’ve been trained to maintain a firm grip on my sword at all times, even to the detriment of the rest of my body, it’s difficult to do in real life when every instinct is telling you to release your sword and use your hand to break your fall.

  I practically throw my sword across the room. By the time I stop my fall and start moving to recover my sword, Roc’s quickness gives him the advantage. He already has his own sword in one hand, and mine in the other.

  “A little cheap, but a victory nonetheless,” I say.

  “My first one, sir,” Roc says, laughing.

  I hate losing, but I laugh, too. Roc knows I hate it when he calls me sir in private. It’s his way of getting even with me for my unwillingness to talk about my feelings.

  “Thanks, Roc,” I say, feeling more love for him than I’ve felt for anyone in a long time. Without him I’m not sure where I would be. A wreck for sure. Well, at least more of a wreck than I already am.

  For no reason at all, an image flashes through my mind: the black-haired girl sitting on the stone bench; her sad, green eyes; the eternal gulf between us bridged when our eyes meet. Then her fists are out to fight the ogre.

  That’s when I pass out.

  Chapter Three

  Adele

  A riot breaks out as I make my way back to my cell. That’s the way things work in the Pen. You’re minding your own business and then you’re in the middle of a brawl. Like the one I am in now.

  A fist the size of a miner’s hammer bashes the side of my skull, forcing my eyes shut and sending stars dancing across my field of vision. When my sight returns, I see what hit me. Wielded by a tattooed mountain, the clenched fingers are like a wrecking ball, colliding with anything and everything in their destructive path. And I am in the way.

  I can fight the guy, but he isn’t even fighting me. He’s just fighting in general, swinging at anything that moves.

  Each time I try to push through the human net surrounding us, clawlike hands force me back into the center. Ducking under another arc of human flesh and bone, I fire back, aiming my own punch at his ribs. When I connect, tendrils of pain rip through my hand and explode up my forearm. For a moment I think I’ve punched the stone wall by mistake. The steroidal teenage mountain looms over me, finally focusing his violence on a single target: me. I am in way over my head.

  His fist is the size of a basketball as it cuts toward my face. There’s no time to move. I close my eyes.

  I hear a groan before I’m knocked to the floor by a big body, but my head doesn’t hurt. When I open my eyes I am surprised to see darkness on top of me. And then I’m pulled to my feet by Cole, who charges through the impenetrable human blockade, tossing surprised bodies to either side as he pulls me to safety.

  We race down a hall and pass by guards who are striding in the other direction, their eyes sparkling with excitement, their knuckles white and gripping clubs and Tasers. They like when there are riots. It means they get to satisfy their lust for blood.

  We turn a corner and nearly run into Tawni, who is galloping toward us. Her eyes start on me, but then flick to Cole and widen. “Are you okay?” she says, lifting a hand to his face.

  I follow her gaze to Cole’s eye, which is already swollen. I realize that the reason my head isn’t hurting is because Cole’s is. He took the hit for me, and took it well. I’ve been protecting myself for so long that it feels weird to have someone else do something for me.

  “I’m fine,” Cole says, pulling Tawni’s hand away from his face.

  “Thanks, but—” I start to say.

  “No problem.”

  “I wasn’t finished. Thanks, but I could have handled him on my own. I know how to look after myself.” I’m being a brat, but I can’t seem to stop myself.

  Cole half-grins, half-grimaces. “Sure,” he says.

  “No, really, I was fine,” I say. “I know how to fight.”

  “If you say so,” Cole replies. “It just looked like that dude was gonna make mincemeat out of your face, but next time I guess I won’t bother…”

  I take a deep breath, try to stop being the cold, isolated person I’ve become. “Sorry…I mean…thanks. Yes, thank you—that’s what I meant to say.”

  “No problem,” Cole repeats. “Now we better get into our cells before that riot spills out this way.”

  I know he is right because I can hear the roar of chaos growing louder. I don’t know what else to say, so I leave them and head back to my lonely cell.

  * * *

  The sunlight retreats along the white windowsill. With each minute that passes, the shadows lengthen, until the light gives way to a troubled darkness, gray and soggy. The dark clouds challenge the omniscient sun, and the clouds prevail, like a black-armored army descending upon a shining and pure city of light. Skeins of rain beat upon the panes of glass. Moisture splutters under the base of the barely opened window, leaving the painted sill slick and wet. A few drops gather and push forward to the edge, slipping off and onto the plush brown carpet.

  If only.

  I wish that’s what I am seeing. Only I’ve never seen sunlight. Or sunshine, or sunbeams, or even a ray of sun. Those are just words in books—not real. Nor have I seen rain—or clouds, for that matter. Like sunlight, those are things of myth and legend. As told by my grandmother, who was told by her mother—a story passed down for generations. Not even my father has seen the sun. Or my father’s father. Or my father’s father’s father. You get the picture.

  The image in my mind is from a story my grandmother once told me before putting me to bed, when I was really little, before she died at the ripe old age of fifty. She told me lots of stories abou
t how things were before Year Zero, dozens of generations earlier. She made a point of telling me that things weren’t better then, just different. I don’t believe her. The sparkle in her eyes, the wistful way the words rolled from her tongue, the hidden grin behind her straight-lined lips: each of her subtle features gave away her lie.

  My grandmother wasn’t a natural liar. She only lied to protect me. That much I know. If she conveyed her true feelings about how much better things were before, she clearly believed it would endanger me in some way. Like maybe I would grow so depressed I wouldn’t eat or sleep or go to school. Or I might talk boldly to my friends about what she had told me, making myself appear treasonous, which would surely put a government target on my back. Whatever her reasons for lying to me—or if not lying, holding something back—I know they were pure.

  But no, I’m not seeing rain, or clouds, or much of anything. Just the inside of my pitiful gray cell inside the Pen. The walls are made of stone. And the ceiling. And the floors. Even the bed. Shocking, I know. It seems that everything in my world is made of stone.

  I’ve heard stories about how the Sun Realm has buildings made of wood, a substance that comes from the trunks of trees. I’ve only seen pictures of trees. Old pictures saved from up above. Or pictures my grandmother drew for me based on what her mother told her. They have all kinds of plants up there, or so people say. It is almost like they are living aboveground, with a synthetic sun, fake rain, artificial stars that come out at night. Why they are so privileged, I may never know.

  Privileged like Tristan. And his father.

  It isn’t the first time I’ve had a crush on a boy. From Year Eight to Year Ten I liked this guy, Torrin. Funny his name starts with a T, too, and sounds a bit like Tristan. I’m not the type of girl to run around in a tight, low-cut tunic, batting my eyes and winking and carrying on—there are plenty of other girls to do that—so instead I tried to just be at the same places as him. You know, take the same classes, join the same after-school work crews, that sort of thing. But either he never noticed me, or he was just as shy as I am. In any case, I never said one word to him.