The Essence (3 page)

He’d never imagined she’d become a soldier.

Or that she’d turn against him.

“You need to tell them to back off. What you’re doing is foolish,” she insisted, ignoring his complaints about the New Equality. “All you can hope to accomplish is to get yourselves killed.” She glanced up to watch his reaction.

His face twisted into a sneer.
“Is that what your queen tells you? That we can’t gain enough power to overthrow her?”
He took a step closer, still clutching the bloodstained cleaver in his fist, and Brook recognized that both his language—the all-too-familiar guttural intonations of Parshon—and his stance were meant to intimidate her.
“If I recall correctly, we wouldn’t be the first to challenge a queen . . . and win.”

Brooklynn’s eyes narrowed at the close-minded coward who stood before her. She drew her fingers away from her childhood carving, disgusted that she’d allowed herself to remember the man he’d once been. It was hard to imagine why she’d so desperately yearned for his approval for so many years, why she’d craved his notice.

Because he’s your father,
she silently chided herself. Of course she’d wanted his approval; she’d been a little girl without a mother and he was all she’d had.

Maybe if he’d spent more time with her after her mother had died, made her feel like something other than a housekeeper, she wouldn’t have found a home with Xander’s rebel army. Maybe she wouldn’t be a commander in the queen’s army now.

“You can’t win, is all I’m saying,” she spat back at him, speaking only in Englaise—the voice of the people—and knowing that it galled him that she did so. He preferred the old ways: a class system in which he was better, by birth, than nearly half the country. But what he conveniently forgot was that, by that same system, he was classified as a Vendor, and there’d been those who’d looked down on him, in the same way he looked down on Anson.

Brook, however, would never forget what the class system had meant: a lack of free will. “How many supporters can you possibly have? Three, maybe four hundred? To do what, go backward? To undo the good Queen Charlaina is trying to do? To give up the freedoms her reign has offered? Are they willing to give their lives for your cause?” She gave him a look that said exactly what she thought of his cause:
not much.
Then she glanced down casually at her fingers, examining a hangnail. “Besides,” she explained, “we’d crush you in a matter of seconds.” Her lips parted slowly, spreading into a grin as she glanced up again. It was daring, filled with intentional defiance as she baited the man before her, watching as the color rose in his face.

His lips tightened and his jaw flexed. Not a flattering look for him, she noted.

“You don’t know the half of whose support we have. What would you say if I told you that you’re outnumbered? That I could stop you from leaving here today if I gave the order? That me and my little insignificant band of protesters have the queen’s best friend at their mercy?”
The meaning of his words was crystal clear. He would sacrifice his own daughter to send a message to the queen.

Fortunately for her, Brooklynn didn’t back down that easily. “What if I reminded you that you
don’t
have the queen’s best friend at your mercy, but rather the commander of the First Division of the Royal Armed Forces? What if I were to tell you that to harm me would be considered treason, and that the mere threat that just passed your vile lips could send you to stand in front of a firing squad? Or worse, get you sent to the Scablands?” She took a step toward him, closing the slim gap that remained between them, until they stood—father and daughter—nose to nose.

“You don’t have the authority,”
he challenged in Parshon.

There wasn’t a trace of tolerance in her hardened expression. “Try me.”

He studied her for a long moment. He laughed then, a tight sound. Brook could taste the foul flavor of tobacco on his breath, lingering with the rancor inside him. The skin around his eyes wrinkled, like crumpled paper, but the eyes themselves remained flat. Emotionless.

“I was only jesting, dear daughter. You know I’d never harm you.” And suddenly he was the father who’d bragged of Brooklynn’s wood-carving skills. The same man who’d held her up on his shoulders to watch street performances and had given her sugar-covered fruits and sweets when her mother wasn’t looking. He reached out to stroke her cheek. Brook jerked away when his fingers—so cold they felt as if they belonged on a corpse—grazed her. “We’re flesh and blood, you and I,” he cooed. “If we can’t depend on each other, who can we count on?”

ii

I crept as silently as I could into the kitchens, which weren’t nearly as quiet as I’d hoped they’d be. It was hard enough to sneak around with a giant by my side, and it only became harder with everyone bowing to me and whispering words of respect, and then whispering some more when I passed. Gossip mostly.

This was one of the hardest things to get used to: people noticing me. I’d spent my entire life trying to go unobserved.

Funny, though, how convention tried to dictate my actions now, when once it was simply convenience. I’d merely worn the clothing available to any girl of my status—the Vendor class—and never thought to complain. Now that I could wear whatever I wanted, now that class was no longer an issue, I hated being told what was—and wasn’t—proper for someone of my
stature
.

And pants most certainly were not considered queenly.

I ignored the strange looks I received for my attire—gapes and stares whenever I donned trousers. But it made no sense to try to sit sideways on a horse when I could gain much better balance by sitting astride, something a skirt would never allow me to do.

Plus, the fighting lessons. I couldn’t possibly fight in a dress, could I? Not with any amount of decorum, anyway.

Of course, my father could never know that. He didn’t approve of me doing anything that put me in harm’s way . . . and hand-to-hand combat would most certainly fall under that category, lessons or not.

The rest of it, taking my place on the throne, hadn’t been nearly as hard as I’d imagined. I’d adjusted quickly, or at least I’d adjusted quickly by my standards. Considering that I hadn’t wanted the position in the first place, I thought I was doing pretty well.

In fact, there were things I actually liked about my new role.

Like seeing my country released from the tyrannical rule of an oppressive queen and her antiquated notions. Hearing the words of Englaise spoken everywhere I went, while never having to pretend I couldn’t understand what was being said. And the fact that my parents no longer had to work from sunup to sundown to provide for us.

I grinned as I caught a glimpse of my father, his arms buried all the way to his elbows in a thick pillow of bread dough as he concentrated on kneading and pulling and twisting the mass, forcing it to conform beneath his insistent hands. Some things, it seemed, would never change.

A woman in the kitchen staff caught me standing in the doorway and dropped into a curtsy. “Your Majesty.”

My father glanced up from his task. “Spying now, are we?”

I stepped all the way into the immense kitchens, Zafir remaining silent by my side.

The palace kitchens were a far cry from the kitchen my father had once worked in—the one in our family restaurant. Here, he had seventeen ovens, five enormous sinks, and an endless stretch of counter space on which to work.

Yet even though he refused to stop working in the kitchens, he had acclimated to this life much faster than I had. He looked younger, healthier, happier than he had in years. Maybe ever. Even the callouses on his hands had grown less coarse during the weeks since he’d stopped toiling at our family restaurant.

I smiled. “Just wondering why you can’t find something else to fill your time. A hobby or something. Maybe you should take up horseback riding. We could take lessons together.”

Wiping his hands on the well-worn towel that draped from his belt, he met me in the center of the polished marble floor, finer than any of the stone tiling found in the vendors’ part of town. “Yes, I can see that’s working out so well for you.” He reached out and plucked a leaf from my hair as he examined me with a worried expression, surely inspecting the bruise on my cheek that had nothing at all to do with riding. “Are you certain this is something you should be doing?”

I shrugged. It’s not as if I enjoyed the lessons
.
“That’s what I’m told. If I ever plan to leave this realm, the train lines only extend so far, and until we can establish trade with the other queendoms—those with access to fuel—we don’t have a lot of other options. Sabara’s resistance to technology and change has left us stunted.” Her name tasted like bile on my tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste that turned my stomach. “Ludania
will
progress if I have any say in the matter. Even if it means I have to learn to ride a horse. . . .” I shrugged again.

He laid his hand on the side of my face, pressing it to my cheek like he had when I was just a girl. “Well, be careful. It’s admirable that you feel such a strong desire to tend to your country, but you need to take care of yourself as well.” He glared at Zafir, not caring that the guard stood several heads above him. “Your country needs its queen.”

“I’m fine,” I said, and I wondered which of us, exactly, I was trying to convince. “Besides, I think I’m getting better at it. The horse is starting to like me.”

Beside me, Zafir chuckled beneath his breath.

I turned to scowl at him. “What? You don’t know. You weren’t even there.”

Riding lessons were one of the rare occasions Zafir left me in someone else’s hands, mostly, I assumed, because he didn’t care for the horses and only rode when absolutely necessary. Each and every time, though, he told Sebastian that he was under the threat of dismemberment should any harm fall upon me. And although I was sure Zafir was only joking with the boy about injuring him, Sebastian took the giant guard at his word, keeping close watch over me during those lessons.

“I hear things,” Zafir answered. “And the things I hear sound nothing like the things you just said. If it’s possible, I hear you’re actually getting worse.”

My mouth opened to argue, but my father spoke first. “You are supposed to be with her at all times. You are never to leave her unattended.”

Zafir shifted uncomfortably. It would have been almost laughable to see the giant squirm, but just as a smirk found its way to my lips, my father turned on me. “Is that how you’re running things around here? Exposing yourself to danger by roaming about without protection? You put us all in danger by behaving that way, Charlaina. Angelina’s not yet ready to take your place should something happen to you.”

It was impossible not to notice that everyone around us had stopped what they were doing and were listening as my father scolded me. I felt like a child, and my shoulders fell as I dropped my head. He was right, of course. But it wasn’t entirely my fault.

I tried to remind myself that I was the queen, that I was the one who gave orders. This was my queendom. But it didn’t matter.
He
was still my father.

I shot a scathing look at Zafir. “I wasn’t alone,” I finally answered, but my voice carried no real weight, and even I knew it was a pathetic excuse.

“Really?” If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn my father was enjoying this, letting me know that no matter what my position, I was still his daughter. Honestly, though, I think he was really just worried. “Who was with you? Claude?” he asked, naming another one of the royal guards. “Xander or Max? Because I’m sure it was none of them; I’ve seen them around the palace today.
All of them
.” He emphasized the last words, making certain I wouldn’t try to lie to him, to appease his fears.

“Sebastian,” I admitted, almost in a whisper.

I knew even before he responded what was coming. “
Sebastian
?” he said, practically choking. “The stable boy?”

This time I lifted my head to meet his gaze. “He’s the stable master.”

“He’s just a boy!”

Inwardly, I rolled my eyes. Outwardly, I tried to be reasonable. “Dad, he’s not. He’s of age, and he’s the best instructor there is. Besides, nothing happened.”

My father’s eyes raked over me, taking in my mussed hair, my dirty face, and my ripped trousers. He knew
something
had happened, but he didn’t need to know I was training to fight as well. He’d never forgive Zafir if I told him that part.

“Fine,” I finally said, hating his scrutiny and knowing he wouldn’t relent. “Next time I’ll take Zafir.” I could feel Zafir stiffen beside me, and I had to squelch the urge to smirk. That’s what he got for mocking my riding skills . . . or lack thereof. “Will that satisfy you?”

And just like
that
my father was smiling at me, as if he’d never been worried or angry in the first place. But there was a triumphant gleam in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “That would make me more than satisfied, Charlaina. That would make me positively overjoyed.” And then he winked at me. “Now you should go get cleaned up.”