The Sun Dwellers (29 page)

“Temper, temper, Tristan. What did I teach you about controlling your anger?” He readjusts his sitting position, leans back more casually, one leg crossed over the other. “Where were we? Ah, yes, your mother. She did something very naughty, so I had to punish her—that’s all there is to it.”

I stand there seething, unable to move, my body wracked with a blind fury the likes of which I’ve never experienced before. My father takes my silence and stillness for weakness.

“Cat got your tongue?” he says. “Let me spell it out for you. I killed her with my bare hands! And I loved watching the life drain out of her face; loved kissing her lips as I held her down and she took her last breath; loved feeling her body go cold as we lay in bed together one last time.” He’s almost licking his lips with delight.

A profound sadness wraps around my anger, but I thrust it off. There will be time for grief later. For now, all I desire is revenge.

Adele

T
ristan’s voice! We did it! We’ve both arrived at the throne room at the same time, so there’s no need to wait. I’m shaking with excitement as I run the last few feet to where a door stands wide open.
Is this it?
I mouth to Roc.

Yes
, he silently communicates.

We creep into a rounded corridor, hearing the voices loud and clear now. Not just Tristan; someone else, too. Another familiar voice, but one that I’ve mostly heard in my nightmares: President Nailin. The Devil. My father’s executioner. My target.

“What did you do to her?!” Tristan screams, his voice echoing off the walls in the outer hallway. Whatever’s happening, he’s losing his cool. We need to be there for him. I creep another few steps.

“Temper, temper, Tristan. What did I teach you about controlling your anger?” Nailin says, as Roc and I close in on a gap in the wall, off to our left. “Where were we? Ah, yes, your mother. She did something very naughty, so I had to punish her—that’s all there is to it.” Even out of sight, his words are as cold as darts of ice—aimed at Tristan’s heart.

I move closer to the gap, waiting for Tristan’s response, but silence rules. Something clips my foot and I trip, nearly fall, barely manage to catch myself with a hand on the floor.

“You okay?” Roc whispers in my ear.

“I’m fine. I just tripped on something.” I feel around beside me, the tips of my fingers finding a soft lump wrapped in some kind of cloth. I work my way up it, trying to locate something that will identify the object. More cloth, sort of bumpy, and then—

—human flesh. I pull back sharply, barely able to clamp a hand over my mouth before letting out a high-pitched squeal which only makes it as far as the inside of my mouth. “It’s a body,” I say, dreading looking at the face of another dead friend, Trevor or Tawni this time.

Roc flicks on a light, careful to keep the beam focused toward the wall.

A stranger, mousy and thin. “An advisor,” Roc whispers. “Tristan probably knocked him out. His chest is moving, still breathing.” He extinguishes the light.

We hear: “Cat got your tongue?” The president’s voice, full of sarcasm. “Let me spell it out for you. I killed her with my bare hands! And I loved watching the life drain out of her face; loved kissing her lips as I held her down and she took her last breath; loved feeling her body go cold as we lay in bed together one last time.”

Although neither Tristan nor his father have mentioned the name of the woman they speak of, I know who it is. His mother, a woman he loves. Once I promised to help him look for her after this was all over. Now I know that won’t be possible.

Something bad is about to happen—I can feel it. The President wouldn’t be egging his son on if he wasn’t well-protected. And Tristan won’t back off now that he knows the truth. We need to move.

I jog the last few steps to the gap, peek around the corner, see the back of Tristan—Trevor next to him. Tristan’s just standing there, his knuckles curled at his side, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Between them I can just make out the relaxed figure of the President, sitting on his throne, not a care in the world.

Something bad is about to happen.

My mother’s necklace is heavy around my neck, as if the spirit of my father has entered it upon reaching the location of his murderer.

Tristan charges, ripping his sword from his side, holding it high above his head and letting out a fury-induced cry that would surely raise the dead. Trevor rushes after him, pulling his gun from its holster, and I’m about to spring from our hiding spot when I sense movement from above. Glancing up, I see them:

Dozens of red-clothed guardsmen leap from their perches on platforms near the top of the pillars spread evenly throughout the room. One lands directly in front of Tristan, blocking his path to the President. Another lands behind him, raises his sword…

I start running, already knowing I’m too late. Too late
again
. Just like with my father. There’s a familiar voice behind me—not Roc, more high-pitched—but I don’t stop—can’t stop—my eyes fixed on the gleaming metal that will kill the only person I’ve ever really—

A flash bursts from the muzzle of Trevor’s gun, accompanied simultaneously by an ear-shattering
BOOM!
Before his sword falls on Tristan, the guardsman cries out in pain, arches his back, slumps to the floor. As I enter the circle of light, there is red everywhere, more foes than I’ve ever faced, but if I can just get to Tristan and Trevor, maybe…

Three guardsmen pounce on Trevor, slash his gun with their swords, sending it clattering to the marble floor. He’s barely able to rip his sword from his scabbard and sweep aside their probing weapons. Tristan’s got his hands full with three others, probably unaware that he would be dead if not for Trevor. He goes for the gun at his calf but his opponents are attacking too fast and he has to remain standing to fight them off. I’m flanked by two men who finally notice my entrance into the battle. They’re smiling slightly, as if they foresee getting some twisted pleasure out of fighting a girl.

My bow is out before they have the chance to even think about taking a step toward me. I notch an arrow, send one through the first guy’s heart, and, fitting a second, let it fly into his partner’s gut, who collapses on top of him, blood dribbling from his mouth. Time to help Tristan and Trevor.

I shift my attention to Trevor, who’s the closer of the two. One of his opponents is writhing on the marble floor, a shadow of blood spreading under him. The other two are still putting up a fight, but are clearly losing, as Trevor’s superior sword skill starts to overwhelm them. Then I see it: a red form rise up, on its knees, blade held high. The guy who tried to kill Tristan from behind earlier, cut down by Trevor, injured but not dead. I level an arrow at the would-be killer, trying to get a bead on him, but Trevor’s body keeps moving in the way as he tries to fight off his opponents.

“No!” I yell, sprinting toward my friend and one-time savior.

He sees me coming, parries his two frontward opponent’s swords, slashing downward to cut off one of their hands, drawing a cry of anguish. Still running, I shoot the other one through the heart, hoping to free Trevor up to get away.

“Watch out!” I cry, drawing a confused expression from Trevor. But still he doesn’t move, just stares at me.

His attacker’s sword is in position. I’m three steps away but running through mud, my strides in slow motion. In fact, everything’s in slow motion, seconds feeling like minutes, minutes like hours, hours like years and years.

Beyond Trevor, Tristan turns, perhaps upon hearing my voice, sees the danger, slashes his sword across to disarm Trevor’s attempted murderer. Too late. Like me, he’s too late.

With a roar, the dying guardsman lunges forward, plunges the sharp point of his blade into the soft part of Trevor’s lower back. “No!” I scream again, seeing Trevor’s eyes widen, his mouth open. The blade comes all the way through, sticking from his stomach gruesomely. My tears are already falling, but I don’t stop, can’t stop, can’t let such an atrocity go unpunished.

Scattering my bow and arrows like a bundle of sticks, I draw my thin sword and slash it hard across the back of one of Trevor’s opponents. When he drops, I jam it into him again, ensuring his demise. When I pull my blade from him it’s slick with the blood of revenge, but it’s not enough. I jab it at his other opponent, the one who’s now missing a hand. He’s just staring at his severed wrist, babbling something, when my blade enters his gut. His eyes jerk to mine, as if surprised, but then he falls, dead before hitting the floor.

Behind Trevor, Tristan swings his sword once more, this time connecting with the murderer, a brutal killing stroke.

Trevor drops to his knees, his eyes glassy and fixed on mine. I cough, a choking sob that hurts my throat and head and soul, raise a hand to my chest, mouth
Thank you
, as tears run over my lips and tongue.

His lips curling into an unexpected, beautiful and heart-wrenching smile, Trevor says, “Finish this,” and then collapses to the floor. I know there’s no saving him and yet I rush to him, try to pull the sword from his back. I’m crying and groaning and straining with all my might to extract the damn sword—why won’t it budge?—which is compacted in bone and muscle and Trevor.
Oh God, why another friend, why not me? Why do I live while others die?

On the edges of my vision I see Tristan whirling and spinning and fighting to keep the guards off of me. While I’m mourning my dead friend, the fight goes on. There’s no time for mourning.

I pull myself away from my dead friend, who saved me
and
Tristan, who always helped to keep the mood light when everything was so dark, who my mom trusted with her life, who was willing to die for what he believed in.

I’ll never forget you, Trevor, I silently promise. I stand and rejoin the fight, the hot coals of revenge burning in my heart.

Tristan

H
e’s dead. Despite all our differences and his sometimes annoying, sometimes funny jokes, the weight of his death rests on my shoulders like a coil of thick, metal chains. I feel like I should take the blame, assume the responsibility as the leader of my group, but I know that’s more self-loathing than I deserve. For the blame lies not with me, but with my father, the black-eyed snake. Through the net of guardsmen that surround us, I can still see him. He hasn’t moved from his perch. His legs are still crossed lazily, as if the turmoil, the violence, the
death
around him is just part of normal, daily life. When he yawns, I snap.

I charge the line, intent on breaking through or dying in the attempt. Instead of fighting back, the guards merely block my strikes with their swords, wary of me but not afraid. Not willing to harm me, which is probably my father’s orders. He wants to break me before he kills me.

I back off, bump into someone, whirl around, and find that it’s Adele, her face tearstained but not defeated. There’s an intensity in her green eyes that makes her appear dangerous. A huntress. With a single nod she tells me she’s ready to fight. And so am I.

But before we’re able to attack, a garbled yell shoots from the back of the room. I whip my head in the direction of the sound. One of the guards has collapsed, having been stabbed in the back by an unexpected foe.

Roc.

Sword gleaming silver and red, he stands behind where the guard fell. He makes eye contact with me just as one of the men turns toward him.
No, no, no!
Not another; not my best friend; not Roc.

Bonk!
Something whacks the soldier in the helmet, knocking him off his feet. Roc didn’t move, so it must’ve been—

“Tawni!” Adele yells, spotting her behind a pillar. “Run! Get out of here!”

There’s a look in Tawni’s eyes that tells me she’s not going anywhere. As if to prove it, she hefts something over her shoulder and chucks it with two hands, narrowly missing another guard.

That’s when all hell breaks loose.

The guard that was nearly hit by what turns out to be an apple-sized metal ball—who knows where Tawni got it—charges toward her. Roc, who seems to be filled with more courage than all of us combined, steps in front of the guard, who’s nearly twice his size, and swipes at him with his sword. The guy dodges the blow casually, professionally, and then slashes at Roc’s head. He barely ducks under it, his eyes big and wide and scared. He’s just realized he’s way out of his depth. Tawni continues launching metal balls at anyone wearing red, hitting a few, but mostly missing.

I sprint toward where Roc is now blocking heavy killing blows, trying to use his quickness to keep his opponent on the move. Although Tawni and Roc have eliminated a few of the guards, there are still at least twelve upright and fighting—three of which bar the path to my friend. The clang of metal on metal rings out behind me—Adele’s got a fight of her own.

How has everything gotten so out of control? I wonder. The world is falling apart at the seams, and we—a few teenagers—are supposed to stop it? How we ever thought we could succeed, I do not know. But now all that exists is fighting and death and using my last breaths to reduce the size of my father’s guard force.