I pause in front of the mirror, remove my shirt, use the clean parts of it to wipe the white off my face and the soaked-through blood from my chest. I open a random door—some meeting room—and toss the soiled and bloody tunic inside; I’m better off going shirtless in this case. Finally, I lick my fingers and maneuver my hair so that my wavy locks fall in such a way that they look both natural and contrived at the same time.
Taking two full breaths, I round the corner. There are two stewards at the end of the hall, in front of a large oak door. When they see me, their eyes widen and they stand up a bit straighter. One of them says, “Master Tristan? But you’re supposed to be bedridden. Your father made it very clear you wouldn’t be attending the ball tonight.” The man is tall and ultra-skinny, with a well-trimmed goatee and a thin mustache.
“I’m perfectly fine—can’t you see that?” I return, putting on my best imitation of my father’s condescending tone.
“But your tunic!” he exclaims, his face reddening slightly.
“What tunic?” I ask.
“You’re—you’re not wearing one!”
“It’s the Sun Festival. Really, you’ve got to learn to live a little, Bo,” I say, moving between them. “The door please.”
Flustered, but not so much that they would ignore a direct command by the son of the President, Bo and his partner each grab one of the double doors and drag it open, sweeping a hand for me to enter. “As you wish, sir. Enjoy the evening.”
I smile and enter, waiting for the doors to close behind me before moving further into the room. The music is louder now, but nothing like the pumping base at the first Sun Festival party we attended. Sun dwellers wearing all manner of luxurious attire are dancing and mingling and drinking flutes of wine and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres being carried on silver trays by servants.
I take one step into the room, whistle as loud as I can. “Ladies and gentlemen!” I shout. “May I have your attention, please!”
One by one at first, and then in groups, the people stop moving and a hush falls over the room. The music stops. All eyes are on me, but I feel no fear. My father is dead, his guards dead. As Adele said, I’m the only Nailin left.
“I have an announcement to make!” I say, half-aware of a group of deeply tanned young girls who are giggling and pointing at my bare chest. “My father, the President of the Tri-Realms, and my brother, Killen, were both killed in an unfortunate accident.”
Although things were relatively quiet when I first made my entrance, now it’s like all sound has been sucked from the room. There’s not as much as the shuffle of someone’s feet, the clinking of a glass, or a whispered remark. Even the giggling girls have stopped giggling, their jaws dropping open in a similar fashion to the rest of the partygoers.
A man steps forward, one of my father’s generals, not on the front lines with his men, but attending the party of the year. Some leader. “What do you mean killed?”
The question is so dumb and yet I know why he would ask it. To these people the President is invincible, almost immortal, a symbol of solidarity and the way of life that they love. And so I answer: “My father is dead,” I repeat. “And my brother. A new weapon was being demonstrated for them and the guards, something went wrong, and they were all killed. One of the housemaids called me down from my room as soon as it happened.” The truth may come out later, but for now I have a war to stop. And if I have to tell a little white lie to buy these people’s cooperation, I’ll do it.
It works. “My God,” the general says. “But that means that you’re the—the—”
“President of the Tri-Realms,” I finish for him. “Still President Nailin, just in a different size and shape. And younger, too,” I add. I feel strange just saying it, like it’s a joke, which it sort of is, in a way.
The silence drops to the ground, shattering like a broken glass into a million pieces that burst into a plethora of sounds: People yelling, “Long live President Nailin”; girls screaming, “Marry me, Tristan!”; the dull buzz of conversation as people weigh in on what this all means for the Tri-Realms.
It’s distracting and I don’t have time for it. “Silence!” I roar, doing my best to sound and look strong and in control. “I need to see the generals in private. Now,” I add to convey the urgency of the request.
With a shrug, the general waves a hand indicating that the other generals in the room should follow. I push through the doors, past the stewards—who scramble to hold them for me—and down the hall, opening the first meeting room door I come to that’s not the one I chucked my bloody tunic into. The generals—all men, of course; my father wouldn’t dream of having a woman as a war leader—come in after me.
“Take a seat, gentlemen,” I say, wishing I could address them as scoundrels, which seems more fitting.
“Is he really dead?” one of them says, a largish man with a thick, gray beard. All of them are wearing gray or black dress tunics, complete with bow ties and shiny shoes. Ready for a night of frivolity.
“Yes,” I say. “But there will be time for mourning him later. We have urgent matters to attend to. The war.”
“Of course. You’d like an update?” another general says, pushing his blue-plated glasses higher on his nose.
“Make it quick,” I say.
“In short—we’re killing them,” the man says, pride lighting up his face.
“Well, stop,” I say.
The man raises his eyebrows. “Stop, sir?”
“Yes. Stop. A simple word, meaning to discontinue, end, or otherwise cease one’s current behavior. Stop the war. Stop the killing. Call a temporary truce until I can meet with the moon and star dweller leaders.”
“Meet with them, sir?” I swear my father’s generals are as dumb as rocks. Stop, meet: these are not hard words to understand.
I sigh. “I want to meet with them, discuss how to end the war peacefully.”
“But we’re winning, sir.”
“I don’t care if we’re winning!” I scream, letting all the emotion of the last few hours come out through my mouth. “Give the order to stop. Now!” I hand him the comm set in the center of the table. “Start the process. And if I hear about anyone killing any moon or star dwellers after the order is given, they’ll be put to death. Is that clear enough for you, general?”
The general, white-eyed and paler than usual, takes the comm set and presses a button.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Adele
It will take more than one dead president and a ceasefire to make things better for everyone. Surely Tristan’s claim to the presidency will be challenged once they realize that it was no accident that killed the President. A full investigation is already underway.
I sit in a chair with my arm in a sling, Tristan beside me reading his mom’s book. Tawni sits abreast of Roc, who continues to lie sleeping in the white hospital bed, his stomach heavily bandaged. The doctor said the procedure went well, that he checked all his vital organs and that “Quite frankly, he got lucky. Everything appears to be okay in there.” So he sewed him up, pumped him full of painkillers, and told us Roc will wake up when his body is good and ready.
Tawni hasn’t left his side since the doctor gave her the okay to move in beside him. For two days she’s sat by him, sleeping with her head next to his. She’s holding his hand, rubbing his thumb gently with hers. She’s singing something so softly that I can’t make out the words or the tune.