Chapter 36-5

"Harper Vance and a guy named Birk." Britta's brow furrowed. "I know Harper. Her father was one of my first recruits and was a very good friend to me. And Birk passes messages in and out of the palace. He's recently started helping refugees and rebels find safehouses." "He's a tailor, I think." Her mouth opened. "Yes. He's very good at what he does. He quickly became one of the top runners." "Runners?" She nodded; her attention fixed on the darkness gathering outside the window. "It's been difficult to get spies in and out of the palace. And news already travels so slowly across the ocean, sometimes taking weeks before it arrive. And even once the message is delivered it can be hard to know what is rumor and what is fact..." She shook her head dismissively, black curls falling loose from her bun as she explained, "We have a system of runners—individuals who can get in and out of the palace mostly unnoticed. Birk is one, and Harper does the job sometimes. It's usually reserved for lesser noticed people. Harper tends to draw more attention, since people know she is a reporter. But a tailor is the perfect disguise. They can get in and out unseen, and can return time and time again without suspicion." I nodded, thinking of what Harper had said—"Are you relying on letters to communicate?" She shook her head. "Not entirely. We use telephones, but rarely—since most devices in Gazda are bugged, and it's hard to get things like that outside of the capital city. We used coding and telegrams, but those things aren't any more accessible. Recently, we've used radios. But like telephones, they can be tapped." She sighed. "Mostly, we're working with a firm foundation. I worked hard to make sure most of the big pieces were set in place long before I came here and I have people I trust in Erydia making sure that my people are ready when the time comes." I swallowed and glanced to where Cohen lay. "When were you going to tell him?" The question was cutting, a stab at an emotional wound I knew was just as fresh as the physical ones I now bore. "Were you going to wait until after the Culling? After we were all dead, after he'd married and had a new queen? Why—Why lie to him? Why let him think you were dead?" Britta reached forward and grabbed a cup from the tea tray. She poured it slowly, adding only honey before she took a long sip. I waited, prepared to ask again if need be. This wasn't something I would back down from. Even if she was claiming she wanted to help us, she'd let Cohen worry for her. She'd let Cohen and Uri mourn. After a few minutes, Britta spoke up, her voice just the barest whisper as she said, "My mother wasn't going to step down. You and I both know it. Cohen knew it too. And I'd heard whispers of a rebellion—I sought those voices out. But I was wary of it, especially when I tracked that source and realized that it had been building for years. Building and growing with Vayelle's support. It was also falling apart. People were turning from it. Realizing that perhaps Vayelle wasn't genuine in their desire to help. So, I found likeminded people. Erydians who had left that rebellion but hadn't forgotten what they'd started to fight for. They wanted change and...it was easy enough to become the beacon for that." "But when were you going to tell Cohen?" I swallowed, thinking of how hurt my friend had been, both by me and my betrayal with the Culled and by the realization that his sister had worked against him too. He'd had a hard time forgiving me. And our relationship had been brief. Brief and born of a desire to not be alone. We'd both been starved of affection and afraid and we'd sought comfort in each other. And when I'd lied to him, used him, he'd struggled to cope with it. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to find out that his sister, the person who had always protected him and cared for him, had plotted against his birthright. Kace's betrayal had been bad, but this...this was worse. And maybe I didn't have any right to judge her, but I felt compelled to say, "He didn't choose my rebellion, but I think he'd have chosen yours—if you'd offered it to him." Her eyes shone. "I didn't know if it would work. I didn't know if I could really do it—kill my mother, I mean. But I needed to try. I was willing to do anything to end her. Even come here. Even marry someone I wasn't in love with. All because I needed to see her dead. I needed to save my people." She sniffled and glanced up at the ceiling, trying to stop her tears. "I couldn't risk telling Cohen. If I failed..." She shook her head. "If I failed, she'd have killed me. And I couldn't risk it. I couldn't let her hurt them too. Not Cohen and not Uri. If someone needed to die for it, risk dying for it, I was willing to do it. I'm still willing." It wasn't the answer I'd expected. It wasn't really the answer she'd given Cohen. "Why—Why not say that to him the other day, when it all came out. Why not tell him that you were afraid of what Viera would do if she caught you?" She stirred her tea slowly, her eyes locked on the swirling liquid as she said, "It doesn't matter what I say to him, Monroe. The truth is still the same. I am going to take back my family's throne. I am going to save my people. They have been suffering and starving for far too long. You, of all people, know that. You have seen the worst of Erydia. And those people, people like your family and the millions of other families who are struggling to survive in a world that is intended to serve only those who were born into luxury, the people who are starving and dying in our outer cities...those people deserve help." "He agrees that Erydia needs change." "I would have been willing to depose Cohen if it came to it. If he stood in my way, then I would have removed him. He knows it. There's nothing I could say to erase that. To erase the fact that I was willing to sacrifice his happiness if it meant I could make changes. I'd hoped to remove my mother and keep Cohen from ever even being involved, but things didn't go the way I'd planned. You and your rebels..." She trailed off. "Let's just say: you made a mess of things. A mess I now have to clean up." We held each other's gaze for a long moment. That fire simmered in my blood and for once, I did not cool it. I did not push it down. I let that dark power whisper to me and I peered at it, met those ember eyes. It sang and I sang right back. Shadow. Dark and deep and terrible. I said, my voice soft and even, "I will not apologize to you for choosing myself. Not when you would have sat back and done nothing as I was forced to murder innocent girls. Not when you would have sat back while I was murdered. I will not regret joining the Culled. Not ever. Even if it was not the rebellion I had hoped it would be, it still got me out. Those damn letters, the papers and maps I sent to my brother—they saved me when no one else would. I saved myself." "Monroe—" I shook my head. "No. I don't want your excuses any more than Cohen does. He and I—we have apologized back and forth. We have broken each other in so many ways. And yes, I betrayed him. I did. And I hate that it came to that—but I became a monster for him. I became a monster because I had to. Because I could either become a monster or die." I shook my head. "So, I'm sorry your little rebellion didn't go the way you'd planned. Tough shit, Your Highness." When I set my cup of tea of the table, it was steaming—the dark liquid near boiling. I didn't wait for her to say anything else; I just muttered a quiet goodnight to Anna before I turned and strode from the room. Each step ached; the pain so bad it made my eyes water. But I forced my body to move, to stay steady. I counted each breath, praying to the goddess or these mystical Pellarmi gods that I wouldn't pass out. I made it out of the medical ward and onto the adjacent hall. My hands were white knuckled as I hauled myself up the stairs. The windows on the hall were still wide open, the vase Isla had used as an ash tray was still empty of flowers. Salt-kissed wind caressed my skin, brushing the hair back from my face. I took in a shuddering breath of it. I thought of the twenty-three Third Corps fires. I thought of the children trapped in the school. The hundreds of refugees I'd helped. I thought of Leighton, who had somehow found his way back into Viera's story—too late. And it was there, covered in sweat, shaking and gasping, I collapsed against the wall and wept.