Until the Princess Trials, I’d never met a Noble. I thought they were lazy, pampered cowards who would crumble under our might. I shake my head, despairing at the gaps in my knowledge.
Our footsteps echo through the empty hallway. We round the corner and reach a set of metallic double doors.
Georgette places her hand on the screen, allowing it to scan her palm. She recites a string of words and numbers, and its locking mechanism releases with a click.
She meets my gaze with a frown. “Are you ready?”
I nod. “Let’s go.”
With a gentle push, the door swings open, and my nostrils fill with a gust of pine-scented air. The sun hangs low on the horizon beyond the distant hills, bathing the entire landscape in warm light. Thick clouds roll overhead, their undersides an ominous black.
We step out onto the gravel path that cuts through a piece of land the size of Krim’s tomato field. Instead of tomatoes, rows upon rows of vegetables take up the space. Twelve-foot-walls surround the plot, topped by barbed wire.
My nerves are too frazzled to stop and admire the land, and I can’t even turn around to look at Master Thymel’s house. Standing straight ahead of us behind a door of iron bars are the two Harvester men.
The younger man is abnormally tall—nearly seven feet, with blond hair the exact shade of sand. He holds a silver pistol with a long magazine and a thick barrel, looking like it could kill everyone harboring Master Thymel. His older companion holds a huge automatic weapon the size of a guitar with a curved barrel. It’s made of black polymer and looks like it could launch an explosive.
As we approach, they lower their weapons and step back from the door.
“What’s this?” says the older man. “We were expecting a Noble, not a Harvester and an Artisan.”
The younger man raises his weapon. “That is Zea-Mays Calico, the royal mouthpiece.”
I stiffen at the venom in his words. “And you are?”
“Meadowhawk Mandarina.” The older man straightens. “From Morus.”
I nod. Morus is a few towns north of Rugosa and the home of Brunnea, the Harvester girl who cartwheeled her way into the Princess Trials. I turn my gaze up to the younger man.
“Cricket,” he says with a sneer.
My throat dries. I wait for him to offer his last name, his town, anything else that might distinguish him, but he remains silent.
“Who’s that?” Meadowhawk flicks his head at Georgette.
She introduces herself and her echelon. “Zea came here to get help removing her wrist cuff.”
Cricket raises his pistol. “You’ve brought her to the door. Open the door and step back.”
“Not until you let me join your cause,” Georgette says.
A sharp breath whistles through my teeth. I whirl around and gape at Georgette. She folds her arms and stares at the two men behind the electrified fence. From the hard set of her features, she won’t release me until they agree to let her come with them to the Oasis.
I have no idea what she’s thinking, but the Thymels just risked their lives to transport me to safety. Georgette is not about to betray me, and I hope she won’t get herself killed.
Cricket glances at Meadowhawk, who raises a shoulder as though to dismiss Georgette as a harmless distraction.
“Fine,” says the older man. “Will you open the door and let us finish our job?”
With a satisfied smile, Georgette presses her palm on the gate’s security screen, and we both slip out from the door.
Cricket reaches for my forearm. His fingers are long and cool and damp, making a shudder of disgust ripple down my spine. I turn my gaze up and stare into his bulging eyes. Something is off about his appearance. It’s not the bowl haircut, or the hollow cheeks, or the sticking-out ears, or even the prominent Adam’s apple.
My gaze drops down to the hand encasing my arm. Six fingers. Seven, if I count the extra thumb. My muscles stiffen with shock, and I force myself to relax. Cricket is no Harvester. He’s a Foundling.
Meadowhawk opens the door to the vehicle and ushers us into its dark interior.
“Zea-Mays Calico should go in the back,” Cricket snaps. “After we’ve searched her thoroughly for weapons, of course.”
“Don’t be stupid. She’s a Harvester, like me.” Meadowhawk places his hand on my back and gives me a gentle shove inside.
As I climb inside and sit on the hard, plastic seats, the last few pieces of the mystery fit together. It explains how a thousand Harvesters and a handful of Amstraadi soldiers could storm the Oasis while destroying every Guardian fort in Phangloria.
The Amstraad Republic didn’t just recruit the Harvesters, they’ve also recruited the Foundlings.
Georgette slips into the seat next to mine and shoots me a nervous glance. I smile, trying to reassure her we’ll survive… at least until we reach the Oasis.
Cricket slips into the front passenger seat and taps a few buttons on the console. His legs are probably too long for the driver’s seat. He twists around, his features twisted with hatred. “When you condemned a lot of innocent people to the Barrens, they arrived broken and thirsting for vengeance. Good luck facing your judgment.”
I lower my gaze to my lap. Of course. Ryce, Carolina, Vitelotte, and their families will probably want me dead.
Chapter Two
The drive along the mountains reminds me of when the fake hijackers had taken Prince Kevon, Lady Circi, and a supposedly dead Queen Damascena. Berta had driven the armored personnel carrier through roads like this. Back then, I only worried for my life. Now, I can’t stop thinking of how I can combine rescuing Prince Kevon with saving Mom and the twins.
Sunlight emerges through the distant peaks and through the vehicle’s tinted windows. The road ahead curves around pine forests that extend into the mountains. I slide down the plastic seat, trying to work out a plan. Meadowhawk seems indifferent to me. Does that mean Cricket exaggerated the extent of everyone’s resentment?
As we speed away from Master Thymel’s compound, I say, “You’re wrong about me.”
“Save the excuses for the Oasis.” Cricket taps the commands on the vehicle’s dashboard.
The screen alternates between Carolina’s speech and footage of people in Harvester uniforms taking over the Oasis. Rebels drag people out of restaurants, run through the Royal Hospital, pulling patients out of their beds, and gathering up unconscious medics.
It’s painful to watch but I can’t turn away, even though my insides tremble and my heart beats loud enough to drown out Carolina’s self-righteous voice. I can’t stop watching because I need to see what they’re doing to Prince Kevon.
Cricket turns around to shoot me a triumphant glower. It’s as though he considers me one of the oppressors. I press my lips into a tight line, wondering if he knows I’m a Red Runner.
Was a Red Runner.
If I had known the revolution would be led by a madwoman who killed indiscriminately, I would never have joined the resistance group. I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to stave off a headache.
An hour later, the road winds around a stretch of bare rock, and there’s still no sign of the Oasis. “He’s awake,” Georgette murmurs from my side. “Charmeuse just sent a message.”