Page 130 of The Song Rising

The New Year Jubilee was set to be the biggest event in years. It would take place in the Grand Stadium, which was only ever used for ceremonies. There was a screen at the end of the corridor, and I could just make out the broadcast.

Murmurs echoed between the walls as dignitaries and ministers from the Archon filed past my cell on their way to watch the show. Several of them stopped to scrutinize me. Among them were the Minister for Surveillance; the portly Minister for Arts; the sallow-faced Minister for Transport, whose nose betrayed her illegal drinking habit. Luce Ménard Frère and the French emissaries spent a considerable amount of time observing what a frightening creature I was. All the while, I fixed them with a dead-eyed stare. When the French party got bored, Frère stayed behind, one hand on her rounded abdomen.

“I am pleased,” she said, “that my children will grow up in a world without you in it.”

She walked away before I could think of a reply.

Now I understood why I was in this cell. For my last hours, I was to be displayed as a war trophy.

Jaxon came to the door for one last look. I thought I could see authentic sorrow on his features.

“So this is the end,” he said. Somehow he sounded both angry and solemn. “I present you with an opportunity to live, to keep your gift from fading into nothing, and you spit at it.”

“That’s my choice,” I said. “It’s called ‘freedom,’ Jax. It’s what I fought for.”

“And how hard you fought,” he said gently. He turned away. “Goodbye for now, O my lovely. I will remember you fondly, in your absence, as my unfinished masterpiece; my lost treasure. But bear this in mind: I do not like to leave things unfinished. Not masterpieces, and certainly not games. And perhaps our game is only just beginning.”

I raised one eyebrow. He really was a madman.

With the softest of smiles, he was gone.

Unfortunately, Jaxon was not my last visitor. The next was Bernard Hock, the High Chief of Vigilance—one of the few people in the Archon who was permitted to be voyant, whom I had seen once before in the penal colony. He looked less than pleased to be in a suit as he entered my cell.

“Don’t cry now, bitch.” He grasped my arm and stabbed a needle into it. “Just lie there nice and quiet. The executioner will be here after the Jubilee . . . then you’ll cry.”

I shoved him off me. “How does it feel to hate yourself as much as you do, Hock?”

In answer, he backhanded me and left the cell. Soon, the sounds of conversation waned from the corridors.

I shivered on the floor, cold to my bones. It was a short while before the Sargas finally passed, accompanied by Frank Weaver and several other high-ranking officials, including Patricia Okonma, the Deputy Grand Commander. They must be going separately from the rest.

Alsafi brought up the rear. The sight of him made the hairs on my nape stand on end.

None of them so much as glanced at me, but as Alsafi walked by, I saw—as if in slow motion—a tiny scroll fall from his cloak and land within my reach. I waited until they were out of sight before I snatched it.

EUPATORIUMICE PLANTCLEMATISGROUND LAUREL

Eupatorium:delay. Ice plant:your looks freeze me. Clematis: that could either meanmental clarityorartifice, if I remembered correctly. Ground laurel:perseverance.

I read it several times.

Delay—it hadn’t happened.

Frozen by a look—he was being watched.

I leaned against the wall of my cell and grasped my own arms, as if that could hold me together. I didn’t know whatmental clarityorperseverancewere supposed to mean to me now, but one thing was clear.

He hadn’t done it.

And I couldn’t do it. I had already been drugged—rendering my gift useless—and in a few hours, I would be dead.

With a mewl of frustration, I buried my face in my knees.

They had broken me; Nashira and Hildred Vance had succeeded in breaking me. I was a malfunctioning mind radar. I shook with silent, rib-racking sobs, loathing myself for being so stupid as to hand myself to the anchor; soarrogantas to think I could survive for long enough to carry out the mission.

Trembling, I read the note again, trying to control my breathing. Ground laurel.Perseverance. What the hell did that mean? How could he persevere if he was being watched?

Clematis.Mental clarity. Artifice. Which of the two meanings did he intend me to take from it, and why?

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