Rebel Song Page 6

  “So what does this mean then?” Rogan asked. It was a rhetorical question. They both knew exactly what it meant. Elyra stared desperately at him, trying to imagine her world without the comfort of his friendship, without ever feeling the energy that was between them—without ever feeling his kiss again.

  “Rogan...since I’ve known you, my world has been a brighter place. You’re the only one I can talk to—the only one that understands me. And you’ve opened my eyes to things. Things I can’t look away from. I don’t want to lose that...” She bit down on her lip to keep the threatening tears at bay. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Rogan stepped toward her and touched her cheek for a moment, then lowered his hand his eyes full of regret.

  “You already have,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe…maybe you never really had me.” He backed away from her slowly and turned. And as she called his name, he just kept going.

  CHAPTER 9

  Each day away from her was agony—mind-numbing, paralyzing agony that felt like a piece of his core had been carved out. He traced the photo he had snapped with his old rickety camera, but a simple low-quality image could never be enough to satisfy his desire for her. He hungered for her, craved her. Knowing he might never taste those lips again was maddening. Was he a complete idiot for running away? She might have betrayed him, but she hadn’t meant to. And he couldn’t deny the fact that he’d been a completely blind, love-sick idiot. How had he not seen this? How did he not know what the Princess of Arelanda looked like? She had to have been in the papers at some point… but when had he ever cared about royals? Hell, the cause barely considered them human. He knew the King’s face and his fat-cat Minister General’s—who didn’t?—but the Princess? How could he have been so utterly stupid?

  His anger faded into something like understanding as the days passed. She hadn’t known how dangerous her game had been. She couldn’t possibly know because he hadn’t told her the entire truth, either. She didn’t know about his father, or Uncle Colt or the taint on his blood. She didn’t know about his involvement in the Cause. He was just as responsible for their predicament as she was. At least, that is what he told himself. It helped to quell the burning in his chest when he thought of her. He desperately wanted to confess to Ben, but now more than ever, discretion was a necessity. He dared not even think about her too loudly. Coupled with his yearning was genuine fear—fear he would never see her again, fear they had been followed and had already been discovered; fear that everyone could read his desperate thoughts. He had held the Princess of Arelanda in his arms, for God’s sake. He had tasted her mouth and felt the smooth curve of her hips against his. In some countries, he could be hanged for far less.

  As the days passed, he kept his head down but his eyes wide and shifting. He filtered out Jasper’s chatter as they strode through the vineyard rows and ignored the babble circulating Rawdry’s Pub. He listened for whispers on the air and stayed awake at night in case she slipped through his window with the shadows. Lorena was convinced he’d taken ill with red fever and he played into her fears to mask the truth. But after three weeks of sleep deprivation and self-induced near starvation, he knew something had to be done or he’d be a ghost before the month was out.

  His guts were twisted and raw with bile when he finally stood facing the Arelanda City Library’s iron gates. He hadn’t been inside the ancient, ornately-carved building, which pre-dated nearly every structure still standing in the capital, since his mother died. She had loved the ceilings that seemed to stretch to the heavens, painted with whimsical murals of river nymphs and centaurs and other fantastical allegories. When he was little, he would whine and pout every time she dragged him inside for hours on end to read about the histories of the world. Atlanna Elwood had been passionate about the stories of those that walked before them. “We must understand our past so as not to repeat it, Rogan,” she would say. Now, he would have given anything for a long boring Saturday among her books with her. Would his mother approved of what he was about to do now? Probably would, he smiled. She had fallen in love with Theron Elwood, after all.

  Rogan took a brave step toward the gates. Then another and another until his hands grasped the cold iron bars. With a deep breath of courage, he pushed the gates open and walked into the courtyard. A pristine garden of rose bushes and well-manicured shrubs decorated the short narrow path to the engraved wooden front door, which stood as tall and ominous as if it were a the entry to a palace. Once the site of a great library and temple to the ancient pagan gods that held rule over Arelanda nearly 2,000 years ago, the refurbished library hosted an archive of works dating back to the dawn of Arelanda’s first kingdoms. When the New Faith—as they called it then—conquered the followers of old gods, a bloody slaughter invaded the temple library, painting the ancient texts red with holy blood. To be in the presence of so many souls was chilling. Maybe that’s why Atlanna had loved it so much, he thought. Maybe she could see things in that old library the rest of them couldn’t.

  He made his way up the narrow path to the front door—Sants Keep the King painted boldly over the entry—and forced himself inside the old building. A wiry woman with streaks of silver in her otherwise raven black hair sat behind a reception desk, scribbling away. He stood for a few seconds, finally coughing to alert her of his presence. She raised her head from her work and stared at him through her thick framed glasses with a dull look that suggested she was entirely uninterested in whatever it was he had to say.

  “Can I assist you?” She asked.

  “Yes, I heard that you have an afternoon program for tutoring. Reading and such,” he babbled, too anxious to be fully articulate. The receptionist twisted her thin pale lips and ran her eyes up his frame.

  “You look a bit old for a tutor, my boy. But then again, I am never surprised to see grown men and woman around here who don’t know their letters.”

  Rogan shook his head.

  “Oh no, not for me, ma’am. It’s for my little sister. She’s only six and has a terrible time making sense of it all. She might be slow, we’re not sure. But we think she could use some extra help if you have the space,” he lied. The receptionist nodded.

  “I see. Well Mistress Pryor hosts a session every Friday, which is today, in the back room. I don’t think she’s full up this time of year. Most children that age are in school full time. It’s none of my business why your little sister is not,” she raised her hands to show her indifference, although her tone of voice was laced with both curiosity and disdain. Only the poorest of the poor kept their children from school. When Rogan didn’t offer her any explanation, she raised her eyebrows and reached for a large book with a black leather cover. She flipped it open to what looked like a schedule and scanned the page, uttering mindless hmms as she did.

  “Well, as I said it looks like there are good amount of spots open right now. You are welcome to drop in next week to observe and see if your sister will find it useful. But I can’t imagine you have other resources available to you then, do you?” She said with a hint of accusation.

  “May I observe the session right now?” he asked. The receptionist’s mouth gaped open in uncertainty. “It’s just my sister is very shy. I’d rather be sure she will feel comfortable first.”

  “Well,” she started, looking apprehensively to each side. “I…that’s an unusual request, but I suppose that would be acceptable. If you promise to be quiet I will show you to it.” She rose from her desk, and led Rogan down the narrow hallway of the old library. As the door approached like a beacon of hope, she stopped abruptly and turned around to face him.

  “Before I show you in, there is something I must go over. We are very fortunate that our great leaders have determined that the education of our children is of utmost importance to our prosperity.”

  “That is very good,” Rogan bit back the urge to laugh.

  “And because of this generous dedication, we are fortunate that a great member of our country has committed her time to to
uching these children with her own majestic hands.” The words sounded scripted and rehearsed as she spoke them with a stern expression. “I understand that you don’t encounter such greatness in your daily life, so I must ask that you do not make a scene or badger Her Highness with mindless questions or complaints. Is that clear boy?”

  Rogan smiled but nodded.

  “Her Highness?” He tried to offer a natural response to such news.

  “The Princess Royale, of course” she revealed.

  “What an honor.”

  She narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

  “Are we clear?”

  Rogan nodded.

  “Of course, ma’am. I will be a shadow on the wall.”

  She nodded curtly and proceeded toward the door.

  “Wait here.” She rapped on the door gently, then entered and quietly announced to Mistress Pryor that there was a visitor. Upon being given permission to enter, the receptionist opened the door wider and gestured for Rogan to enter. The room was speckled with children ranging from five or so to about twelve, seated at wooden desks, eagerly listening to instruction. When he caught site of El, his chest nearly collapsed. She stood at the front of the room with a book in hand. She was dressed in a knee-length blue dress with long flowing sleeves and a neckline revealing just enough to heat his blood. Her auburn hair cascaded to the side, tied in place by a blue ribbon. She was chatting with a young boy of seven or eight who had long, shaggy blonde hair and wore tattered coveralls with his right arm in a sling, summoning memories of a young Benton. She glanced up and her words caught in her throat when she spotted Rogan in the doorway. For a few seconds, or maybe years, they stood locked in a private gaze. She then realized herself and pulled her attention back to the class.

  “Pardon the intrusion, Your Highness,” Mistress Pryor began. She was a younger woman of perhaps twenty-five with a soft kind face and muted brown hair twisted into a knot. Her floor-length skirt embroidered with delicate flowers and a long sleeve shirt buttoned up to her neck did everything it could to hide any possible femininity. “We have someone who would like to know more about the program we offer.”

  Elyra stood straight and Rogan noted the way the right side of her mouth turned up in a subtle grin.

  “Of course. Jonah, can you excuse me for just one moment, darling?” She said to the shaggy-haired boy. The boy nodded and she affectionately tousled his hair. Elyra glided toward him as gracefully as if she were floating, one slender leg in front of the other. He could see the fire in her eyes as she sauntered up to him, offering him a courteous bow, a gesture reserved for those you regard as important and owed respect.

  “May I present her Royal Highness, Princess Elyra Ballantyne,” Mrs. Pryor said to Rogan with glee in her voice, obviously proud to have the princess in her presence.

  “Your Highness honors me,” Rogan said with well-practiced courtesy and a deep bow. He noted Elyra’s smirk and did his best not to laugh.

  “I am pleased to meet you Mr.…” she trailed off.

  “Rogan Elwood, Miss.”

  “Pleased to acquaint you Mr. Elwood. You are here to be tutored then? You seem fairly learned, if you were to ask my humble opinion.”

  “Her Highness is so kind,” Mrs. Pryor interjected, still beaming.

  “I’m seeking someone who can help my little sister. She struggles with her letters. She might be dim-witted. Not sure.”

  “That is very sad,” Elyra made an artificial frown to mask a smirk. “We would be happy to have her. I happen to specialize in the dim-witted, apparently. Why don’t you have a seat and observe how we run our sessions?”

  Trying to ignore Mistress Pryor’s glare, Rogan took a seat in a red child-sized chair in the back of the room—feeling more than slightly ridiculous as his long legs protruded into the aisle. Elyra picked up her book and began her lessons again. After she had recited a few poems and reviewed the way to properly write cursive letters, she closed her book and smiled warmly.

  “Thank you, my darlings,” Elyra said to the rows of wide-eyed children. “Remember to practice writing your letters every day and read whatever you can. I will see all your lovely faces next week.” She offered them her warmest smile.

  “What do we say to Her Highness?” Mrs. Pryor asked the classroom.

  “Thank you!” They squealed.

  “And?”

  “Sants keep the King!” They all shouted. Mrs. Pryor nodded and excused the children.

  Elyra waited patiently at the front of the room with Mistress Pryor until the children had all scurried out eagerly, a few stopping to stare curiously at Rogan. One wide-eyed girl with curly blonde pig tails stopped in front of him.

  “She’s a real princess, you know. Just like a fairy tale,” the little girl said with a toothless grin.

  “That’s what I hear,” Rogan smirked as the girl scampered off.

  Elyra walked to where Rogan stood cross-armed at the back of the room.

  “Well done, Miss,” he said with a wry smile. She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Mr. Elwood. I would love to know your thoughts on the session. Would you care to accompany me for a cup of tea in the back garden?”

  Rogan had to admit she was a devilishly convincing actress.

  “How nice of you to spare the time.”

  “I will see you next week, Mistress Pryor.” Elyra said as they left the room.

  The old city library boasted an elaborate back garden with sprawling exotic ivies and robust rose bushes. With two glasses of chilled black orange tea in hand, they found a stone table that was far enough from curious ears but central enough to avoid arousing suspicion, including that of the two broad-shouldered guards standing cross-armed by the doorway.

  “Your friends?” Rogan nodded toward the guards. She scowled.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped in a whisper. Her eyes narrowed into emerald slits.

  “I had to see you. I’ve been going crazy these past weeks.” He reached out to touch her hand but she ripped it away.

  “Do not forget yourself, Rogan.”

  Anger fanned his pride but he talked it down.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just been so long since I’ve felt your skin.”

  Her cheeks flushed with a rush of heat.

  “And when did you get so charming?” Rogan curved his mouth into his most irresistible smile. Elyra shook her head, annoyed. “You shouldn’t have come here, you know. It’s dangerous.”

  “Relax. I’ve given us a reason to talk openly in front of others. No one will be suspicious of you talking with me here. You are just doing your good works.”

  She nodded and avoided eye contact.

  “True. You are in desperate need of good works.”

  “El—Elyra—I owe you an incredible apology. The way I reacted… it was unforgivable. You just have to understand how incredibly shocking it was.” He shook his head to the side and lowered his eyes. Her sour expression faded and she sighed.

  “It’s all right. I should never have lied to you. I doubt there is anyone who wouldn’t have reacted that way in your position. It was unfair to me to expect anything else.”

  “Look, I’m sorry I panicked. But the truth is, everything about you terrifies me anyway. This is just one more factor. I mean, this beautiful, smart girl who is clearly out of my class wants to spend all her time with me—some orphaned farm kid from the Valley. I think, she’s obviously some lord’s daughter who’s trying to rebel against her da, and I figure I’ll ride it out as long as she’ll let me. It’s already surreal. Then she turns about to be the most important girl in the whole country? It felt like some kind of dream, or some perverse prank.”

  Elyra laughed at that.

  “Despite all that, it can’t keep me from you. I don’t think I could handle it.”

  “But Rogan, how is this supposed to work?”

  “The same way it’s been working.”

  “Running around in secret? Hiding in the trees? We’re too old fo
r childhood games.”

  “Then we’ll tell anyone who asks that we’re just friends.”

  She laughed again.

  “Friends?” she shook her head. “No, I don’t get to have friends that my mother doesn’t pick out. You don’t understand what my life is like. I’m not like other people. I don’t follow the same rules.” She sipped her tea and lowered her eyes regretfully.

  “Screw the rules.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s different now and you know it. The stakes are too high.”

  “They were always high. Just only one of us knew that.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Rogan, I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, I’ve done a lot of thinking since that day and I’ve realized that you were right. This can’t be. It can’t go on. We’re both just going to get hurt.”

  Rogan sat back in his seat.

  “So, what are you saying? Do you really expect me to just forget this? To forget you?” He did his best to remain stoic, but he knew his eyes couldn’t hide the pain. He hated how vulnerable she made him feel. A pained, fearful expression came across her face. She nodded slowly, as if it took every ounce of effort to make the motion.

  “I think you have to. Before things get worse.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  Elyra sighed and touched his hand affectionately. She gave it a gentle squeeze then stood.

  “I’m glad I got to see you again, but this has to be goodbye, Rogan. Promise you’ll think about me.” She smiled longingly and turned, leaving him to wallow with his tea.

  CHAPTER 10

  Three months later

  Rogan pulled out a faded photograph of his mother from his wallet and traced his calloused finger along her eyes. They were what he remembered most about her—bright green jewels that could cut through pain and suffering and infuse the wounded with hope. Atlanna Elwood looked up at him with those eyes from where she stood posed by their vineyard, holding a basket of freshly harvested grapes bursting with summer color. The sunlight infusing the scene was so brilliant that he almost felt the warmth as he ran his fingers along the photograph where it served as a blazing backdrop to his mother’s raven curls. He tried to remember his mother like that and not as the frail, weary woman she became in her final days.