“You can’t keep us here. We’re American citizens.”
He turns back to look at me again.
“I am the crown prince. I do as I like.”
3
I’m not sure if I was expecting him to literally pick me up and carry me off, but he doesn’t. He strides past me, big metal boots thudding on the ground as he walks, and sharply throws the tent flaps open as he passes. I feel a hand on my arm and blink.
Taller than I am by a foot, heavier, and blonder, the woman who just took my arm is dressed the same as the men and fits in perfectly with them from the neck down. From the neck up, she could have a modeling career. Her short military bob actually looks good on her.
“The prince orders that you be taken to the castle. This way.”
It’s not an invitation. He ordered it, so I’m going. In spite of myself, I lean on her. Melissa grabs my hand and I give her a tight squeeze before they pull us apart and lead her out. I swallow hard and hope we haven’t just fallen out of the frying pan and into the fire.
A big, wide-bellied helicopter with two rotors sits outside. I hobble on my bad leg to the big open door, where two of the prince’s men (I can’t bring myself to call them Phoenix Guard) lift me inside by the arms, drop me into a seat, and clip a harness over my chest.
The rotors spin up, and I grab a set of earmuffs from a hook above my shoulder and slip them on to soften the thumping roar. The chopper shifts from side to side and turns a little as the wind catches it, and I grip the edges of the seat with white knuckles. The only time I’ve ever flown was on my two flights out of the States to Madrid and then out here, and never by helicopter. It feels rickety and unstable as it lifts up, the ground sinking away below. The door is still open and the only thing holding me down is the safety harness on the seat.
I feel like I’m falling off the world. As it lifts up I look around at the grim-faced, soldierly men and women surrounding me, and avert my eyes when our gazes meet. I sink into the seat and try to shrink up into a tiny little ball and disappear, but no matter how hard I suck up into myself, I’m still here.
Once in the air, the difference between Solkovia and Kosztyla is night and day. At the door itself a member of the Guard sits at a complicated-looking machine gun with a bunch of barrels, sweeping it back and forth as if he expects an attack at any moment.
I can mark out the border easily. The mountains are all dark, of course, but on the western side, in Kosztyla, the world is alive with light—lights in buildings, street lamps, cars flowing in orderly procession down the roads. The Solkovian side of the mountain range is dark, except for a few points of light in the distance, in the capital.
The chopper goes higher and swings around, and the gunner on the door visibly relaxes, even lighting a cigarette that somehow doesn’t go out or snap away from his lips as he puffs on it, casting a harsh red glow on his face and thick gloves.
I hug myself and rub my arms against the cold as the helicopter cuts swiftly over the lights. I can’t remember the name, but there is a city near the border, then open land. Even there, plenty of light illuminates the roads and small hamlets that pop up here and there among fertile fields.
Everything here is so small. Even as an East Coaster, growing up in America has left me with a skewed perspective on distance. A half-hour flight into Kosztyla and we’re in the center of the country.
There is a single mountain that spurs up in the middle of the tiny nation. The gold mines within are said to still be productive, and the capital surrounds it and climbs up its slopes but stops a third of the way up.
Near the top is an actual, honest-to-God castle. In the dark, lit by bright spotlights, it looks like something out of a fairy tale. Red lights blink slowly on the tops of the towers, glowing angry in the mists that surround them and flow down the mountainside in sheets. Some of the stone is dark gray, some is so black it swallows the light, like pools of ink. It’s bigger than it first appears, big enough that in one of the courtyards is a chopper pad that can easily accommodate the big transport helicopter carrying me in.
My grip on the seat tightens again during the descent, the vinyl squeaking under my fingernails. I close my eyes but that only makes it worse, and a gust of wind rips across my body and shoves the chopper to the side. It sways violently. When my eyes crack open on their own, I can look almost straight down at the helipad.
I snap them shut again and try not to scream. The chopper evens out but it doesn’t feel any calmer. There’s a thud and a sudden lurch and I’m sure we’re going to crash, but when my eyes open again I find myself looking out at worn stone walls and the same tall blonde woman undoing my safety harness.