Frederick sticks thick needles into the veins of the prince’s arms, while a third man attaches clips to each of the needles. I have no idea what any of this means, but I stay in position even when the muscles in my arm cramp from remaining in the same position.
Tall barriers close around us. At first, they block out the restaurant’s dim illumination, then blue light floods the space. I remember it from my humiliating medical examination.
“Why are you sterilizing the area?” My voice shakes. “I thought you’d take Prince Kevon to the hospital.”
Frederic holds a metal bottle above my hands. “When I say so, please lift the finger on the blade’s left while maintaining the pressure on the wound.”
“What?”
He repeats himself and explains that he needs a little space to pour a saline solution containing nanobots that will seal the arteries until they can operate. Nanobots. I’ve heard that word before. It’s something Prince Kevon demanded after Rafaela was assassinated. I nod and follow his instructions.
Frederick pours a silver solution where my fingers meet the knife and waits a few seconds before instructing me to raise my finger. I lift my ring finger, and blood rushes out.
“It’s not working,” I whisper.
He pours another bottle onto the wound, and the bleeding slows. Over the next few minutes, the medic drenches bottle after bottle of silver solution onto prince Kevon’s chest. By the time he instructs me to move my left hand, the bleeding on the left is staunched.
As we repeat the process on the right side of the knife, Prince Kevon’s skin turns ashen. It’s not the pale white I expect from a corpse, but a rich gray that becomes bluer with each passing second.
“What’s happening to his face?” I ask.
“Don’t be alarmed.” The female medic hooks Prince Kevon’s needles to several tablet-sized machines. “They’re just the nanobots.”
Nausea floods my insides. Will Prince Kevon become dependent on Amstraad technology to keep him alive? Will he wither away and require electronic clothing like Ambassador Pascale? I can’t think about that right now, and I focus on Frederick’s instructions.
“Thank you,” he says. “Your actions today saved the life of our prince.”
“He’ll live?” I whisper.
“There are no guarantees, but with an Amstraadi cardiac surgeon in the Oasis, he has the very best of chances.”
My throat convulses. I don’t trust the Amstraad Republic, but I can’t deny that their technology keeps people like Montana looking young and healthy long after Harvesters his age have died.
Frederick rolls him to the side, and his colleague slides a stretcher underneath Kevon’s unconscious body. A breath slides out from my lungs. It looks like they’re finally moving him.
The barriers open, and the medics place the machines in special slots within the stretcher, then they nestle Prince Kevon between the devices keeping him alive. With a few clicks and whirrs, its metallic structure shifts into a wheeled gurney and raises him off the floor.
I follow Frederick through the empty room, my dress sticky with Prince Kevon’s cooling blood. Silver coats my fingers. I try wiping the solution on the side of my dress, but it’s already dried. Those nanobots had better not seep through my skin and clog my arteries.
A medic opens the door, and we step out into a restaurant crammed with people. Guards in purple and black form a gangway, and behind them are camerawomen, palace servants in purple, and even a few Nobles I recognize from the Chamber of Ministers.
Shock numbs my insides. This is just like with Rafaela, except Prince Kevon is on the receiving end of the attack.
“Zea!” Byron Blake runs behind the cordon of guards and onlookers, screaming questions.
I turn my gaze to the front. If he thinks I’m going to stop to give him an interview, he can think again. I need to be at Prince Kevon’s side. I need to hold his hand and tell him everything will be alright.
The restaurant door opens, bringing with it a cacophony of shouts and screams. We step out to a lightning storm of camera flashes that are so bright I can barely see the guards holding back the crowds. The noise batters my eardrums, and every limb of my body trembles with the roar of the crowd.
Rough hands grab me from behind and secure my arms with cuffs.
“No,” I scream into the flashing lights.
A fist punches me in the back of the head, and pain spreads through my skull like wildfire. My limbs go limp, and two sets of hands hook underneath my arms and drag me through the walkway of shouts and flashing lights.
The guards follow Prince Kevon’s stretcher past the ambulance, where Queen Damascena awaits with her lady-at-arms. Lady Circi boards the vehicle with Prince Kevon, but the queen remains on the roadside. The hatred in her eyes promises vengeance.
“Eyes front.” He shoves the electroshocker into my side.
The sensation of a hundred stabbing needles penetrates me to the bone, and my muscles seize. Crushing, stabbing agony grips my chest. By the time his fist lands on my temple, I black out.
The throbbing of my head forces me awake, and bright lights shine through my eyelids. I squint to find myself lying on the floor of a six by six cage surrounded by metal bars. On my left, Emmera curls into a ball and sobs. Behind the bars on my right, Vitelotte stares down at me with concerned eyes.
Thoughts of Prince Kevon with a knife in his chest flood my mind, and tears flood my eyes.
“Why?” I whisper.
She closes her eyes and shakes her head.
Beyond our cages is a featureless, white room about thirty feet in width. Flat light panels run down the length of the ceiling, drenching the room with light. I have no idea if we’re in the palace or a dome or a Chamber of Ministers basement awaiting trial. I’m no
