Page 7 of Last of Her Name

The vityazes don’t seem to care one way or another, so I loop my arm through hers and we walk between my parents, while Pol follows close behind.

Until the vityaze with the staff steps in.

“You,” he says through his helmet, his hand closing on Pol’s shoulder. “What are you, the family pet? Get away,d’yav! Back to your own kind.”

I gasp.

I know few people who’d ever stoop to use the slur—demon it means, in the common tongue. The knight now seizes Pol by his hair, spinning him around and kicking him back toward the street.

I step forward. “Stop!”

Pol half turns, his eyes catching mine. “It’s all right, Stace.”

Then the vityaze brings down his staff. It cracks on Pol’s spine, knocking him to the ground. A current of electricity sizzles down its length, and Pol jolts at its touch.

“NO!” I lunge at the knight, but Dad catches me around the middle, holding me back.

Pol clutches the grass, pulling it up by the roots as he convulses. His lips pull back, teeth grind together, and for a moment I think he’ll fight back. But the vityaze kicks him so hard I can hear the thud of the boot against Pol’s spine. The aeyla gasps, hands curling around his head and knees pulling up to his chest.

“He’s just a boy!” Dad snaps at the man. “Let him be!”

The knight only laughs as we are pushed through the doors. Over the crowd, I can see his staff still rising and falling. I can hear Pol crying out in pain. My skin flushes with heat, with fury. I fight against Dad, trying to get free.

Clio lets out a cry. “We can’t let them do this!”

My stomach is turning over; each cry from Pol strikes me like a kick from the vityaze’s boot, leaving me breathless and gasping. “Dad, Mom, we have to stop them!”

“Not now,” Mom whispers.

I stare at her. I’ve never known her to ignore a person in pain. As a physician, she’s sworn to aid the sick and wounded, and Pol is practically family.

Dad drags me away, murmuring, “Stacia, if we try to intervene, they’ll kill him. Keep moving.”

I push against him, but it’s no use.

With the Red Knights taking up positions at all the doors, it’s clear there’ll be no helping Pol now. There are too many knights, too many guns. I press shaking hands to my face, feeling the hot tears running from my eyes. Heat prickles on my skin; rage pulses at my center. But there’s nothing I can do with it except try to hold it in, for Pol’s sake, because I know Dad’s right.

They search us as we file into the lobby. They take Mom’s and Dad’s tabletkas, tossing them into a box with dozens of others. Are they worried we’ll try to call someone, or that we’ll record whatever’s about to happen? They even take my tools out of my pockets—my wrenches and pliers, and the scanner hanging around my neck. But they overlook my multicuff, probably thinking it’s a piece of jewelry. Finally, they push us through to the main hall.

With its glass dome ceiling and clean white walls, the town hall is the biggest building in Afka. It was here that Pol won the district wrestling championship, and I received my mechanic’s certificate after my apprenticeship at the docks. The dome above has witnessed some of the most important events of our lives.

Looking up now, I can see the rest of the Belt of Jewels arcing through the sky, a dusty strip of stars. Somewhere up there is Alexandrine, circling its yellow sun. How strange that a place so distant could reach us here. Sometimes, it’s easy to forget there are others out there, that there are other worlds than this one. It’s easy to forget that not too long ago, all those worlds were set on fire by the fury of the Red Revolution.

And it’s easy to forget that not all those fires have completely burned out. I feel the heat of them now, embers flaring hot beneath my feet. I feel it, but I don’t know what it means yet. I only know that the trouble I thought we were safe from has rooted us out, and if Amethyne is no longer safe, then no place is.

Whatever this is, it’s not going to end well.

Fourteen Afkan families are now gathered beneath the dome, all bewildered, all frightened. Looking around, I see the common thread that connects us, and why we’ve been sorted from the rest of the townsfolk: each has a daughter around my age, give or take a few years.

My palms begin to sweat. I start twisting my cuff again, unable to stop even when Clio elbows me.

Most of the parents are shielding their girls, holding them tight. I’ve known them all my entire life: Honora, Ella, Ilya, Mischina, others whose names I’m not sure of, but whose faces I’ve seen around town. They look as scared as I am. Mayor Kepht has joined us, and is holding tight to his daughter, Ilya.

Wordlessly, I meet Clio’s gaze. She’s seen the others too, and her message is clear in her eyes:They didn’t even bother to look at the boys. This is no draft.

“Teo,”Mom hisses, her hand closing on Dad’s shoulder. My heart pinches at the naked horror in her voice. I turn to see them both drained of color.

“Mom? What’s wrong?” I follow her and Dad’s gazes to the front of the room, where a tall vityaze is walking onto the stage.