The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(100)

The gun falls to the floor. I snatch the weapon, point it at the driver, and shoot.

Ryce lets us practice with guns during Red Runner training sessions, but never with live ammunition. He says we can’t risk the sound of gunfire attracting informers or guards. Until today, I had no idea if I was an accurate shooter or if it was just like using a blowdart. I also never fully understood what it meant to shoot a bullet into a living person.

Sparks burst from the driver’s throat, and she falls with a thud. Behind me, Berta stamps on the burning woman, dousing her flames.

Ingrid shoots out of her seat. “What did you do that for? She’s dead.”

“Are you working with them?” I point my gun at Ingrid.

She flinches. “No, but I’m beginning to think that you are.”

“What?”

“How does a tomato-picker know so much hand-to-hand combat?” She glances from left to right at the other Noble girls. “Or know how to shoot a gun with pin-point accuracy?”

Another Noble girl stands. I’ve never spoken to her before, but her eyes burn with loathing. “Why would a girl from a community of people who cover themselves from neck to ankle parade herself naked in front of the prince?”

“That footage was faked!” I shout.

“No.” Ingrid ducks beneath her seat and emerges with Prince Kevon’s gun. “Everything about your joining the Princess Trials was suspicious, starting from your juvenile record.”

“What about her friendship with the Amstraad ambassador?” shouts someone in the middle of the vehicle I’m convinced is one of the Guardians. “They would have sent her back to the Barrens if it wasn’t for him.”

My nostrils flare, and my gaze darts from side to side at a sea of hostile female faces. Of all the times to dredge up wild speculations, why are they choosing the middle of an invasion?

Ingrid’s lips twist into a smirk, and malice glitters in her eyes. “Zea-Mays Calico, I find you guilty of high treason, and I sentence you to death.”





Chapter 27





At Ingrid’s words, a cold fury seeps through my veins. I glance down the aisles from girl to girl, looking for someone, anyone to speak in my defense, but they’re all silent. My jaws clench, and the pounding between my ears drowns out the sounds of the girls’ chatter.

“You don’t have the authority to sentence anyone,” I say.

Ingrid tilts her head to the side and smirks. “In the event of a hostile invasion or an uprising and the death or incapacitation of the Monarchy, members of the Noble Echelon must protect Phangloria at all costs.”

It sounds like she’s reciting a law, but it’s either paraphrased or a complete fabrication. Another Noble girl nods in silent confirmation, and sweat beads on my brow.

Ingrid wants me out of the Princess Trials by any means, but the others? I just saved their worthless carcasses. How dare they stay silent and let this lying Noble twist events to make me look like a traitor?

She stretches out the hand not holding Queen Damascena’s gun. “Give me that weapon.”

“Why?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“How do we know you won’t turn on us next?”

“Are you crazy?” I hiss. “They were going to take us beyond the Great Wall and maybe to Amstraad. I had to do something to stop them.”

“And you endangered our lives in the process.” Ingrid points her gun at my chest. “One of us could have gotten shot during that little scuffle.”

I inhale a sharp breath and straighten my features. She’s right, but I would rather die from a bullet than leave Phangloria. A large hand lands on my shoulder. I flinch, but it’s only Berta.

“Of all the ungrateful wenches,” she snarls. “Calico just saved your pampered behinds, and this is how you repay her?”

Ingrid sniffs. “From where I was sitting, it looked like you were the one doing all the work.” She points the rifle at my feet. “Surrender that firearm, and I’ll consider reducing your sentence of treason to reckless endangerment.”

“Why don’t you surrender yours?” I snarl.

“Strab can’t fire that gun,” says Berta. “She doesn’t have the clearance.”

Ingrid’s lips pinch. “You know nothing about the Noble Echelon. I’m the great-granddaughter of King Phallon. If Phangloria maintained an extended Monarchy, I would be the daughter of a duke.” She raises her gun’s muzzle into the air. “And as such, my fingerprints are in the database of personnel authorized to use emergency Royal weapons.”

She fires a shot into the ceiling, and all the blood drains from my face. Constance steps beside Ingrid and smirks, as do the other two Nobles from the front seats. The echo fades, leaving the kind of tense silence, the stomach-churning trepidation I’ve only ever experienced before a whipping.

My fingers tighten around the gun. I can’t release it. Last night, some of the girls in this vehicle gassed my room, and one of them tied a noose around my neck. If the attempted murderer was Ingrid, relinquishing my only means of protection would be suicide.

“We’ve got to drive away from here,” I say, particularly to change the subject but mostly because it’s true. “The Amstraadi have probably dispatched a fleet of hijackers after us.”