“First famine set in, followed almost immediately by disease.”
I curled against Angelina now, not needing my book; this was the part we’d been told countless times, words I’d memorized. Her breathing deepened, becoming heavier, and even though she still listened, I knew she was growing sleepy. “This was the turning point for Ludania,” I whispered against her cheek. “Dissatisfaction over the new regime became too much to bear, and the loss of lives was too great. Bodies overfilled cemeteries, and as the surplus of dead had to be burned, they created black clouds that choked the countryside. The people called for another uprising of sorts, a call back to the regents of their past.
“Only there were none. They had all been sacrificed at the altar of a revolution.” I spoke the last words slowly, quietly, as Angelina’s eyes fluttered, succumbing, at last, to sleep.
It didn’t matter; she knew how it ended. We all knew.
The other countries were petitioned by covert factions who sought to overthrow the new “democracies,” and spies were sent forth to look for those of royal lineage closely related to that of the old throne.
We needed a new leader. We had to have a queen.
Eventually, one was found. One who was willing to take her place on the throne and lead our country off its own path of self-destruction.
She was a strong woman—so history tells—of royal blood and regal bearing. When her forces arrived, easily overtaking the complacent and poorly skilled armies of the presiding government, she showed mercy to her predecessors only in that they were killed as privately and as painlessly as possible.
A queen that powerful was easily accepted by the monarchies of the surrounding countries, and soon sanctions were lifted, trade and communication were re-established. The people of Ludania had food once more.
That was when the class system was first imposed. It was designed to discourage future uprisings, to keep people living apart so ideas of rebellion could not be comingled.
Language became a tool, a way to complete that division. It became illegal to speak—or even to acknowledge—another class’s language. It was a way to keep secrets, a way to exert power and control over those who were . . . less.
That had been centuries ago—back when cities had names—and even though some things had changed, both the class system and the monarchy still remained intact. Stronger now than ever before.
Words had become the ultimate barrier. The law made it criminal to communicate in anything other than our birth tongue or Englaise. Anyone who showed any aptitude toward language was executed. Persecution kept anyone else from trying.
After hundreds of years, the ability to decipher the words of another class had been lost, making it impossible to master a language other than our own. We’d become resistant to the nuances of foreign dialects.
Yet even if everyone were equal, I would still be on the outside, because I understood all languages. And my ability didn’t end with the spoken word. I could decipher all manners of communication, including those that were visual or tactile.
My father had once taken me to a museum, one of the few that hadn’t been burned to the ground during the Revolution, and he’d shown me the way the world had once been, the way our country had once lived as a single unified nation. Maybe not always at peace, but not divided into a caste system either.
In the museum, we’d seen beautiful drawings that had once been used as a form of communication by ancient civilizations . . . artfully crafted sketchings that our tour guide explained had been translated by scholars into Englaise.
Yet when the tour guide read their meaning to us, I knew he was mistaken, that the translation was faulty.
I’d understood what the beautifully drawn words really said. I knew the true meaning behind the art, and I’d told him so, revealing the correct message of our ancestors.
The outraged guide had insisted that I renounce my lies and apologize for my rebelliousness. My father masked his fear with embarrassment and made excuses to the infuriated man, maintaining that my childish imagination had simply gotten the best of me. He’d argued that I was fanciful and difficult, and he’d dragged me away. Away from the lovely words, and away from the museum, lest the man discover that I was accurate in my interpretation.
Lest he turn me in for understanding a language that was not my own.
I was first scolded for my outburst, and then hugged tightly out of fear and relief. My father reminded me how unsafe it was for me to share my ability.
With anyone.
Ever.
I was six years old, and it was only the second time I’d seen my father cry.
The first was when I was four and he’d killed a man.
The door to my room opened, and my mother’s shadowed silhouette slipped inside, carrying with her the smells of baked goods that seemed to permeate her skin after years of working in the restaurant.
She nodded her head toward Angelina. “You should be sleeping too, Charlaina. It’s a school day tomorrow.”
“I know, I’m almost finished.” I answered her in Englaise and cl Bdifharlaiosed the book, which I could no longer concentrate on anyway.
She sat down on the bed beside me, smoothing my hair from my face and then stroking my cheek with the backs of her fingers. “You look tired.”
I didn’t tell her that she was the one who looked tired. That her golden features had grown faded, her proud stance weary. I was never convinced that my mother had been born to work such a hard life.
Maybe no one was.
I nodded. “I am.”