‘It’s probably a distraction,’ another soldier said. ‘They’re digging in other places too.’
‘They’re going to overrun us.’
‘We’ve lost.’
‘We—’
‘Stop!’ Bastille bellowed, waving her arms and getting their attention. ‘Stop being stupid!’ She folded her arms, as if that was all she intended to say. Which, knowing Bastille, might just be the case.
‘We haven’t lost,’ I said, stepping forward. ‘We can win. We just need to hold out a little longer.’
‘We can’t!’ one of the soldiers said. ‘There are only a few thousand of us left. There aren’t enough people to patrol the streets to look for tunnelers. Most of us have been awake for three days straight!’
‘And so you’d give up?’ I demanded, looking at them. ‘That’s how they win. By making us give up. I’ve lived in Librarian lands. They don’t win because they conquer, they win because they make people stop caring, stop wondering. They’ll tire you out, then feed you lies until you start repeating them, if only because it’s too hard to keep arguing.’
I looked around at the men and women in their islander wraps, holding spears that burned. They seemed ashamed. The field was shockingly quiet; even the captive Librarians didn’t say anything.
‘This is how they win,’ I repeated. ‘They need you to give in. They have to make you stop fighting. They don’t rule the Hushlands with chains, fire, and oppression. They rule it with comfort, leisure, and easy lies. It’s easy to accept the normal and avoid thinking about the difficult and the strange. Life can be so much simpler if you stop dreaming.
‘But that is how we defeat them. They can never win, so long as we refuse to believe in their lies. Even if they take Tuki Tuki, even if Mokia falls, even if all of the Free Kingdoms become theirs. They will never win so long as we refuse to believe. Don’t give up, and you will not lose. I promise you that.’
Around me, the Mokians began to nod. Several even smiled, holding their spears more certainly.
‘But what will we do?’ a female warrior asked. ‘How will we survive?’
‘My grandfather is coming,’ I said. ‘We just have to last a little longer. I’ll talk to my counselors . . .’ I hesitated. ‘Er, I have counselors, don’t I?’
‘We’re right here, Your Majesty,’ a voice said. I glanced backward, to where three Mokians stood in official-looking wraps, wearing small, colorful caps on their heads. I vaguely remembered them joining me as I ran for the disturbance.
‘Great,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to my counselors, and we’ll figure something out. You soldiers, your job is to keep hoping. Don’t give up. Don’t let them win your hearts, even if they look like they’ll win the city.’
Looking back on that speech, it seems incredibly stoopidalicious. Their kingdom was about to fall, their king and queen were casualties, and what was I telling them? ‘Just keep believing!’ Sounds like the title of a cheesy eighties rock ballad.
People believe in themselves all the time yet still fail. Wanting something badly enough doesn’t really change anything, otherwise I’d be a Popsicle. (Read book one.)
Yet in this case, my advice was oddly accurate. The Librarians have always preferred to rule in secret. Biblioden himself taught that to enslave someone, you were best off making them comfortable. Mokia couldn’t fall, not completely, unless the Mokians allowed themselves to be turned into Hushlanders.
Sounds impossible, right? Who would let themselves be turned into Hushlanders? Well, you didn’t see how tired the Mokians were, how much the extended war had beaten them down. It occurred to me at that moment that maybe the Librarians could have won months ago. They’d kept on fighting precisely because they knew they didn’t just have to win, they had to overwhelm. Kind of how you might keep playing a video game against your little brother, even though you know you can win at any moment, because you’re planning the biggest, most awesome, most crushing combo move ever.
Except the Librarians were doing it with the hearts of the people of Mokia. And that made me angry.
The soldiers rushed off to get back to their other duties. I eyed the Librarian captives. Had they surrendered too easily? The Mokians didn’t seem terribly threatening. Perhaps Bastille had surprised them; facing a bunch of soldiers who hadn’t slept in days was one thing, but a fully trained Crystin was another.
I turned to my advisers. There were three of them, two men and a woman. The first man was tall and thin, with a long neck and spindly arms. He was kind of shaped like a soda bottle. The woman next to him was shorter and had a compact look to her, arms pulled in at her sides, hunched over, chin nestled down level with her shoulders. She looked kind of like a can of soda. The final man was large, wide, and thick-bodied. He was husky, with a small head, and kind of looked like . . . well, a large two-liter soda bottle.
‘Someone get me something to drink,’ I barked to my honor guard, then walked up to the soda-pop triplets. ‘You’re my advisers?’
‘We are,’ said soda-can woman. ‘I’m Mink, the large fellow to my right is Dink, and the man to my left is Wink.’
‘Mink, Dink, and Wink,’ I said, voice flat. (Like soda that’s been left out too long.)
‘No relation,’ Dink added.
‘Thanks for clearing that up,’ I said. ‘All right, advise me.’
‘We should give up,’ Dink said.
‘Good speech,’ Mink added, ‘but it sounded too much like a rock ballad.’