Page 115 of American King (New Camelot Trilogy 3)
It’s the hardest thing to ask a Dominant, to let go of his control, and certainly the hardest thing to ask of a king—and I suppose that means it’s the most necessary thing to ask.
I think of the dreams that have been shining through my sleep lately, the dreams about that place over the water. The quiet lake and the drifting fog. I thought at first that it was Vivienne Moore’s lake, but now that my new memories have surfaced, I think it’s a different lake. One I’ve traveled over before, but not in this life.
Only I can’t remember the place over the water. Even now, that memory stays hidden from me.
The first question comes, and the debate truly begins and…it’s easy. Not like last time, when I couldn’t find my own words, not like the time before when my heart was twisting at the sight of Embry after two years apart. It’s almost like this really is a battle in truth, and the battle clarity falls over me like a cool cloak, and I feel light.
Free.
Ready.
Harrison makes a clumsy remark, which Embry leaps on gracefully, and it’s easy to spin both arguments into my own point, easy to speak intelligently and clearly as I keep my eyes searching the periphery of the stage, the backlit heads of the audience. Merlin didn’t know what to look for, and neither do I, so I keep my eyes open for anything. Someone skulking behind the risers the audience sits on or a cameraman acting strangely. Anything that triggers a sense of unease, of not-rightness.
There’s nothing.
Everything is as it should be.
The debate rolls on—foreign policy, homeland defense, mi
litary spending—and they’re things I could answer in my sleep. Embry too, although he still hasn’t shaved the hawkish edge off his rhetoric—which, listening to him talk, I think is less about what he personally still believes and more about the practiced answers he hasn’t had time to alter since his change of heart after Abilene’s death.
I glance at my watch while Harrison Fasse answers the next question. We’re forty minutes into the debate, and there hasn’t been so much as an untoward sneeze in the room. A heady sense of relief begins to pound through me, almost dizzying in its strength.
Merlin was wrong.
Merlin was wrong.
Of course he was! Of course he was wrong, and all of this was just a delusion that I’d been weak enough to share. How silly of me to think one man could see the future, how foolish of me to believe any of this. There’s only the here and now, this one life, and I don’t even feel embarrassed that I believed it because I’m so fucking relieved.
Embry is safe.
No one has to say goodbye tonight.
Fasse is given the first chance at final remarks, and then it’s Embry’s turn, and I’m so full of relief and dizzy happiness that I’m smiling as he talks. I’ll get to hear him talk as much as I want now, I’ll get to stroke his hair while we both cradle Greer to sleep every night, election be damned. Fuck my pride. If he wins, I’ll still be in his bed every night with my queen.
Nothing, not the White House or war or death, will break the three of us. Nothing.
When it’s my turn, I feel as if all my relief and happiness and ease flow out into my words.
“I hope that I’ve been a good President for this country,” I say, taking the time to look into each face in the audience. “I believe that I have. I’ve given this country all of my energy and all of my heart—first as a soldier, and then as your leader. Mr. Moore and Mr. Fasse love this country as I do, and I’m proud to stand up here with them. I’m also proud to stand on my accomplishments. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for peace, which might sound strange for a soldier to say, but it’s the truth. When you vote next week—and when you’re using your voices to keep who you voted for accountable—I hope you speak for peace each and every time. I hope you choose giving over taking. I hope you choose sharing instead of holding on, I hope you choose hope over fear. And I hope that together we keep choosing these things, not just once, but day after day—even when it’s hard, even when we’re angry and we’re afraid. Choose each other. Believe in each other as I believe in you.”
And then I add simply, “Thank you for having me as your President. It’s been the greatest honor I can imagine.”
There’s a moment of quiet, of stunned silence. It’s too short for a closing argument, too vague, I didn’t even ask them for their votes, and I know somewhere backstage, Kay and Uri are gnashing their teeth in frustration that I went off script.
But then the applause starts, loud and rolling through the room like thunder, filling every corner, and I allow myself a single, quiet moment of pride.
Which is when it happens.
A camera-man, trying to wheel the camera around to catch the applauding crowd, realizes the dolly is trapped by some cords duct-taped to the floor and whips out a utility knife to cut the tape free and get his shot—and in a blink, the applause turns to chaos as three agents swarm him out of nowhere, grappling him to the ground and overturning the camera with an almighty crash.
I take a step forward, suddenly flooded with adrenaline, and perhaps it’s the chemical rush or perhaps it’s the lingering clarity from earlier or perhaps it’s just always how it was meant to happen, but I see a flash of movement from backstage—the side Embry’s on.
It’s the producer’s assistant.
And with all the Secret Service agents trained on the cameraman, no one sees, and Embry himself has his back turned to the assistant—like me, he was getting ready to move toward the commotion, the solider in him unwilling to hold back from jumping in.
I’m so close to him.
