Chosen (Dark Powers Rising Book 3)

by Rebecca Fernfield

  “It’s just Caleb,” Owin whispers, “he stayed downstairs to keep lookout.”

  “I hope so,” I say, fear starting to beat harder in my chest.

  I follow behind Owin to the landing. At the top of the stairs a deep rumbling sounds out, a snoring in the room to my left.

  “That’s the House Mother—the witch set to look after the kids,” Owin says in explanation, the disgust in his voice evident. “Not a maternal bone in her skinny body.”

  “I know,” I say with a shudder, remembering the rough way she treated me and her harsh words on Market Day.

  We creep past the room and unlock the first door. There are beds lined up on either side of the room, six in all, but only three are slept in. The others are unmade and empty and there’s no sign of the missing children.

  “Looks like we’re too late,” Owin says as he stands in the doorway, peering into the greyness of the room. “There’s only three here. They must have moved them on.”

  “So quickly?”

  “Yes, they don’t hang around—just bring them in, clean them up and sell them on. Just like they did with you.”

  I walk forward into the room and look at the sleeping faces of these unfortunates.

  “I can’t see the girl!” I say in frustration.

  “What girl?” Owin asks confused.

  “The one from the cart. The one I wanted to rescue.”

  “I’m sorry Meriall. It looks like she’s gone. Listen, let’s check the next room before we wake these girls up.”

  As Owin turns the key in the lock of the next room I hear a noise and grab his arm to still him. “Shh! I can hear something.”

  We stand stock still and wait. There is only silence and the snorting rumble of the house mother.

  “It’s just the old bag, mouth-farting,” he says.

  Laughter snorts through my nose and I clap my hands to my face. Owin nudges me and smiles.

  Waking up the children and getting them to follow us is far easier than I thought it would be. They’re scared, but Sanders was right, seeing me seems to calm them and they follow us willingly and quietly down the stairs and to the back door. Owin leads them out of the house. I walk at the back so that none get left behind. As I cross the street I turn to look at the house one last time. The pale face of a girl looks down at me from the window on the top floor. Her fingers pushed up against the glass. It’s her.

  I call to Owin but he doesn’t hear me and I stand for precious seconds not knowing what to do. Every instinct is telling me to keep walking. It’s the safest thing, but I can’t leave her there! As the last child disappears with Owin, and out of my view, I turn and run back into the house and up the stairs, past the snoring witch, and up a flight to the second floor.

  I open the door to the second room on the landing. She’s there, standing in front of the window; lost and hesitant.

  “It’s ok, I’m here for you,” I say, trying to reassure her. “I came back for you.”

  She stays rooted to the spot.

  “It’s ok,” I cajole, putting out my hand to her, stepping further into the room, “we can go now.”

  She doesn’t move.

  A flicker on the glass behind her stiff figure fills me with utter dread. A pair of eyes are watching me. I stare back into them and catch my breath. My skin crawls as I realise with horror that the figure in the window is in the bedroom, behind me.

  Chapter Twelve

  I stare at the figure. His reflected eyes stare back into mine, but before I can turn to run the Overseer’s hand clamps down onto my shoulder. In the greyed glass his head bends towards me and the warmth of his breath brushes my cheek. “Did you think we wouldn’t know Meriall?” he asks, as he digs his fingers into the soft spot below my shoulder blade, the lilt of menace strong in his voice.

  I wince in pain but the grip just increases. I drop to the floor like a dead weight in a desperate attempt to get away and push myself towards the door. He grabs the back of my jacket and yanks me to my feet like a rag doll. Other guards enter the room and he throws me to them. I lurch forward and Caleb grabs my arm. In the seconds before he pushes me down onto the floor, I realise with awful clarity that he has betrayed us and scowl at him with burning hatred. The other men grab my legs and pin me, belly down, breasts flattened. I squirm and kick out in defiance. Fingers grip through my hair, pulling my head and neck up.

  “Quit it Scarface!” Caleb demands and then bangs my head sharp and heavy against the floor boards.

  My shoulders sag as I let my body go limp. The pain is too much.

  “Pick her up!” the Overseer demands.

  His voice betrays an emotion that I’m unsure of. Was he shocked at Caleb’s action? Disapprove of it? But he continues to stare at me without a trace of emotion as I lay quiet and Caleb grabs my tied wrists, pulling my arms up and behind me. I’m forced me to kneel and bend backwards as he keeps hold of the rope around my wrists.

  “Stand up or there’ll me more where that came from,” he orders, kicking at my boots.

  “I knew that one was trouble. I did. Right from the get-go. I can always tell,” the sour voice of the House Mother interrupts from the doorway.

  I stand following the pull of my arms, chasing Caleb’s hands, trying to relieve my tortured joints. He pulls me round to face the door and I catch sight of the hag, ugly disgust contorting her face, before Caleb pulls my arms up again from behind, forcing me to bend over. I shuffle out of the room and into the hallway, hair blocking my view.

  “Father Baxter’ll teach you a thing or two,” she shouts after me as I step onto the first tread of the stairs.

  Hurried footsteps tap out along the hallway.

  “Vicious little baggage,” is her parting insult.

  A hand pushes down on my shoulder and a voice hisses ‘kneel’ in my ear. The bright morning sun catches my eye as a hand forces me towards the floor and I snap my eyes shut, blocking out the flash of brilliant light and the man standing massive before me. Father Baxter—the man who is a father but not a father to me.

  He steps forward. “Look at me,” he demands. “Now!” His lips curl into a snarl as he speaks.

  Before I have chance to look up, a hand slaps across my face and I nearly lose my balance. He steps closer, a black silhouette against the bright window. Suddenly, I am three years old again, crouched in the corner of our small kitchen, hands to my ears as this fierce giant of a man towers above me, poking his finger at me as he shouts. My mother grabs at his arm, shouting at him to stop. He jerks his arm back, crashing his elbow into her face and she staggers back, her body hitting the door frame, falling onto the hallway floor. He picks me up, bunching my jumper in his huge fist and lifts me off the ground, shouts into my face, and throws me back to the ground. My head hits the wall and all becomes black.

  Tears prick hot in my eyes.

  “What are you snivelling for girl?” he shouts at me in disgust.

  His words run through me like a shadow of pain and the anger I hold for him begins to leak out of my bones. I want to stab him and yank at the twine wrapped around my wrists. My skin chafes and burns but the thin rope stays tight. He turns in annoyance and struts to the window, stares out, then stamps back towards me, fists clenched. “You have robbed me of what is mine,” he spits.

  I remain silent. His anger begins to boil and I watch transfixed as his fists clench and unclench repeatedly.

  “You have disgraced me and robbed me of my Wife.” His voice is harsh, seethed through gritted teeth, a man about to spill over the edge.

  My hatred rises and spits back at him. “She’s not yours to own. She escaped because living with you was unbearable. She ran away to save herself, and us. You’re a pathetic excuse for a man; a coward and a bully,” I shout. “How can you believe that any woman could love YOU!”

  The second slap knocks me to the floor and my cheek grazes against the fibres of the rug. He bends over me scowling, eyes like slits, eyebrows knitted together, teeth bared, p
ointing with a jabbing finger, spittle at his mouth. His breath sour. “I gave you a chance before. Showed you my mercy. And this is how you repay me? Ungrateful brat!” He stands and I push up onto my knees, pulling my muscles tight, bracing myself for the kick I remember is coming.

  “What do you know about mercy!” I shout, unable to control myself. “When did you ever show me that?”

  He doesn’t answer but kicks out, not at me, but a chair that sits close by. The leg snaps and it bangs against the wall before toppling to the floor. He walks back to the window, arms against the frame, leaning forward, breathing heavily, stifling his rage. When he turns, his eyes are cold, piercing and totally without humanity. “Later this morning you will face the Council. They will decide your fate this time. This is my mercy to you.” He turns back to the window. “Take her away.” He signals to the guards with a flick of his hand.

  “You’re a monster!” I scream. “A monster!”

  He turns again as the guards drag me to my feet. “Don’t forget Meriall, that my blood runs in you too,” he says without emotion. “I’m not the only one capable of murder.”

  My stomach lurches as his words prick into me.

  He sits at his desk, looking down at his papers. “Take her to the Magistrate’s Cell,” he orders with absolute calm, “before I kill her myself.”

  The cell is a basement in the Court House, dingy with just one high window framed by a grille. The cell isn’t empty. Two men sit hunched on the single mattress pushed into the far corner. Gaunt and unkempt, clothes grubby and rumpled, they look up with surprise as I’m pushed into the room. A die rolls across the floor unnoticed as the door locks behind me and they gawk with curiosity. I edge into the corner and stand with my back to the wall, watching them closely, waiting for them to move towards me.

  “Don’t worry lass. We won’t hurt you,” the older man says kindly, holding up his hand to me, palm flat. “Sit down, you look torn to shreds,” he continues, reaching across the floor to retrieve the small white cube.

  “Yes, ok. Yes, I am,” I say, thankful for even this small relief, but hesitant. There’s no one I can trust, not here.

  “Robart,” the younger man says, patting his chest by way of introduction, tilting his head up with a short flick. “What you in for?” he asks, shifting on the mattress and leaning back, propped up by his elbow.

  Yes, what am I here for? My exhausted brain fumbles for the reason. “Freedom,” I say, sliding down the wall. “I wanted to be free,” I finish as I slump to the floor.

  “Freedom Wilim! Did you hear that? She just wants to be free,” he shakes his head, his laugh cynical.

  “Ay. Don’t we all,” Wilim replies, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable.

  I pull my knees to my chest and rest my head on them, hugging myself tight, blocking out the cell and these men, losing myself in my yearning for Pascha.

  Minutes then hours pass as I dip in and out of consciousness, grasping at the relief of sleep, until a banging from the street outside drags me out of the darkness. I look up to the slatted light leaking through the grille, curious.

  “That’s the gallows,” the older man explains. A hard lump drops into my stomach as he continues. “Execution Day. For us. And maybe you, ay?”

  I push my hands up against the wall, wince at the pain in my legs and back as I force myself to stand, and walk to the window. Standing on tip-toes I can see to the street outside. In the market square, a long wooden bar is winched up high. I stand transfixed as workmen manoeuvre it and fix it into place. Gallows big enough for three ropes to hang. I’m overwhelmed by memories of the last hanging I was forced to see; the black hoods, the thick ropes, the calm that descended over Noor.

  The clack of the cell door catching the wall as it opens pulls me out of my memories, back to now. A guard steps inside. “The Council is ready for you,” he says stepping towards me. Resisting is futile.

  The Courtroom is small, dark, suffocating, bare but for the five portraits hung on its walls; the Founding Fathers bearing down on me once more. A fire burns behind the row of grey-haired men that sit before me, dour, upright in their stiff neck bands, its crackling the only sound in the room. To the right of the long, heavy set table sits Kendrick Baxter, my God-forsaken father. I keep him at the edge of my vision, not wanting to see him. The heat from the fire and the presence of the men is stifling and I feel a queasy sickness rise in my stomach, watery in my mouth. My legs tremble and I am thankful for the guards holding my arms, keeping me upright.

  Mumbling, then a cough and all four men raise their eyes to take me in.

  “Meriall Baxter,” a face pinched with thinness mouths at me, “you have brought shame on the Elect.” His voice is hard and certain as he continues. “You have shamed your own father.” Brows furrow. My father sits ramrod straight, self-righteous, inviting pity. “But far worse, you have incited rebellion and attempted the murder of two officials.” Dark muttering rises malicious among the men.

  “My freedom!” I blurt. “I only wanted to be free. Captain Blaylock, he-”

  “Silence!”

  The guards squeeze my arms and I wince at the steel fingers digging into my flesh. My head swims. Two officials? It was only the Captain I stabbed. My head is fuzzy with the weight and pressure that fills it. I sway and swallow down the rising bile churning in my stomach.

  The judge’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Bring in the first witness.”

  The court guard leaves through a side door and I watch captivated by the shining of the brass handle, waiting for it to turn, for the door to re-open and show me who is going to talk against me. Footsteps approach on the other side and the Captain walks through the door. Relief.

  He stands to the side of the upper table, leaning against it, wincing, garnering sympathy, and relates how I attacked him as a lunatic—vicious, uncontrollable, howling. The hairs on my neck creep as he fills the room with his spite. The eyes of the judges harden on me.

  “… the blade only narrowly missed my heart,” he finishes.

  My rage rises against him. “He tried to hurt me. He tried to r-”

  “Do you deny that you stabbed this man?” the judge interrupts, his voice loud over my pathetic defence and leans forward, his eyes narrow and unforgiving.

  “No, but-”

  “Guilty!” he says with fervour and slams the gavel onto the desk.

  There is no chance for me to defend myself; to tell them of his threats, of what he tried to do, of how he’d said he’d hurt me after the fight.

  “Bring in the second witness.”

  Second witness!

  My pulse throbs hard in the hollow at the base of my throat and the pounding fills my head. Who can the second witness be? Who else will accuse me of attempted murder? Time is replaced with the throbbing until a clack of footsteps and the handle of the door is turned. Footsteps scuff and the gap widens. A black-cloaked figure stands there, ruff stark white beneath his chin, scar skewing his face into a repellent grimace—the Watcher.

  My mind reels. Bettrice! If he is here accusing me of attempted murder, then something terrible must have happened.

  I stand and listen with growing dread as he tells the court how I manipulated his Wife and convinced her to poison him. His story vilifies me and growing disgust slides across the judges’ already hardened faces. They hate me, or do they fear me? Whichever it is their judgement is made and I know I won’t get a chance to defend myself. Even if I did it would be pointless. I am everything they want to squash.

  “… She eventually confessed to it,” the Watcher says, “after some persuasion,” he adds with a cruel smirk.

  What did he do to you Bettrice? I’m sorry! So sorry.

  Tears flood my eyes and spill over onto my cheeks as I continue to listen with horror.

  “She,” and he jabs his finger at me dramatically, “robbed me of my Wife and turned her into a traitor who now has to suffer the punishment for that treachery.”

  Is he go
ing to execute Bettrice?

  I lurch towards the desk. “No!” I scream. “It wasn’t her fault. I told her to do it. Punish me. Not her.”

  The guards tighten their grip, holding me back, but I continue shouting to the judges. “She was desperate to get away from him. We all were,” I say, pulling my arms against the guards’ restraint, jabbing my finger at the Watcher. “He’s a monster. He beat her. I saw the bruises.”

  The gavel smashes down onto the desk. “Guilty! Sit her down to await sentence.”

  The judgement drowns out my words. I sag and the guards drag me backwards and push me down into the waiting chair. It is impossible for me to move.

  “Watcher Craslow,” the judge says, turning to look at the man I detest. “You are not on trial today, but it has become obvious that there are serious problems with your performance. You appear to have allowed unrest to ferment into rebellion. You were sent to quell such dissent. You were sent to watch and make sure rebellion did not re-occur yet it is apparent that there is still support for Fletcher. This girl carries the symbol of that rebellion as did others who were collected with her—from your stock farm. You leave us with no choice. You are relieved of your duties and will be reassigned to another role.”

  The Watcher makes no effort to defend himself, but stands and scowls as the judge turns again to me.

  “Meriall Baxter, you have been found guilty of the attempted murder of Captain Blaylock and Watcher Craslow. You have feasted on dissent and participated in rebellion. You are sentenced to death by hanging, as befits a traitor.”

  Dread washes over me draining my body of warmth and strength. A hollow pain sits in the pit of my belly as my body begins to tremble. For the first time my father moves. He stands. Will he speak for me now? Does he feel remorse or maybe even love? I cling to hope. Will he finally be my father and save me?

  He turns to address the high table. “Fathers. I support your sentence.” My heart loses any of the ridiculous hope that it just held. “However, I request that this girl, I no longer call her daughter, is beheaded rather than face the shameful death by hanging. Yes, she is a traitor and deserves that punishment, but it would bring shame on me, as a Founding Father, and on all of us here, if she were to be executed in this way.”