The silence in the room is charged with anger and an unease among the men. Owin has broken his gaze from us and looks to the wall whilst Christoph stares blankly at the table and I wonder what atrocities they’ve had to be a part of.
“There’s more of us now Pascha,” Sanders says, breaking the silence, “to fight them. In the caves—some of us have been hiding out there. We’re getting stronger—the ones who want change.”
“We’re the Fletchers,” I say determined, pulling Pascha tighter to me. “There may only be a few of us now, but we will grow strong. One day the Primitives will regret ever coming to Bale. And my father … he’ll regret I was ever born.”
“Yes, Merry!” Pascha adds with passion. “We will grow strong—strong enough to defeat the Primitives and send them to hell where they belong. Once we get up to Skarlton we can start building a force against them.”
“For tonight though, we stay here,” Sanders adds, stabbing his finger towards the floor. “At dawn we leave town and make our way to the caves. We can get provisions there and then make our way north.”
“Sure,” I agree, hesitant. Moving away from here, escaping the cruelty of the Primitives is something I’m desperate for, but a gnawing sense of responsibility clings and I know I have to put right wrongs that my father has done, that I have done. “We have to act quickly,” I insist, “Once we reach Skarlton I want to organise enough men and women to come back and fight them—squash them out of existence.”
“That’s what we all want, Meriall,” Sanders replies to my passion, “but we don’t have an army. Not yet anyway. We can’t take them on in a full-on battle.”
“We have to stop them taking kids and selling them!” I reply frustrated, “and—and I have to find Bettrice.” I stare at him with insistence, guilt ripping at me as I remember the look of despair on her face when I told her she had to return to the Watcher.
“Meriall, when we-” he stops at the sound of a soft knock at the door on the far side of the room that must lead into the house. It opens slowly.
Chapter Sixteen
Sanders stands immediately and walks quickly to the door, speaks quietly with whoever is on the other side before closing it again.
“Who was that?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“A Wife.”
“A Wife?” I ask shocked. “Do you mean a Wife like Bettrice? A Watcher’s wife?”
“Not a Watcher’s Wife, but yes, the Wife of an Elect.”
I’m astounded at this revelation and push him further. “Sanders! Tell us who she is and how come we’re in her house! How can the Wife of a Primitive be letting us hide out in her basement?” I ask as guilt creeps through me and I imagine Bettrice pale and anxious on the other side of the door.
“She believes in the resistance, that’s why.”
“But whose Wife is she?”
“The less you know the better for her.”
“But, Bettrice …” The thought that our presence is endangering the life of this woman and her child or children sits badly with me.
“What about Bettrice?”
“She helped us and they found out. In the courtroom, the Watcher said that she had betrayed the Primitives and would pay for it. I think he meant she would be executed—as a traitor. And it’s my fault. I’m the one who pushed her to leave. I’m the one who pushed her to poison him.”
“Meriall. This isn’t just about you. We’re all fighting for our lives—fighting for all the lives that the Primitives are destroying. Sacrifices will have to be made.”
“I can’t have another death on my conscience!” I burst out as the guilt overwhelms me. “And there are children here too!” I add, as I remember the small push-along bike propped up against the wall in the yard. “We should leave. We’ll take our chances in the daylight.”
“Settle down Meriall,” Owin says firmly.
“No,” I reply, the urge to turn and run out of the door and up the steps beginning to overwhelm me. I need to leave. I can’t be the reason they die. “It’s too risky being here—for them. If it was the house of an Enforcer, like Sanders,” I say nodding towards him, “then that’s a risk I could live with, but this!”
Another soft knock at the door and the door opens. A tall, slender figure, clad from head to foot in the drabbest of grey, steps into the room, her head low, her face hidden in shadow. She’s dressed in the obligatory costume of the Wife of a Primitive: grey ankle length tunic with white undershirt and white ruff tight about her neck. The frills of the shirt lay long and pleated over her hands almost covering her fingers to their tips. Her hair is hidden beneath the grey bonnet and with the addition of a white band across her forehead all that remains to be seen of her face is a square of chin, nose and eyes. As she lifts her head, the circular mark of status is etched blue beneath her lips.
Pascha gasps and stands up, knocking back his chair. It topples and crashes to the floor as he steps towards the woman. Startled, her eyes widen and she stands in silent bewilderment.
“Edie!” I say, barely able to breath as Pascha lurches across the short space between them. Her shock turns to recognition as he throws herself at her and she opens her arms to him. They cling together, arms wrapped tight, her grey bonnet skewed and pressing against his chest, the starched ruff squashed against her neck.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” she says finally pushing him away to look at him. “I have thought about this moment so many times. Mother? Where is she?”
“She’s still in Bale,” he says disconsolate.
“But she’s safe! Right?”
“I don’t know Edie, but I’ll be going back to get her. I promise,” he says trying to soothe the anxiety raging in her eyes. “Nathaniel has taken Meriall’s mother and sister up to Skarl-”
“Nathaniel!” she says, her face suddenly draining. “Nathaniel? How? I … I can’t think straight. This seems like a dream. Are you real?” she asks, looking up into Pascha’s face, cupping his face in her hands, searching him with her eyes. “They haven’t marked you then?”
“No. Merry and me—we escaped from Bale—before they could collect us.”
“Merry!” she gasps, her eyes locking on mine. “Merry! Of course it’s you! Five years is a long time and you are so grown up now. As tall as me!”
“Yes,” I say shyly, feeling like the twelve-year old she last saw.
“I was told to expect Baxter’s daughter. Where is she?” she asks Sanders and looks around at the faces staring at her.
“She’s here,” he returns motioning to me.
She looks at me in horror, confusion knitting her brows. “Merry? Is that true?”
“Yes,” I reply, shame stinging at my cheeks. “I hate him though Edie,” I add quickly, not wanting the connection. “He’s a monster. A monster I’m going to stop,” I add with absolute conviction as she walks over to me and puts her arms around me, hugging me tight. “We’ll stop him, Merry,” she says determined, her breath warm on my neck as she crushes me to her. “We’ll stop it all. I’ll never let my father’s death go unpunished.” Her passion is fiery and I draw from her strength, but I can’t help the nagging of worry for her safety.
“Yes, but you’re putting yourself at too much risk—having us here,” I say, pulling away from her, unable to take my eyes off the blue circle etched into her chin. She notices my gaze and strokes her fingers across the skin, suddenly self-conscious.
“If I didn’t believe in the cause I wouldn’t take the risk. They killed my father Meriall and … and they took Nathaniel from me too,” she says, her eyes beginning to fill with tears. She takes a deep breath and continues. “I’ll help where I can. If they find you here I’ll plead ignorance. My husband is a powerful man. He won’t let them harm me and he’d never believe that I helped you.”
“You must come with us, Edie!” Pascha interrupts taking her hand. “You can’t stay here with them. Not now.”
“It’s not that simple Pascha,” she replies
>
“Why not? You hate them as much as we do. You have to come with us.”
“I can’t. I just can’t,” she says, although uncertainty flickers in her eyes.
“I don’t understand,” Pascha implores, “I’ve found you now. I’ve thought about finding you every day since they took you, and you’re here. I’m not leaving you,” he finishes with passion.
The despair in his face rips at me. Unable to bear the thought of his pain, I push her too. “He’s right. What have you got to stay for?”
“My son. This is his home.”
“Leave. For your son,” is Owin’s response. “I can understand you being conflicted, but take it from me, once he’s a man this will be no place for him.” Owin’s eyes are steely as he looks at her and I can only guess at the tortures he’s had to endure in the service of the Primitives. “If you love your son, you’ll get him out of here. Sure, outside will be hard, but do you really want him to grow up to be a man and be sent to fight for them?”
“No,” she says quietly.
“What happened to you Edie? You were always so strong. You were always ready to fight for what you believed in. Your dad would-”
“Yes, yes. I know. My dad wouldn’t want me to be here.”
“You owe it to Dad to leave Edie,” Pascha continues, “he’d want us to be a family. I’ll help you look after your boy,” he adds with passion, the tears beginning to tip over his lashes
“So will I. Me and Pascha—we’ll help you keep him safe.”
She looks at us with a smile, though her face is still riven with anxiety.
“We’re leaving at dusk, Edie,” Owin says.
“I … I’ll come,” she says nervously, “but I have to pack some things and get Tris, my son, ready. My husband will be back at nightfall. I’ll have to leave as he sleeps ...”
“Pack light, Edie. It’s a long walk to the caves.”
The door behind her opens and a mop of auburn hair pokes out from behind, a small hand clinging to the edge as the child pushes at the stiff door. Edie, suddenly anxious, turns and walks to the opening and with her body blocks the room from the child’s sight.
“Tris, sweetheart. I thought you were playing with your trains. Let’s go back upstairs. You can help me in the kitchen if you like.”
“I want an apple Mummy,” he whines, “there’s some on the shelves.”
“Oh! Well, there are some upstairs, sweetie,” she stalls.
“There’s none in the bowl. I already checked.”
I get up quickly and grab an apple from the wooden box on the shelf.
“Let me in, Mummy. I can get one from the box.”
I step over to her and nudge her hand with the apple.
“I’ve got one right here. Nice and shiny red,” she soothes as she hands him the apple, then steps out of the room closing the door behind her.
Chapter Seventeen
The shadows in the room lengthen as I sit at the table and watch the sun lower then disappear behind the hills that sit beyond the high wooden fence at the back of the yard. The afternoon has dragged relentlessly as we wait, barely daring to make a noise. The only thing that has made it bearable is sitting with Pascha.
From above comes the sound of shouting then the banging of doors and stamping of feet on the stairs. We’ve been quiet. They can’t know! The footsteps get louder and I edge back towards the outer door, Pascha at my side, ready to bolt. Sanders, Owin and Christoph all stand, ready for whatever is coming down the steps. Footsteps run along the corridor and the noise lessens. The front door bangs closed. Relief spreads across the room.
“I thought they’d found us.”
“It’s time we got out of here.”
“Hold steady! We have to wait for first light.”
“And Edie! We have to wait for Edie too. She’ll be here.”
“I know she will. We can wait. She said her husband would be back at nightfall, but I think that must have been him leaving.”
The minutes that pass after the slam of the door weigh heavily on us. Sanders and Owin stand at the door to the steps keeping watch for any movement. All is quiet within the house apart from the sounds of cooking in the kitchen and the trundle of a bike or ride-on car as Tris wheels up and down the corridors. Eventually, footsteps sound for the final time and the house settles down into silence for the night and we sit in an agony of suspense.
As the first grey of light begins to sneak in through the high windows of the basement a soft shuffling can be heard in the corridor beyond the door that leads into the house. I lift my head from Pascha’s shoulder and watch, my heart beginning to pound, as the handle moves down and the door opens slowly. Edie steps into the room. Even in this light I can see that her face is flustered, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed. She carries a heavy burden against her chest. Her son, his head lying on her shoulder, still sleeps, bundled beneath a dark blue padded coat, hood pulled up against the morning cold.
“It’s you again!” I can’t help but exclaim.
Gone is the drab tunic and choking ruff. Her hair, free of its confines, lies full about her shoulders beneath the woollen hat pulled down low across her brow. Her cheeks are stained pink and her eyes, even though she has been crying, hold a sparkle of excitement.
“Are you ready?” Owin asks.
She takes a deep breath and tugs at the strap of the rucksack slung across her back then hitches the boy a little further onto her shoulder. “Yes!” she replies with determination, a tight, but beautiful smile breaking across her face.
“Let’s go then!” Sanders commands as he opens the door. “Owin, I’ll check ahead,” he says before disappearing up the steps and into the dark.
“We’ll take it in turns carrying the boy.”
“Thank you!” Edie replies with relief as she steps further into the room.
A noise from upstairs startles her. “He’s waking. Quick. Please! If he finds us!”
“Let’s go!” Owin hisses and beckons us to pass him at the door. “Sanders is at the back gate. It’s all clear.”
“Come on, Edie,” Pascha hisses, reaching out for his sister.
She hurries to the open door and steps up the stairs ahead of me, the child’s head resting on her shoulder, his auburn hair curling around the edge of his hood. I tread the stairs behind her and make my way up as quickly and as quietly as I can, then hurry over the flagstones of the yard to the gate that leads out into the side street. The yard is in deep shade, the moonlight blocked by the house. Owin is the last to step out into the narrow street and closes the high gate with a gentle clack.
“Don’t wait for me, follow Sanders,” he says as he brushes up against me, his breath billowing white in the pinching cold.
Obeying, I turn and walk forward and take a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs and ease the tightness in my chest. The moon is high and bright against the dark of the early morning sky as we head up the street and back towards the black of the moors still untouched by the rising sun. The houses cast dark shadows and we cling to them, walking in silence as we work our way out of the quiet town. At last we cross the stone bridge that crosses the river that divides the town from the moors. Behind us the dark and rising blocks of the Primitives’ stronghold, before us an inhospitable wilderness.
“We’re free!” Edie exclaims as Christoph takes the child from her arms and places him gently over his shoulder.
“Not yet. We’ve got a long way to go before we can feel safe,” he answers.
“The caves? How far are they?” I ask, rubbing my hands against the cold.
“About five miles from here. We’ll make it before the sun has properly risen if we keep going at this pace,” Sanders replies. “About a mile from here there’s woodland. It’ll give us good cover.”
“Good. Being out in the open like this … it makes me nervous. Anyone could see us,” Edie adds, looking back at the dark windows of the town.
“We’ve been quiet, and it’s still dark,” Pas
cha reassures her.
“And the town hasn’t woken up yet. I don’t think we’ve been seen,” I add.
“No,” she agrees with relief, but I notice the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as she looks back at the town.
We turn again towards the moors and I push myself to walk quickly, to keep up with Sanders and let Pascha walk with his sister, unsettled by the emotion in her eyes as she looked back at her home.
Ahead of us the greyed-out and sloping grass gives way to a dense bank of trees.
“Is that where we’re going, Sanders?” I ask as I look into the wooded darkness.
“Yeah! But don’t be nervous. I know them well and the light’s starting to break through.”
“I’m not afraid,” I say defensive.
“Sure.”
“I’m not.”
“I believe you Merry. You’re feisty, I know. I saw you in the Pit. You’re a warrior is what you are,” he says smiling down at me.
“Hah!” I return with a tight smile, my lips pursed, conflicted at the dark memories from the Pit and gratification of his compliment. “I … I didn’t want to kill her.”
“I know. You had no option. She would have killed you. You know that. Right?”
Chosen (Dark Powers Rising Book 3) Page 11
