by Frankie Rose
“I swear, your expressions alone could kill,” Ryka mutters as we stomp through the mud toward the yawning mouth at the base of the Keep. I’ve been told this a couple of times now, and I only wish it was true. That would free me from expending a lot of energy.
We arrive in front of the priestesses and, instead of forming a line in front of the entranceway as usual, this time they part so that we can pass through. Ryka looks relieved, like he knows what kind of hell I was planning on raising. I know I should take my boots off, but I don’t. Instead, I kick off some of the dirt caked on the leather and Ryka does the same, and then we pass the priestesses, two on either side of us. They remain silent. We walk down the narrow, long passageway that Olivia first took me down weeks ago, and I’m still disturbed by the closed-in feeling and how the torches mounted on the stonework send flickering shadows dancing up the walls. At a split in the passageway, a lone priestess is waiting for us. She inclines her head and turns, heading down the left-hand fork. We follow, the other four priestesses moving like red wraiths behind us, and Ryka takes my hand. The pathway takes a pronounced slope, and we’re heading down underground, the walls of the tunnel tightening around us as we descend. I keep my mouth shut, but I’m not happy. I eventually have to let go of Ryka’s hand so that we can walk single file when the way becomes too narrow.
A smell begins to develop, one that has me breathing through my mouth: sulphur and something else. Something rank.
“Sheez, they could really use some ventilation down here,” Ryka says, far too loud. Everyone else in Freetown is used to talking openly about the priestesses as though they aren’t there, but I haven’t learned to do that yet. His words make me flinch.
After another minute of walking and the air growing thicker and hotter, more difficult to breathe, we arrive in a small natural cavern, in the middle of which a pool of water churns and spits. The water is bubbling so savagely that it belches out onto the ground, and billows of steam rise up, clouding the air. The smell is so bad that I want to throw up. Through the steam, the High Priestess emerges, her red veils drawn back so that her white ceramic mask greets us. Ryka stiffens beside me.
I know why. To see a priestess’ face is to be cursed, a lesson I learned back when I fell into the pit. Since I’ve already seen her scarred, worn face, I don’t bother worrying about it. The ceramic mask prevents Ryka from really freaking out, but it’s obvious that he’s uncomfortable. The High Priestess shuffles forward, hunched over. The other five priestesses move past us and fan out against the cavern wall behind their leader.
“Eight thousand years ago, this cavern was used by nomadic wanderers to make sacrifice to their gods,” she says. I’m always surprised by how strong her voice is given her bent back and her age. She points to some crude markings on the wall, her bony finger shaking slightly. “Their sacrifices would boil to death, screaming in agony as their flesh was sloughed from their bones.”
My gag reflex threatens to kick in, but I don’t let it. “Why am I here?”
The High Priestess ignores me. “People outside Freetown find our rituals barbaric, but when you compare our fights to the practices of the past, cold hard steel between the ribs seems far more humane, don’t you agree?”
I don’t agree. I fold my arms across my chest and glare at her. She was the one who sent the priestesses’ assassin to kill me. I haven’t forgotten that—I’m not likely to forget any time soon. The old viper regards me with weak blue eyes from within her mask. “You would think it more humane if we were to adopt the practices of your old home, perhaps? A halo around the neck and suddenly we have clean deaths all round. No pain. No fear. I can see why that might be appealing, girl, but that’s not what sacrifice means. Sacrifice means pain and suffering. It means blood. It means screaming. There has to be fear for it to mean anything at all.”
“Well,” I tell her, “you certainly have a flair for inspiring that.” The other priestesses sigh in unison, the sound high-pitched and barely there, underscored with a weird clicking noise. A creaking that couldn’t possibly come from them. An involuntary shiver cuts through my body.
“I’m not the one people are afraid of, girl. It’s the Gods they fear. The repercussions of their actions should they choose to act…unwisely.”
I want to snort at how preposterous that sounds. I know it’s a thinly veiled threat, though, a subtle subtext that might have confused me once, but I am now slowly learning to understand. “You’ve had a vision about me?” I say, wanting to cut straight to it.
The High Priestess tips her head to one side, slowly approaching us. She considers me for just a moment before carrying on to stop in front of Ryka. He averts his eyes, staring sideways at the cavern wall. Anywhere but at her. I watch, horrified, as she extends her gnarled hand and places it over his chest.
“I saw this one. Saw the pain you will bring him.” She slowly rubs her hand up and down over his chest, and I feel a burning wall of anger rush up through me. I don’t like her touching him. I don’t like it at all. From the awkward way Ryka’s hands twitch at his sides, like he wants to swat her away, he’s not having much fun, either.
“I would warn you away from this girl, Ryka, but my breath is precious to me these days. I don’t like wasting it. And besides, there will be such value to your sacrifice. Just like there was in your father’s. The Gods will be thoroughly appeased.”
Ryka goes utterly still and I know that if she were anyone else, his hands would be on his blades and her body would be on the floor. His eyes flicker to mine and I see my own emotions reflected there—worry, anger, fear.
“What are you talking about? Why will I bring him pain?” I like to think I ask these questions to keep myself from launching at her, but my reasons are very different. She’s scared me. I don’t want to hear the word sacrifice come from her where Ryka is concerned. She withdraws her hand, though I can tell she does it reluctantly, and faces me. She shuffles forward until her face is nearly level with my shoulder. Despite the overwhelming stench of the room, her breath feels foul against my skin.
“Freetown is on its knees because of you, child. We saw that it would happen. It came to pass, and now new events have been set in motion. Your role here has altered, will alter the way our collective lives forever. Your connections with”—she looks at Ryka—“certain people will cause pain and suffering for all parties concerned.” The torches on the walls waver as one, an eerie spectacle, before strengthening again.
“So what are you saying? That you want me to stop seeing Ryka?”
A low titter echoes around the room as the priestesses react to my question. To hear them laugh is bewildering for more reasons than one. I have barely heard them make any sound before, let alone express themselves in such a way. But, more to the point, I find it hard to see what they find so funny. The High Priestess gestures with her hand, a tired flick of her wrist, and they immediately fall silent. “I have already seen both your futures. Your paths are as entwined as any two I have seen before. It would be pointless telling you to stay away from one another—it wouldn’t happen, and besides…why should I mourn the tragedy of doomed lovers when the outcome of such is to my benefit?”
Now I really want to hurt her. Ryka is still a statue, but his eyes rein fire. I suck in a deep breath, letting it flood my lungs. This is what Jack has shown me to do when I feel my temper getting the better of me. “If you don’t mind, I really want to get back to my brother.”
The woman knows about my brother. She knows all too well that he is still unconscious after being carried all the way from the Sanctuary with a near-fatal stomach wound. She’s offered none of the priestesses’ supposedly advanced medical capabilities to help him. I’m okay with that, though. I’d rather Ella tended to him than let any of them near him. Ever.
“I’ve seen his path, too,” the High Priestess tells me. “Your brother is strong. She tips her head to one side again in the seriously freaky way, and a cold finger runs down my spine. “He fights. He fights hard.”
/> He has been fighting hard. Every day he seems to rally, his stomach wound healing increment by slow increment, but he just won’t seem to wake up. The High Priestess clicks under her breath. “The body heals, but the soul battles. Maybe it wants to be set free?”
Maybe Luca’s soul wants to be set free? What the hell does she mean by that, that my brother wants to die? I imagine that’s how the crazy old witch’s mind works. Beneath my feet, the ground rumbles angrily, sending urgent vibrations up through the soles of my boots. Ryka places his hand on my arm, guiding me closer to his body. The High Priestess steps to the side as a violent jet of water erupts from the pool, stinking and bringing with it clouds of oppressively hot steam. My lungs are on fire as Ryka and I press ourselves back into the damp, slick cavern wall, avoiding the boiling hot water as it rains down. The priestesses don’t seem to care.
“I think it’s time to go,” Ryka whispers into my ear. His voice is all caution, all hard edges.
“Yes, it’s time for you to go,” the High Priestess agrees. “But first, I do need your word regarding one thing, girl.”
So there is a point to this meeting after all. I lock the old lady in my sights. A fat bead of condensation rolls down her white ceramic mask, growing in size and momentum before it reaches her chin and then drips down onto her robes. It amazes me how I can fixate on small, unimportant details, where before they would simply have been a part of the landscape surrounding me. An observation to be made, categorised, and filed away. Now, I have to concentrate.
“Which would be?”
The High Priestess pauses. Her withered hand slowly reaches up and goes to her mask. Ryka tremors and turns his back on her, so that he’s facing me. His eyes are wide, shoulders stiff.
“Don’t, Kit. Don’t.”
But the High Priestess’ mask is already gone, and I’m looking her square in the eye. She smiles, her upper lip warped by the angry purple scar that bisects it, and lifts her chin. She’s making sure I see every line, every last grotesque scar. She seems pleased when I don’t flinch. “You stare down trouble like death come too early, Falin Kitsch. That trait might just be the one to save you in the months to come.”
Ryka’s eyes are locked on me, I can feel them burning into my skin, so I reach out and touch the tips of my fingers to his. The contact doesn’t do much to ease him. The old woman before me glances down at our hands and a terrible smile spreads across her face. “Grave decisions, Falin Kitsch, they come the hardest to us all. I need you to remember what I said to you about sacrifice. That without pain, without fear or suffering, it is worth nothing at all.”
“I learned those lessons a long time ago. You have my word,” I snap. These riddles are treacherous; I feel it with every part of me. The smile on the High Priestess’ face sours. She steps closer so that she is shoulder to shoulder with Ryka. He closes his eyes, breathing in deeply through his nose.
“You are a fool if you think you know what pain is, Falin Kitsch. But you will.”
I dream in snapshots of pain and anguish. I see the faces of strangers, men I don’t know, fighting. The world is red inside the dream, red and black and terrible. Ryka features heavily in the action; his face is twisted with rage as he lunges forward, hand outstretched, eyes wide, like he’s closing in on killing someone. There’s a woman in my dream, too. A woman dressed in white, with long, dark hair. She looks like she’s glowing, the aura of light that’s surrounding her throwing her face into shadow so I can’t make out her features. I’m supposed to reach her. I know I am. It feels like I’m wading through waist-deep glue, though, reaching out, trying to get to her before…before, I don’t know, something bad happens. To save her? I can’t tell. I’m getting close, making progress when a voice rips high and clear above all of the shouting.
“Kit, look out!”
If it weren’t Ryka’s voice, I wouldn’t react. But there’s fear lacing his words, and I know something bad is about to happen. I’m turning, pivoting in his direction, but before I can catch sight of him, a searing hot pain tears through my stomach. Vertigo claims me as I fall backward, my hands instinctively travelling to the source of the pain galloping around my body. They come away red. I’m…I’m bleeding. I’ve been shot.
The dream starts over again. I get shot five times before I wake up.
The morning brings rain. The sound of it should make for calming background noise while I sit in my tent, watching over Luca. It doesn’t, though. It sounds like each pat, tap, splash on the canvas overhead is goading me, laughing at me, screaming in my ears. You’re failing. You put these people in danger. You’re selfish. You nearly got your brother killed. You can’t protect him. You can’t protect anyone. The sight of Luca’s halo against his naked, fevered skin infuriates me. I want to tear it off with my bare hands, just like Cai did to me. I can’t, though. Without it, Luca would be dead. The healing properties of his halo have saved his life, but that doesn’t mean I hate it any less.
I give up sitting and go to pacing. After a while Ella enters the tent and changes the wrappings around my brother’s stomach. The knife wound is a long, jagged slash across his abs, angry and puckered. It’s a mess. Ella stitched up the open skin in a hurry—the sky was raining fire at the time—and the edges are hardly lined up perfectly. There will be an impressive scar for sure, but I don’t care. If it means that he lives, I’m sure Luca can handle the evidence of his survival. Ella rinses out a bloody cloth in a basin of water, enigmatic as ever. The woman never speaks unless she has something really important to say. I have no idea what makes her tick. I do know that she is remarkably intelligent. I see it in the way she considers everything and everyone around her.
“I heard shouting earlier,” I eventually say. “Is Jack back from the outpost?” Jack left three days ago to meet with Freetown’s nearest neighbours. He told the people of Freetown his journey was to see if they had been attacked and required any assistance, but a select few of us know the truth. He’s gone looking for allies. Ella blinks at me in that thoughtful way of hers. She nods.
“Ryka went up to meet him beyond the bluff. They’ll be back within the hour.”
“And James?”
Ella ducks her head before I can read too much into the narrowing of her eyes. “James is due back today, too. No doubt he’ll make a grand entrance.”
After the Sanctuary, the fire, the madness that followed afterwards, James eventually made it back to Freetown. His stay was short lived. We didn’t even catch sight of him—Jack ordered him back out into the forest to guard Opa’s people, the ones who managed to escape. I couldn’t care less if James never returns at all, but I want to see my friends. I want to make sure they’re okay. I haven’t seen Callum or Penny since the night of the attack, and I won’t trust that they’re okay until I hear the words direct from James’ mouth. There’s another reason I want to see James: I want to know what happened with Max. I need to know how he died and why no one else did.
I turn my back on Ella before she can witness the raw pain my eyes—I have yet to learn how to hide what I’m feeling—and stalk to the open doorway of my tent. If I had thought the mud was bad before, then I was wrong. Freetown’s mud situation has worsened infinitely since the skies opened, and now it’s all I can see. That and the river, which is swollen and rushing. I stare into the pounding white water and I see the beginning of all this. If I had drowned, if I hadn’t survived by some miracle, where would Max be now? I know exactly where my brother would be. He would be back in the Sanctuary fighting hand over blade for his life. I shiver at the thought. A thought I try not to linger on. Mostly because I can’t help but wonder…would he have been better off there after all? It’s a crazy thing to consider, but I can’t seem to help it.
******
“The Outpost wasn’t hit. They heard about the attack, though. They knew we were in trouble.” Jack seems to have aged twenty years. He looked worn and tired before, but now he seems damned near exhausted. The journey that he insisted on making alo
ne has taken its toll. He scrubs his face with huge, calloused hands. “They were none too pleased to see me, I think.”
Ryka makes a fire from nothing in the space of a minute, grinding his teeth. The flames strengthen, casting gold shadows across his face. I want to rub my fingertips across the frown marking his face. Rub it right away. “They couldn’t even send a few men to help rebuild?” he mutters.
“They don’t want to be seen to be aiding us. Alexi isn’t stupid. He knows he’s putting his people at risk if he aligns himself with us.” Jack blows out a deep breath. “Looks as though we’re going to have to work this one out on our own.”
I can’t stand this anymore. All of this to-ing and fro-ing is making me crazy. “Then let’s work it out! The Sanctuary aren’t going to wait long before they send people out here looking for their people. Looking for me. We need to organise ourselves, teach Freetown how to defend itself!”
The fire snaps loudly, and Ryka and Jack just look at me. I feel the weight of their eyes on me and it turns my stomach. They’re considering my words, even though it means more death. It means more fighting.
“It’s not that simple, Kit,” Jack tells me. “Freetown may want a war, may even demand it, but that doesn’t mean we’re capable of winning it. We have no militia. We have fighters armed with knives, and the Sanctuary have trained soldiers with guns. They could pick us off one by one with their rifles down here before we could even blink. And I know you’re not stupid enough to think we could take them in Lockdown.”
Ryka’s eyes are glazed over, staring into the flames. He crouches down, folds his arms around his body. The tattoos on the backs of his forearms are glaring black reminders that he is no stranger to how this killing thing works. “No, she’s not. Of course that wouldn’t be feasible. They have the higher ground. They’re established there, and we don’t know the terrain.”
“Then let’s even the playing field! Take the fight to neutral ground.” I can’t see any other way that this is going to work. Jack scratches at his beard, an action I’ve come to recognise as one of frustration.
