by Frankie Rose
“Listen to me, Luke. I want you to listen to my breathing, okay? I want you to concentrate on breathing in really deep through your nose every time I do, okay? Blow it out through your mouth.” Ryka pulls a deep breath in through his nose, and I find myself doing the same. The first few times Luke doesn’t manage to match Ryka, but eventually his hyperventilating slows. After a minute, Luke is able to draw in slow breath after slow breath, but his whole body is still trembling. It’s scary as hell.
“It’s just adrenalin,” Ryka whispers to me. “He’s going to be fine.” He lets go of my hand and takes hold of Luke’s free one. “You’re okay now, Luke, just breathe. Close your eyes. Clear everything out of your head. Make it so that it’s just you and me and Kit, okay? It’s only the three of us. We’re alone, and it’s dark and it’s safe here. We all keep each other safe. Nothing bad happens here, okay?”
Heat streaks down my cheeks and I realise I’m crying. I’m crying because Ryka is amazing, and his words reach me to the very bottom of my heart. It’s just the three of us. We keep each other safe. How is he okay with taking all of this on? I’m sure most people would run like hell in the other direction.
Ryka looks up, sees my tears. His expression is so full of love and sorrow that I can’t help but bury my face into Luke’s back to hide from it.
Luke doesn’t come to the bonfire later that night, but Ryka and I go. The last time we were here, Max was running around with Olivia slung over his shoulder while she squealed and slapped his back, struggling to get down. So much has changed since then. A sombre cloud hangs over Freetown’s youth, and conversations are muted, careful and conducted in small groups with downcast eyes. Eyes that shoot occasionally to me and Ryka as we stand with Melody and a few of her friends. A young guy named Benjamin, all arms and legs, ridiculously tall, runs his hands over the shining, pristine knife hilts in his belt. I’m guessing he’s never used them, even though he’s the same age as me. Apparently some people just don’t get called to the pits here in Freetown.
“James has set up in one of the abandoned cities. We’re all going to be relocated there in three days’ time, the whole of Freetown,” he says. Melody’s eyes are round, her bells tinkling as she shifts from foot to foot.
“How can they relocate all of us? That’s…that’s impossible.”
“It’s not impossible. It’s smart. At least there are concrete walls there, actual buildings to defend ourselves from. What’s to stop the Lockdown freaks from just charging through here again, showing up in their trucks and shooting us all in our tents, huh?”
He has a point, but the logic doesn’t bolster Melody. “Ryka, it’s not true, is it? Surely Jack knows he can’t just up and move twenty thousand people. This is where we were born, where our loved ones are buried. This is sacred ground. The priestesses—”
“The priestesses are stuck here no matter what. They’ll never leave the Keep. Which means no one’s going anywhere, Mel,” another boy, short with strawberry blond hair, tells her. I think his name is Alex.
Ryka stands close to me, his presence comforting as ever. His even breathing blows over the back of my neck, making me shiver. “Jack hasn’t said anything about an evacuation. James does have a camp outside Freetown’s limits, but the people there are from Lockdown, not here.”
“Callum’s not here,” Melody says.
“No one’s keeping Callum away. He can come back whenever he wants.”
It’s obvious why Callum hasn’t come home yet. Max. Why would he want to return to Freetown when every single inch of the place is going to remind him that his brother is gone?
“Who told you about the city, anyway, Ben? James is probably just at the Outpost, or something. The cities are dangerous,” Alex says.
Ben doesn’t look like he appreciates being challenged. “I know it’s true, okay. James told one of the priestesses. My sister was at the Keep. She heard him say it with her own ears.”
“Oh, well if James said it, it must be true.”
A shadow approaches our group, and Ryka goes stiff. I see why when Simone’s hunched-over figure emerges from the darkness. Simone, the girl that Max Claimed to try and provoke a response from Olivia. I find myself wondering if she knew that’s why he did it, or did she believe he loved her instead? She seems smaller than I remember. Thinner. I feel awful when I realise I haven’t even spared a second thought to her since we got back. Yes, Max’s heart belonged to Olivia, but had Simone’s heart belong to Max? She looks broken. Her blue eyes are dull, her hair scraped back into a simple bun, and there isn’t a single bell on her clothes as she joins us.
Her lips contort into what could be considered a smile, if you could only see past the heartbreak. “There’s something going on up at the big tent,” she whispers. “Jack was asking for you, Ryka.” These are the only words she speaks. She sinks back into the darkness, just as silently as she came.
“Where were her bells?” I ask Ryka under my breath.
“She’s a widow now. She’s without in every sense of the word. She can never carry money, buy anything for herself again.”
“What? That’s crazy! How will she survive?”
“You usually get taken in by your family if you’re widowed.”
“Usually?”
“Simone’s mother died giving birth to her. Her dad was killed four years ago in the pits. She has no brothers or sisters. ”
Melody shivers, pulling her clothes tighter to her body in spite of the fire. “She’ll have to go live up at the Keep.”
“She does have one living relative,” Alex says.
Melody snorts. “Yeah, but we all know he’s not going to take her in, is he?”
A living relative? The people of Freetown are cold and distant in some respects, but they’re firm believers in family. It’s the most important thing to them; I can’t imagine a relative of Simone’s abandoning her to her chances if it was within their power to help her. “Who?”
Ryka nods, as though to himself. “James is her cousin.”
“Oh.” Now that makes a little more sense. I can’t imagine James caring for anyone. Perhaps poor Simone really is all on her own now. Ryka takes my hand, and we head off to find Jack.
******
Ella stands outside the big, white tent where Jack’s voice can be heard booming from inside. There’s mud everywhere, as usual. The slender, dark-haired woman is wringing her hands. She sees us weaving our way toward her through a milling crowd of irritated faces and comes to meet us.
“Thank the Gods you’re here,” she says to Ryka. “It’s madness in there.”
He looks as confused as I must. “What’s going on?”
“Bartholomew has left Freetown.”
It takes me a while to remember who Bartholomew is. Then I recall the anger of the skin-and-bones man who had been present the last time we were here at the big tent. Bartholomew. He was furious that we were going to rescue Opa’s people—he thought his business would suffer because of it. Undoubtedly, it has.
“No point in guessing where he’s gone,” Ryka mutters, pushing his way inside the tent. It’s standing room only inside. Hot and stuffy. There have to be at least a hundred people gathered around a small clearing in the centre of the room, where Jack, James, Alistair—the other, rounder man from last time—and two other strangers stand. It’s not until we’ve shoved our way through the crowd that I see the red. The other two figures, the priestesses. My heart starts to thunder in my chest. What are they doing here?
“We don’t have the resources!” Jack’s face is splotchy from shouting, trying to be heard over the rabble.
“We don’t need resources! We have thousands of men willing to go up there and make even our debt! What more do we need?” someone yells from the crowd. Jack shakes his head, while James, arms folded across his chest, just stares at his boots. He’s listening. Alistair, on the other hand, is almost at boiling point. His jowls wobble as he points into the crowd. “Hold your tongue! Show some respect
to your leader!”
The crowd does dull down after that, and whispers of grandfather echo throughout the room. Silence eventually prevails. Jack runs both hands back through his hair, scanning the faces that encircle him. He sees Ryka and sighs, lowering his head. “Freetown is injured. Some of us are angry—”A rumble passes through the crowd. Everyone is angry. “Yes, Bartholomew has left Freetown.”
Another shout goes up, louder this time, closer to the front. “A lot of people have left, Grandfather. It’s safer at the Outposts right now, so who can blame them? The problem is that Bartholomew has left to go to the other side. He’s gone to Lockdown!” Low grumbles agree with the anonymous voice.
“Bartholomew’s actions do mean trouble for us, I can’t deny that. He is bound to trade information about our actions with Lockdown.” His eyes flicker toward me. “And he’ll trade information about the people we are giving shelter here, too. We simply need to discuss how we are going to handle the situation.”
“There is only one way to handle it,” a voice calls. “We need to act before they can hit us again.”
Jack sighs. His words are going unheard, and the frustration bleeds onto his usually calm face. Surprisingly, it’s James that speaks up next. “We have to be clever about this. We aren’t going to go charging up that hill blindly. I’ve been there. I’ve seen how many people they have. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”
This seems to quiet the crowd some, and I start to feel uneasy. Why, all of a sudden, does James’ word mean more than Jack’s?
A woman standing three people down from me says, “We should turn the girl over to them! If they come and find her here, they will punish us all. Appeal to their mercy.”
All eyes turn to me, and the woman flushes. She obviously didn’t realise I was pretty much standing right next to her. People aren’t happy with her words, but it’s not for my sake.
“We don’t ask for mercy!”
“The dead must be avenged!”
“We are not weak!”
Countless people say the same thing. I feel Ryka’s hand protectively resting on my hip. I glance up at him and his golden hair hides his eyes from view, but I can tell he’s angry. His jaw is clenched tight—the look in his eyes will be as black as his shirt. Jack beckons us forward with a tired motion of his hand. Ryka guides me into the centre of the clearing, standing as close as he can. For the first time in a long time, I rest my hands on the hilts of my blades. This doesn’t exactly feel safe.
“We’re not handing Kit over to the Sanctuary. She was a victim of their mistreatment for too long, and I won’t in good conscience send her back to that. Plus, she is a member of this town now. She has the same rights as any of you.” Jack causes quite a stir with that last statement. People here don’t see me as their equal, it seems. They see me as a trouble-making interloper. “We need to stand together, now, more than ever.” Jack pauses, sucking in a deep breath. Whatever he has to say next clearly troubles him. “The High Priestess has sent word. She has Seen what’s to come. According to her vision, there’s only one way to succeed in our struggle with Lockdown.”
The thick silence is instant. No one breathes a word. It’s funny how even a mention of the High Priestess can have that effect. The people wait, looking on expectantly. Jack opens his mouth but can’t seem to get any words out. He looks to James. “Go on. Why don’t you tell them? I can’t.”
James tilts his head to one side, as though cracking his neck. He is completely devoid of any emotion, unlike Jack. Stepping forward, James shoots me a hard glare. “The High Priestess has advised that only one person can stand against the Sanctuary and win. One person can lead us to victory over those who would oppress us.”
A steel fist tightens in my gut. Oh. So this is it. This is James’ reward. This is what he’s been working toward. Killing Matthew, petitioning time and again for leadership, for power of his own—now is when James gets his reward from the High Priestess. I feel sick. Ryka blows sharply out of his nose, his body vibrating with energy. It travels down his arm and straight into me, pushing me over the edge. This is going to be bad. Really, really bad. James takes a look at the red priestesses to his side. They incline their heads toward him as one. Go ahead.
“To be able to defend ourselves, to make sure that we are safe, to protect our homes and our children from what is coming, we need to stand behind one figure. Someone born to lead us. Someone who will be able teach us and train us, someone who will be able to see beyond our traditions. The High Priestess has decreed it.” James looks directly at me and that’s when I realise…he’s not talking about himself. He’s talking about…
“Ryka.”
Like a fire catching on a pool of gasoline, the reaction from the crowd is instantaneous and violent. They start shouting and cheering; at first I think they’re angry, frenzied by their rage, but then I see the smiles on people’s faces and realise the opposite is in fact the case. I turn and look at Ryka beside me. His eyebrows are halfway up his forehead. When his eyes meet mine, I see sheer panic in them.
“Ryka was born to lead us!” a voice hollers behind us.
James glances down at his feet again, his arms still drawn tight across his chest. “Ryka was born to lead us,” he repeats. I’m too stunned to say anything. I would have thought James would be rallying against this decision. But he’s not. He’s presenting it the town. He’s agreeing with it.
“I don’t…I’m not…” Ryka stammers. He looks at me again, like I have any idea what’s going on. His voice is a whisper. “I can’t lead Freetown.”
“You won’t lead Freetown. You’ll lead its militia. Jack will still be leader, alongside the priestesses, as it has always been.” James’ explanation doesn’t make Ryka any less tense. The people around us are all still smiling, looking at Ryka and nodding. Nodding to him. Nodding to each other, whispering behind their hands. Ryka’s leadership, his training—he is Freetown’s solution. The High Priestess’ word has decreed it, and the people are grabbing hold if it, of him, with both hands. He is their life raft.
“I can’t,” he says again, but no one is listening. No one but me, Jack and James. Even Alistair is grinning. He slaps Ryka on the shoulder like this is the best news ever, completely ignoring the horror on his face. The priestesses step forward as one, and the woman on the left reaches into the folds of her red robes. I expect a knife to be withdrawn and I am not disappointed. This knife isn’t like the one the High Priestess uses for the ranking rituals, though. The blade is short and fat, shaped like a curved flower petal, and the handle is made out of marbled, purple stone. Jack looks away.
“What is she going to do?” I whisper, anxiety coursing through my arms, legs, torso, making me feel weak. Ryka doesn’t answer me. He flinches away from the priestess, but the wall of people behind him don’t realise he’s trying to back the hell away. They cheer and push him forward, and he has no choice but to stagger before the priestess. My hand goes to his arm, but James gives me a look. Shakes his head. Ryka sees and locks me with his eyes.
“It’s okay, Kit. I have to—”
The priestess cuts him off. She fists the front of his shirt and slashes out, renting the black material open from top to bottom. I gasp as the other priestess yanks it from his body. Ryka is shirtless in the centre of the big tent, looking a little lost. Helpless. Whatever is about to happen, he definitely doesn’t want it. Jack edges his way around the clearing and stands beside me.
“They have to tattoo him,” he tells me. I feel a little relief at that. They’re just going to mark him. But Jack is worried. I can read it in every line of him.
“The same as one of these?” I point to the faded blue lines on the backs of Jack’s arms—his kills.
“No. This is different.”
I want to know how, but there’s no time for talking. The priestesses suddenly both lunge toward Ryka, acting as one, and they bring their hands to their mouths. Ryka flinches again as a cloud of purple-white dust blows straight into hi
s face.
The Haze. They’re drugging him.
I can’t help myself. “No!” Hands are on me straight away. Jack and…and James. They both hold onto me as I kick and scream, trying to reach Ryka. “Please!” I scream, even though I don’t know what I’m begging for. I just don’t want them to hurt him. Ryka’s eyes roll back into his head, and his body turns slack. Two men rush forward from the crowd and catch him before he can fall completely.
Then the priestess with the knife gets to work.
She bends over him and twists her wrist in quick, agile movements. Her body blocks whatever she is doing, but the movements of her hands tells me this isn’t a simple line she’s drawing on Ryka’s chest. Eventually I see rivulets of blood trickling down his stomach and I start screaming again.
“Hush, Kit!” Jack hisses.
James follows him up with a warning of his own. “You aren’t endearing yourself to your fellow townsfolk.”
He’s right. Half the people in the tent, even more than before James’ announcement, are watching the priestesses and Ryka. The other half are watching me lose control. Their faces are angry. Furious, in fact.
“Just because your boyfriend doesn’t want this, doesn’t mean it isn’t one of the highest honours that can be bestowed in Freetown. And you’re making a scene. Trying to prevent one of the most sacred rituals we have.” I glare at James, and he glares back. Damn him. I still my body but pull my arms free, my heart racing so fast I can’t define between the beats.
“He doesn’t want this. He should have been able to choose.”
“None of us get to choose our lots in life, Kit. We just do with them what we can, isn’t that right, Grandfather?” Jack doesn’t answer James. He doesn’t even look at us. He’s staring at his unconscious grandson, being branded. The priestess’ body stiffens, and she presses down one last time. The blade must go deep, because a small river of blood pours down Ryka’s stomach and starts dripping into the dirt floor. I cover my mouth with one hand, clench hold of a dagger hilt with another.
