Radicals (Blood & Fire)

by Frankie Rose

  “I have to go.” I give Ryka’s hand another quick squeeze, and then I get to my feet. The night air is blowing in through the man-sized gaps in the walls of the corridor as I head for the stairwell of the abandoned level. It’s a relief to feel like I can breathe again, but the fresh air is hardly enough to dispel the burden sitting on my shoulders.

  “Kit? Hey, Kit!” Ryka’s boots make flat, muffled echoing sounds as he jogs down the corridor behind me. I pause, waiting for him to catch up. His hair looks almost silver in the moonlight that cuts through the darkness, providing just enough light to navigate by. He leans his shoulder against the wall, tucking his hands into his pockets. His body is stiff as a board, like a man braced for bad news. And he is. “Do you think she’ll...she’ll live?” he asks.

  “Yes. She will. She will.” I hope with all my heart that she will. I don’t want to let him see my doubt, so I push it down as far as I can. Bury it so deep that I truly believe the words I say to him. “She’s strong, Ryka. She found her way here all by herself. If she were going to die, she would have done it by now.”

  He nods, pensively mulling this over. “Yeah, you’re right.” He wants to believe. He wants to believe so bad. “The halo saved Caius and your brother. It will take care of her, too.” He nods, as though the matter is settled now that he’s had chance to see the logic of it. A sudden nervous expression forms on his face. “I wanted to talk to you,” he tells me. “I…I wanted to talk to you about something…important.” He huffs out a breath, apparently frustrated by his inability to spit out whatever it is he wants to say.

  Oh, Gods. My palms break into a cold sweat. Why is he looking at me like that? After our recent Caius-shaped hiccup and the few days where me and Ryka weren’t together, I just can’t stomach the possibility that he might have changed his mind yet again. That running around after me when we’re under attack, jumping from buildings and putting himself into perilously dangerous situations when he is supposed to be safeguarding the people of Freetown might be something he just can’t justify. “Ryka, I can’t. Just not now, okay? Tomorrow. Can you tell me tomorrow? My body already feels like it’s been pulled in eight different directions. I just don’t think I can bear an emotional beating, too.”

  Ryka reacts to the shaky note in my voice. He recognises the signs that I’m on the verge of tears before I even do. It’s all just too much. The Sanctuary and my father; Luke; Freetown being destroyed and its people run out of their homes; Ryka and Caius, and now poor Olivia. Poor Olivia, with the kindest heart, who wanted nothing more than to find her mother and to help people wherever she could.

  “It’s okay, Kit. I’m not going to emotionally beat you. Or at least I hope I’m not.” He sounds faintly amused. He wouldn’t be smiling if he were going to tell me it’s over, surely? No. No, he would never be so callous. The relief that overcomes me is so powerful that my head spins. He slips a hand out of his pocket and reaches for me; I collapse into him, my body suddenly so unbearably heavy. He holds me to him, my cheek pressed against his chest, the sound of his breathing drawing slowly in and out in a reassuringly steady rhythm. “I just wanted to tell you that it’s all going to be okay, little Kit. There will be an end to all of this. Whether that end will come quickly and with death, or if we’ll have to give even more than we’ve already given, and we’ll have to fight even harder, I don’t know. But I swear to you that we’re going to face the future together. Screw the Sanctuary, and screw the Gods. There will be nothing within this life or the next that will keep me from being with you. From protecting you always. You’re mine, little Kit. And I’m yours, I’m afraid. There’s little to be done about it now. I’m sorry.” His voice is rough and choked with emotion; his arms tighten around me when I try to pull back to look up at him. I need to, though. I need to look him in the eye, even if he may not want me to. I push firmly against him, forcing him to ease his hold a little. When I look up into his face, my heart thundering in my chest, he bites down on his bottom lip, lowering his own gaze, glancing away. He’s nervous. I’ve never seen him like this. Not once. A thrill of adrenalin races through me, lighting up nerves of my own.

  “Why are you sorry?” I whisper.

  His lips bow, carefully forming the shape of a hesitant smile. He chances looking up at me. “Because you’re stuck with me now. Forever. And you may not want that.”

  “Ryka—”

  “You may think you know what that means, Kit, but the reality of it isn’t an easy one. Just think about it. I’m always going to be in danger. I’m always going to be the one they turn to now, to make decisions that may change the way we all live our lives. Now that I’m stuck with this,” he says, guiding my hand to the centre of his chest, where the brand the priestesses scored into his skin lies, “it will be hard for me to be my own person. I have to be many things to many people. But I would always, always be yours first. If you’ll let me.”

  “I—”

  “And if you can’t. If you won’t…” A deep and vast pain glimmers in his eyes, as though just even thinking it causes hurt to his very being. “If you think about it tonight and decide that you can’t deal with that, then…” He shakes his head. Strands of silver fall into his face, like fine wisps of pale fire. “Then it will pretty much destroy me,” he says, laughing softly. “And I’d like to say that I’d do my best to respect that, but I don’t think I’ll be able to. I don’t think I could be strong enough. Gods, please don’t give me cause to find out.”

  My throat has pretty much swollen closed. On the verge of tears a moment ago, I have absolutely no hope of stopping them now. Although the reason I’m crying is a completely different one. “How can you not know? How?” I ask softly. “I don’t need tonight to think about anything. There is no you and me, Ryka. There’s only us. We’re a part of one another. I’m never leaving you. Never.”

  Relief, followed by joy, chases away the panic on his face, and Ryka’s body begins to shake. “Gods, Kit. Gods.” He whispers the words, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against mine. Large hands cup my face, and then he’s kissing me. His mouth is hot, his lips firmly pressing against mine, claiming ownership of me. I’ve been so overwhelmed when he’s touched me recently, unsure of how to communicate with my body what I’m feeling. Or rather, scared to. But right now, my body knows exactly what to do. It melts against him, curving into the shape of him, and for a moment I have no real sense of where he ends and I begin. I really meant what I said: there is only us. He is the stronger part of me—the guiding force. The pillar that holds me up when I would otherwise fall. And I am his redemption, his chance to feel whole again. We are the better parts of each other. I am incomplete without him, and he is incomplete without me.

  “You know…you do realise what I’m saying right now, don’t you?” he asks carefully, eyes wide and suddenly unsure again.

  “Yes. I know.”

  “And…”

  “And yes. I want that. I want you. Forever.”

  ******

  The morning begins with red, and ends with red.

  The sky is a blazing inferno: angry crimson, vermillion, washed-out pinks, and a startlingly vivid gold. From where Ryka and I watch the sun rise on one of the mid levels, the horizon looks like the insides of one of August’s fires, the seething mass of clouds the flames, the sun the end of a burning, white-hot brand. The savage beauty of the daybreak is marred by the column of black, acrid smoke that twists upwards from the city’s skyline, visible even in the half-light.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “The dead,” Ryka murmurs. “They’re burning the bodies of the dead.”

  How many people must have died to create such a titanic wall of smoke? How many people must have fallen in the streets, shot dead in the buildings, been bombed wherever they hid and perished, to create such an imposing omen of death? It doesn’t bear thinking about. We don’t linger there for long.

  At around midday, while Ryka and I are grilling Seth, trying to get as much inf
ormation as we can from him on the underground living situations Rudy and his men have chosen, Luke rushes into the canteen, panting. He braces himself, hands on his knees, and says breathlessly, “Jack. It’s...it’s Jack! He’s here!”

  I shoot to my feet, upsetting the cup of tea Ella set down before me earlier. “He’s here? Where?”

  Ryka stands, too. “He said it’d be tomorrow. He must have left the outposts early.” Ryka, Luke and I rush to the ground floor and wait impatiently, fidgeting as we wait for the old man to make his appearance. However, when I catch sight of who is accompanying the old man when the small party of people turn the corner, my stomach objects, threatening to part company with my breakfast. “What the hell are they doing here?” I growl under my breath. Surprisingly, Ryka doesn’t immediately implode into a frenzy of furious action when he sees the priestesses, seven of them, floating along behind Jack like wraiths. The muscles in his jaw merely tighten as he clenches his jaw, narrowing his eyes at them.

  “He probably doesn’t know about Liv. And they probably weren’t going to tell him, either. They needed safe passage, and he gave it to them.”

  Jack isn’t the only one giving them protection, either. Another handful of fighters flank the bright splash of red that moves serenely behind Grandfather Jack. Their faces are grim as their heads swivel around, taking in the faintly smouldering buildings around us and the smudge of black smoke that still marks the sky in the distance.

  Jack’s face breaks into a relieved smile as soon as he lays eyes on us. The old man is covered in dirt and looks bone weary, but he has enough energy to grab his grandson and pull him into a tight hug. “Looks like you’ve been causing trouble, then,” Jack says, smiling tiredly at him.

  “I guess so.” Ryka hugs him back fiercely. “James had a fair hand in it, too.”

  A thick, bushy grey eyebrow rises up Jack’s forehead. “I don’t doubt it.”

  Behind us, people start filing out onto the street, curious to see who has arrived. Reverent whispers of Grandfather rustle around the crowd, murmured by the people from Freetown, pleased to see their leader. Other faces, people from the Sanctuary, openly study the small group of fierce men and the ethereal women in their red veils. A thick-fingered hand lands on my shoulder as Opa arrives at my side, his white hair sticking up in tufts, and his rotund belly pulling against his shirt. His quick blue eyes assess the people in front of us, before he smiles warmly and offers out his hand.

  “Grandfather,” he says politely in welcome.

  Jack takes a quick measure of the old man, and then shakes his hand. “Opa.” He returns the greeting. They are an odd mirror of one another, both with their greying hair and their slightly rounded guts, but there is one big difference. Jack still carries himself like a fighter; he could still easily be a force to be reckoned with. Opa, on the other hand, is as soft as civilised men of the Sanctuary come.

  “So good to finally meet you,” Opa says. “This is my son, Foster.” Foster, right beside him, bows slightly at the introduction. “And this is…well, perhaps you might call him my adoptive son, Caius.”

  I cringe inwardly at the name, wondering what Ryka has told Jack about Cai. Jack just smiles politely, first shaking Foster’s hand and then turning to face the other boy, who has also appeared behind Opa. Caius looks a little green now faced with Freetown’s leader, who also happens to be Ryka’s grandfather. Jack just smiles politely. “I used to listen to your fights,” he says. “You and Kit were always setting the airwaves alight.”

  “Uhh…thank you?” It seems odd to be proud of our past, but Caius doesn’t really yet understand the nature of Freetown’s people—the high regard in which they hold their most skilled fighters, just like back in the Sanctuary. Jack chuckles, glancing at Ryka, who remains stony faced now that the pleasure of seeing Jack has diminished. His mood had turned black in the presence of the priestesses again.

  “What are they doing here?” He glares at the women, doing little to hide his feelings toward them. A glimmer of mild caution flashes across Jack’s face.

  “Ah, yes. Well. The High Priestess has decreed that the fights need to go ahead, now more than ever. She’s too frail to travel. The other sisters are going to remain in the Keep with her until it’s safe for everyone to return, but these seven kindly volunteered to oversee matters.”

  A blank look of complete shock masks Ryka’s face. “Fight? They want us to fight? Here?”

  Jack nods.

  A deep red colour begins to rise up Ryka’s neck, creeping past his ears and staining his cheeks. “No.”

  One of the red-robed figures steps forward, tipping her head to one side. “No?” she whispers. Her voice is fractured and unearthly, the sound of wind rushing through leaves. The other priestesses echo the word behind her, all asking the same question with the word—who are you to refuse?

  Ryka’s hand moves to the knives on his belt, his eyes hardening to a cold black. “No.”

  “Sacrifice must be made,” the first priestess announces, barely audible over the muttering of confusion and alarm that goes up from the people of Freetown. To not fight, to refuse the fights…I’m sure this has never happened before. Ryka turns a cold gaze on the priestess.

  “The Gods must be drowning in the blood that’s been spilled in the past twenty-four hours. There won’t be any more. Not here. Not by our own hands, anyway. If people choose to go back to Freetown, to live there under its traditions, then so be it. But this place isn’t Freetown, priestess.” He says the last word as though it’s the foulest thing to ever leave his tongue, and that’s saying something. I’ve heard Ryka swear so harshly the air has turned blue.

  The people gathered around us stop muttering and gasp aloud now, scandalised and worried by Ryka’s refusal. Jack pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. It’s the priestesses’ reaction that is most worrying, though; the low, creaking, ticking noise that all seven of them make causes the hairs on my arms to stand erect.

  “These are our ways, Ryka,” Jack says softly, though I can see in his eyes…he doesn’t believe his own words. Wants no part in them.

  “You won’t be saying that when you see what they’ve done to your granddaughter,” Ryka says, his voice low and filled with menace. Jack’s face confirms what Ryka thought as he arrived—he doesn’t know about the priestesses casting Olivia out. His brows draw together, but before he can question Ryka’s meaning, the priestess who spoke first, the one who appears to be in charge, steps forward.

  She begins to draw her veils back slowly, one at a time. Ryka tilts his chin up, refusing to react to the threat this action contains—to see the face of a priestess is to be cursed—but the people observing who believe in such things all avert their eyes, making soft, fearful sounds. Some of them leave altogether, hurrying back inside the Det. That leaves Ryka and me staring the priestess down as she unveils herself. When she finally reaches the pale, smooth white ceramic mask that covers her face underneath all of the red material, she seems to realise that Ryka isn’t going to back down.

  “The matches will go ahead as always, boy,” she says. “They will go ahead. And you shall not stand in our way.”

  And then she removes her mask. Her face is as terrible as the High Priestess’, marked with purpling, twisted scars. She’s a fearsome sight. Ryka’s not scared of her, though. He squares his shoulders and stares her directly in the eye, an act of pure defiance. The look of fury on the priestess’ face is more frightening than any of her scars.

  It doesn’t matter what Ryka says. The people of Freetown, now numbered in the thousands, all succumb to the priestesses’ wishes when they announce the blood ceremonies. As many as can fit all cram onto the roof of the Det, while others gather in crowds on the roofs of the two other buildings tall enough and close enough to see what is happening. Today isn’t when the fights will take place. The blood ceremonies are when selected fighters will be promoted from their classes. The real fights have been scheduled to take place in two da
ys’ time.

  Luke and Melody are on the roof of the closest building; I’d refused to let him up on the roof of the Det, knowing all too well that he would end up involved in the ceremonies if he did. Somehow, even though he’s not a part of Freetown, it would have happened. Nearly every single one of Freetown’s fighters willingly shows up to the calling. The few who don’t come have been left on green nine with the survivors from the Sanctuary’s ship, but everyone else is here, including Ryka. He didn’t have a choice in the end. Not without denouncing his role as protector and losing the respect of his people. And because he came, I didn’t have a choice, either. It’s that simple. And I am Tamji, after all. When I fell into the pit and killed the man who had volunteered to make a sacrifice of me, the High Priestess decreed that, too. The first ever female fighter in Freetown. And now here I am, standing on the top of a forty-five storey building, surrounded by fighters, preparing myself for the possibility that I might have to fight again. And all voluntarily. The irony is almost suffocating.

  My knives are as sharp as the day August made them, and yet I feel unarmed as I stand next to Ryka. He stands at the front of the crowd, which has formed a circular opening for the fighters in the absence of a pit. Before, they fought below ground level, and now the fighters of Freetown will battle for their lives on a platform higher than most of them have ever ventured in their lives. Our observers are definitely conscious of the fact, as they peer nervously over the sides of the building, pale as starched sheets.

  Caius stands on the other side of the crowd, his face a pale colour, too. Foster is by his side, whispering something into Caius’ ear, but the other boy, the boy I trained and fought with most of my life, doesn’t seem to like what he’s saying. He shakes his head abruptly, eyes still locked tight on the focus of his displeasure. On me.