MARKS - Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Guilt is a tricky color. Sometimes it comes to me in bursts of red, screaming death and pain. Other times it’s black, dull and heavy. Some days it’s grey: a flat grey that speaks not of death but of lack of life, which is another thing entirely.

The colors explode in the air around my stew, which I prod with a spoon but can’t force past the lump in my throat. When I can handle the colors no more, I push back my chair. I should go to the castle. Check if the boy is there. See if I can peer into the back gate where the Blackfeet and guards gather. The dungeon door must be on that side.

Mera’s words come floating to mind. You’re being watched, Gretta.

If they see me lingering outside the castle at night, then they’ll really suspect. I could be dead by morning. I slide my chair back under the table and pick at my food. Mera keeps looking at me, opening her mouth as if to ask a question, then closing it again.

Upstairs, I take my time brushing my hair then stare out my window at the castle towers. What would my parents have done if they were living in the city right now? My bed is no comfort. I stare at the ceiling and think about all the things I could write that might hurt the King.

And all the reasons why I shouldn’t be writing anything.

Morning comes with no answers, and no relief to the horrible tightness in my stomach. Mera has me busy washing bedding and fluffing our straw mattresses all day. We eat an early dinner, and I change into a fresh dress.

“I’m going for a walk,” I tell her.

She doesn’t ask me where I’m going. She never has. I walk past Houghman’s, the baker’s sugary air making my stomach grumble. I slow my pace when I get to Ashtin’s street. She’s not out today. I wind around Dunway Street, avoiding the alley and contemplating if I should stop and visit Meggie. But she’ll ask questions about last time, and anyway, I’ve been seen near their place enough lately.

The castle looms into view, and all I see in my head is that sweet girl, crying as the boy she loves was hauled away by the King’s men. My feet carry me toward the castle, as if they have a mind of their own. Stupid feet. You could wind up in the dungeons with me.

Late afternoon sun hits the castle’s black walls and goes nowhere, as if the King’s evil sucks in light itself and tries to keep hold of it. Crowds clog the front gate, jammed with people wanting to get a glimpse of lingering nobility and perhaps the prince of Faraday, if he’s still here. I trail my fingers along the outer wall as I walk, tracing a path over walls that have stood here in the city for dozens of lifetimes.

On the south side of the castle, there’s no gate letting onlookers gawk into the courtyard. No view of royalty. Just a smaller wooden gate embedded in the tall stone walls; walls protecting the King from his own people.

People like me.

I wiggle my fingers, stained with dye. The King would love to have them. To have me. My power. Or my death.

 

And I do nothing to stop him. Lucas’ fingers flash through my mind. I stuff my hands into my pockets. Male voices echo down the deserted street, and I duck behind a post, drawing my arms as close to my body as I can. Lingering will arouse suspicion, especially on this side of the castle. I peek around the post, then snatch my head back. Guards. Three of them. I rack my brain for an excuse I can give if they spot me here and question me. I’m out walking. Trying to see the visiting prince. I’ll bat my eyelashes and try my best to look like a doe-eyed girl, and not a weapon from birth dying to kill the King the guards are sworn to protect.

“Which one today, then?”

The voice is rough and scratchy, like an old wool blanket.

“Mavery’s,” a second voice answers, deeper than the first. “That boy who socked Jacks yesterday works there.”

“So we burn it for revenge?”

“His Majesty said Mavery may be Lyran. He wants it burned before morning.”

My heart catches in my throat. Mavery’s.

I have to warn him.

The guards shuffle past, and I dash from my hiding place and head around the castle. Dozens of people crowd the square. I rush forward, dodging ladies with baskets and men shouldering heavy sacks and boxes. If I can get to Mavery’s, I can warn him. I can’t stop the King, and Mavery knowing they’re coming won’t prevent them from destroying his business. But maybe if he has warning, he can save a little so starting over won’t be so hard.

Saints, starting over. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. John Mavery is an innocent person.

So were my parents.

My breaths are ragged and I bite my lip to keep from yelling. Curse the King. Curse everyone in this city with their stupid silence. No smoke wafts over the jumbled rooftops. I still have time. The crowd is a blur as I rush past, colors mingling into a blurred tapestry in my mind. I round the corner and step onto the street Mavery’s is on.

And stop.

A dozen or so guards surround the shop. Two hold back John, and two others have another man between them. Three guards hold torches. Time slows. All the sounds of the street blur into a buzzing noise, and my breaths are loud. The guards walk forward to the piles of parchment and paper they’ve stacked in the doorway and in the broken windows. Their torches touch the piles, and orange flames come to life.

That’s why I hadn’t seen smoke. They hadn’t started yet.

Flames leap, sucking in air and devouring the paper and wooden workbenches in John’s shop. Everything eaten by the orange fire surging and growing inside. My words are in there. And they will not burn. The guards will sift through the ashes and find them. And then they’ll find me.

I should run, but instead I step forward. Some of the guards snicker, and I want to knee them hard between their legs. I don’t care if they were once innocent men, conscripted into the King’s services. They are doing evil now. And everyone has a choice. These men have chosen to do this.

A crowd builds around the fire, people stopping on the street or peering out of shops on this avenue and staring. A shout rings out down the way a bit. Two guards turn and head toward the sound. I take four steps forward.

Then two more.

A guard is not five feet from me. I flex my fingers, wishing I had he strength to strangle him. To do something. I’m so close. Close enough to hurt him. Close to the evidence of my crimes, which surely they will find.

More shouts echo down the street. Then a scream. Angry voices follow. More guards turn that direction. The one closest to me turns my way.

Recognition lights a new fire of anger in me – Fluffer Butt. His stare this time is not friendly, his eyes narrowed so intently at me I gasp. He grabs my hand and pulls me to him. I wrench my arm free, but he’s there again, his hand on my upper arm. In the blink of an eye, his other hand is over my mouth.

“Don’t scream or I swear, I’ll make this more painful than it has to be.”

He jerks me forward. I stumble once but have no time to recover, because he keeps pulling me forward, his grasp on me like an iron fist.

He’s taking me. To the dungeon to be tortured. To the alley to use my body to satisfy his lust. Saints help me.

People rush down the streets, ducking into shops to avoid the commotion, or running out of them to view today’s entertainment. The guard drags me past a shop and turns down an alley. My heart beats so loud it’s all I hear, a blaring rhythm of pure fear. The alley is empty. Not that it would matter if it wasn’t. He’s a guard. He can do whatever he wants.

To me.

A sob escapes my throat.

He spins and clamps a hand over my mouth again. “Hush!” he hisses.

Tears spring to my eyes and I bite my lip hard to keep from crying. He drags me down the alley and turns onto another one that runs behind the backs of the taverns and shops lining the square.

The tips of the castle towers are just visible over the walls of the buildings around us. I can’t go there. I know what the King does. I know how much he hates people like me. How he longs to use our power. And we cannot refuse. I cannot go there.

The end of the alley looms up ahead. In ten steps we reach it, but instead of turning left, toward the castle, my captor turns right. He’s walking so fast he might as well be running. He pulls me down more streets. The smell of fish and water tinges the air. The harbor. Why are we headed there? Immediately my mind flashes with images of prison ships. Or of my body weighted down and thrown into the river.

The docks are just in view when the guard heads toward a road. He drags me down the embankment and Mera’s words pound in my head.

You’re being watched.

They know your name.

A sewer drain pokes out from the embankment and pours waste into the river. The guard throws open the gate covering it. He grabs my waist and hoists me up. My feet land with a splash, and sewage spills over the tops of my shoes. I have no time to be outraged though, as the guard climbs in after me, eases the hatch back down, then clamps his hand over my mouth again.