MARKS- Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

I wake not to sunlight, but to a harsh rock ceiling that seems closer each time I open my eyes. Three days I’ve lived within the confines of these walls and not been outside this room except to relieve myself in the bushes outside. Three days of doing nothing, and the tension in my body simmers like water in a pot.

My limbs ache from the rough floor, and my hips throb despite the thick bedroll Blair gave me. I sit and work the kinks out of my neck. The room stirs with movement: children hungry for their breakfast, and women scampering to get everyone up and dressed for the day. The men seem to disappear with the dawn, leaving to do whatever they do as soon as they are awake.

Women put fresh shirts on little boys and wrap little girls in dresses. No marks shine from the children’s, but they wouldn’t. Those that small don’t have powers yet. I roll my shoulders and continue my sweep across the room. A woman pushes up her sleeves before tending a fire. No marks.

No. Marks.

I heave out a sigh and stand. There’s no paper in the cave that I’ve been able to see. There could be some down one of the other tunnels, but so far I haven’t worked up the courage to wander around on my own. Most other than Nolan’s family only speak to me when they have to. I doubt they’d take kindly to the new person snooping around. And what would they do with me if I was no longer welcome? I doubt they’d let me go free now that I know their secret hideout.

Liddy, on the other hand, is anything but silent. In three days she has gone from being shy and reserved to being my new shadow. This morning I scoop oatmeal onto my plate, forgoing the sugar Blair offers and taking a dollop of butter instead. Liddy asks for the same.

After I eat and wash the dishes, I run my fingers through my hair and braid it, the long tail snaking over my shoulder. Liddy watches me, her eyes wide and dancing. She prances across the rock floor to Blair and tugs on her skirts. “Mama, can you braid my hair?”

Blair, elbow deep in plucking a goose Nolan killed yesterday, raises an eyebrow as she peers down at her youngest.

“I can do it,” I offer.

Liddy smiles, her grin swallowing up her button nose.

“Get a ribbon,” Blair tells her.

Liddy scampers to a group of trunks by the wall and throws one open. She rummages inside and I scoot close. Maybe they keep paper in the trunk. But I don’t see any. Saints above. I’ve got to let it go. But I can’t. Because if these people are Lyran, we might as well just slit our wrists now. The King will take us all. Kill us all.

But there’s no marks. No paper. They’re not Lyran. Which means I should be safe. I turn my attention back to Liddy as she pushes aside clothes and grabs a hairbrush and a pale yellow ribbon, fringed on the edges and faded from years of use. She hands it to me with a smile, as though old ribbons are priceless treasures. Then again, the child sleeps on rock and plays inside a cave all day. A yellow ribbon is probably the pinnacle of her little life.

I sit on the floor, and Liddy plops in front of me. I wonder if she’s ever seen the river that flows just yards from the cave’s entrance. If she knows what clouds look like when they gather and stack on top of one another before a storm. If she’s seen birds skim over fields. Was she born in this dark, damp cave? Her whole life lived in hiding because of the King and whatever it is these people are hiding from?

Liddy’s hair is soft and brown like the bark on trees after a heavy spring rain. I lace it through my fingers, weaving it together. I’m halfway through when she jerks forward and her hair pulls away from my hands.

“Ward!” She races across the rocky floor and flies into his arms.

He picks her up and swings her in a circle, then kisses her nose before tucking her on his hip. He’s without his tunic today. Just dark pants and a blue shirt, which makes him seem less paunchy and more solid.

Liddy scrambles down from his arms and takes his hand. “Gretta’s braiding my hair, Ward.”

He glances at me and my cheeks heat up, as though his status of guard instantly makes me guilty of something and him the one to pass judgment and punishment. Liddy scoots into my lap again. When I finish her hair, she races off to where her father and Ward sit around one of the fires. Ward picks Liddy up mid-sentence and sits her on his knee. Such doting for a bullying guard.

“Gretta.”

I snap my head to Blair.

"Can you sew?” she asks.

 "Yes.”

“Good, can you help with this?” She lifts up a blue piece of clothing.

“Sure.” I step toward her. She pushes a heap of blue fabric into my hands. The insignia of the King’s guard stares up at me from the fabric, and it’s like a hand snakes up my throat and chokes me.

“Ward ripped his tunic, and I’ve got to tend to dinner,” Blair says. “Can you take care of it?”

The hand squeezes tighter. I can’t breathe enough to answer, so I nod. Of course I can fix it. I can touch this tunic of the King’s and stitch it back together as though it doesn’t represent everything bad that has happened in my life.

I sit on one of the logs, the fabric rough and well worn. Well used. What has Ward done in this tunic? I study my fingers, stained with dye and with the ink of words written, defying my King. I half want to take this tunic and toss it into the fire. Or better yet, drag it through the sewage tunnel Ward led me through to get here.

The rip isn’t long, thank goodness, but Ward’s tunic is huge and the mass of blue fabric in my lap seems as heavy as an anvil. It’s amazing he’s so big where Blair is just my size - not tiny, but normal. I glance across the way at Ward again. He’s a bit shorter than Nolan, but Nolan is lanky and thin, like a young pine tree. Ward’s more like a docking post or a stone pillar. Large and in the way.

This is the second time he’s been back since he left in a huff the other day. He’s barely spoken more than two words to me. Not that I’d want to talk to him. But he could at least acknowledge me, instead of pretending I wasn’t around because he dragged me through a tunnel of crap to get here.

All because he thought I was up to something. Right. The guard who is doing something against his King - though I have yet to figure out what - thinks I’m up to something. I still don’t know why all these people are here, other than they are in hiding and engaged in something secretive. Maybe their only secret is that they are hiding. And harboring a guard who, on his days off, likes to steal girls and then yell at them for it.

I jam the needle so hard through the last stitch that it shoots straight into my finger. I curse - a nasty word tinted in reds and blues - then suck the blood from my fingertip.

“My father would’ve beat me soundly for using a word like that.”

I snap my head up. Ward stares down at me. Heat leaps to my cheeks. I take my finger out of my mouth. “Mine would have, too.”

His eyes flicker to my finger, then to his tunic. “Don’t get blood on that.” He strides off.

I wish I had a dagger so I could slice my entire arm right now and let it gush all over his precious uniform. I glare at Ward who, unfortunately, is not facing me to see my glorious scowl. The brute. He speaks to his sister, then he and Nolan and the other men disappear down one of the cave’s tunnels.

What is he doing on the inside? There’s no way all of these people are related. Most of them are families, with a few stray people like myself who have attached themselves to the group. And I’ve seen Blair’s arms, and those of most of the kids. No one has the marks. Then again, they could be Lyran and never have killed or saved anyone yet. But what are the chances Lyrans are working together against the King and haven’t killed or saved anyone? His dungeons are never full. But the number of wagons pulling bodies from them is enormous.

What is Ward doing?

And why doesn’t he want me to know?