MARKS - Chapter 34

Chapter Thirty-Four

The wagon comes to a jarring stop inside the castle walls. A Blackfeet throws open the door. Without so much as a command, he grabs the woman closest to him and yanks her out. The male prisoner clutches the side of the wagon.

“Out!” the Blackfeet growls.

The man shakes his head.

The Blackfeet shoots out an arm, but the man dodges it, throwing his body back and colliding with mine. I fly backward and slam against the back of the wagon. I cry more in shock than in pain, though the sizzling of nerves in my right shoulder tells me I hit harder than I think. The man scrambles on top of me, trying to get who knows where. Foolish idiot. There’s no escaping this.

The wagon sags and I peer over the man’s flailing limbs. The Blackfeet takes another step into the wagon and grips the man’s leg. When the man kicks, the Blackfeet draws his blade quick as a wink from his side and stabs the man in the side. The man screams before his blood even starts pooling. The Blackfeet grabs the man by the ankle, drags him to the door, then flings him to the ground as if he were nothing more than freshly caught game.

A trail of red blood lines the wagon from where I stand to the door. My vision fuzzes out of focus then comes back again, clear and intent and zoomed right in on the streaks of blood.

“You. Out!”

I snap my eyes from the blood to the Blackfeet. His dark eyes are hard, as though carved from stone and not from anything living. Picking up my skirts, I step over the blood to the door. The Blackfeet grabs my arm as I jump down, then pulls me along with him away from the wagon.

Servants and guards bustle everywhere in the castle yard. I search the blue tunics frantically for Ward. Please be here, please be here. No one is familiar. There’s no one here. Air, I need air. I suck in a breath, but my throat won’t open to it. The castle looms tall in front of me, the stone even blacker up close than what it seems at a distance. Black like evil and death.

An entrance is just a few paces away. The Blackfeet ducks through the door and as easy as that, the King has me. A sob rises up inside me and before I can think to quiet it, it bursts forth and seems to echo off the hard stone walls. We twist through halls that seem to get smaller and smaller as we go. I turn my head, nothing but dim light and stone walls around me. What sorts of evil are thought of in this place?

The Blackfeet leads me to a gated hallway. The man standing guard swings open the gate. I’m not sure what I thought the King’s dungeon would look like, but this dark, dank hallway is fitting. Torches on the wall send shadows across the rock that seem to reach out and grab me. Tiny cells line both sides of the aisle, all filled with people, some shackled to the wall and some lying in heaps on the stone floor. Moans bounce off the rock walls.

Will they kill me here?

The Blackfeet opens the door of an empty cell and shoves me inside. The heavy iron gate clangs shut and he gives me no other glance or thought before turning and walking back up the hallway.

I spin in the room. No windows. Just rough stone walls and a wrought iron door locking me in. Two iron hooks are nailed into the stone wall, and I rip my thoughts from trying to figure out what those are for. A bucket sits in the corner and from the stench sitting around it, I know what it is. Relieving myself in front of men sends fresh spirals of fear shooting through me. What am I doing here? Thank the Saints I don’t have paper on me.

I tug down the sleeve of my dress. My marks feel as though they’re searing into my skin. Do they know I’m Lyran? Or did they find Nolan and the others in the cave and know I was there with them? They’ll torture me. They’ll hurt me and starve me to try and make me talk. I cannot tell them what I know. Even though everyone was leaving, they could still be there. Or guards could intercept them as they leave. Liddy and the boys and Blair. My second family, and he’s going to try and take them, too.

Calm down, Gretta. Calm down, calm down, calm down.

I drop my gaze to my arm, where my fingers are tracing over where my marks are. I snatch my hands behind my back. Blast it Gretta. That’s a dead giveaway. If they don’t know I’m Lyran they will if I keep doing that.

Maybe I’m here because of Breck. Maybe he just wanted me here. Terror grips my stomach and my muscles clench. What if they take whatever girls they wish and keep them here, using them up and passing them around like a bottle of cheap wine? Will they do that to me? That and more?

Oh Ward, I wish you were here. I need you. There’s no paper here. Nothing I can use to write Ward to me or write myself out of here. I’m not even sure if I would. My words about Breck not having me now mean the King does. Sweet skies above, is this what my words have done all along?

That’s what happened with my marks. I trace my fingers over the rock walls of my cell and wade through words in my mind, trying to remember everything I ever wrote. What if all I’ve done by writing away a lesser thing is write someone into a more horrible fate? Meggie’s baby; have I created something horrible for her by writing her a girl?

I won’t say anything. About anyone. Meggie. Blair. Liddy. Ashtin. They can starve me or beat me for days on end, and I’ll not utter their names.

My heart is racing, and I need to calm down. Calm down and think and try and be prepared for whatever is about to happen. The floor is cold but I sit, willing my heart rate to slow and my body to calm. The stench in the cell is rancid, as though death and pain are ripe here and waiting for me. I have no weapon. No tool to get myself out. Only leftover coins in my pocket and the clothes on my back. And I’d wager a good bet that both might get taken from me sooner rather than later.

One of the cells across from mine is empty. In the other is a heap of clothing I can only assume is a person. There is a slight rise and fall to the form, so at least it’s not a dead body keeping me company.

I crawl and press my face to the bars. The iron bars are cold, making my chilled body shiver even more, but I dig my face into them and crane my neck as far as I can to the left. A lone guard stands sentry at the end of the hall. Rough voices echo down the other end, and I turn my head that direction. Two guards tear open the door of a cell. They stride in and return, dragging a body between them.

A dead prisoner? But no. The prisoner - a man - lifts his head and lunges at one of the guards.

The guard loses his footing. The prisoner pushes off the other and takes two steps before the guard tackles him. More guards rush down the hall. A Blackfeet strides past my cell.

"Get him up,” he barks.

They right the man between them. The Blackfeet points to two other guards. “You two.”

One guard smirks, while the other looks as though he’d rather dig through sewage than do whatever it is he’s been commanded to do. His face sags, as though he’s so tired of wearing a stern expression he simply can’t do it anymore. How horrid it must be to be a slave to someone who has more power than you. The guard is on the other side of these bars, but he’s just as imprisoned as I am.

The two roll up their sleeves, and I push back from the door before I can see it happen. The sound of fists on flesh echoes clear over the stone floor, and I press my hands to my ears. A song from my childhood bursts to mind and I hum it over and over, focusing on the cadence and the words.

I have to get out of here.

When I pull my hands away the sounds of the beating have stopped. A thousand words explode in my mind. I need paper. I turn in my cell, as if some magic piece of parchment is going to appear just because I need it. Can I write on something else? The stones maybe? I scratch my fingernail across one, but it leaves no mark. My words have to leave a mark. I could draw blood on myself maybe, but that will take time and a heck of a lot of tenacity, and I’m not sure I have either.

I wrap my hands around my knees. Nolan will have expected me by now. The thought gives me comfort, but only a smidge. For what can Nolan do? What can anyone do?

Minutes bleed into hours and my body loses all concept of time. My stomach gnaws at me and my lips are so dry I can’t help but lick them, even though it won’t quench their thirst. This is part of a power play. Prisoners of course won’t be fed or given water. They’ll be forced to wait because that makes them breakable.

Not me.

Instead, I recount in my head every atrocity the King and his men have committed. From murdering my family to making good men like Ward serve in the guard. Taking life and snuffing it out. My anger builds, and I imagine it wrapping around my backbone, girding me for whatever I’m about to face.

More hours have passed when footsteps echo down the hallway. A shadow crosses over the floor. The man casting it isn’t tall, but his presence seems large. Monstrous. His black leather vest covers bulk that is mostly muscle. Scars crisscross his exposed forearms, and I wonder how many people have tried to kill him. And why. He casts an eerie gaze at me, and my whole body trembles, as though ice emanates from his eyes and has frozen the walls around me.

He pulls a ring of keys from his belt and inserts one into the lock. I scramble and scoot back against the wall. The click of the lock being opened is like a death sentence. The bottom of the iron door scrapes against the rocks as he pulls it open. Then he steps into my cell.

Immediately it feels ten times smaller with him inside with me. He squats down eye to eye with me and reaches for something at his side again. My wrist is clasped in irons before I can think to move my hand.

“Your wrists are small.”

His voice is so dark and his words so unexpected I don’t react. He tugs on the shackles, my wrists moving freely inside them.

“I’ll have to make you a special set.” He eyes my wrists and glares at me, the corners of his lip raised in a half smile, as though creating methods of capture and torment delight him to no end. And they no doubt do.

He stands and, oh heavens, I have no idea what he intends to do. Beat me. Use me. I watch him, expecting his move and fearing it all at once. But he makes no motion toward me. Instead he takes a step back and looks to the door.

Another man crosses in front of my cell doorway. Dressed in a white shirt and tan pants, a purple jacket hugging his shoulders. His hair is brown, and curls slightly around the golden crown he wears.

Saints above.

The King steps into my cell and the fire of rage I’ve kindled over a lifetime fizzles out into nothing more than ashes of fear.

He looks me over and pulls something from his pockets. Scraps of papers. All flattened out and stacked on top of each other. He rifles through a few of them and grins. Then he looks down on me.

“Gretta Marks,” he says. “I’m so glad we get to meet.”

My mind stops, frozen in fear.

The King glances down at the papers in his hand. “I’ve read a lot about you.”