MARKS- Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

The good thing about his hand being over my mouth is that it makes it hard to breathe. The stench of sewage surrounds us, trapped by the rounded walls we bend over and walk through. I take small breaths through the guard’s fingers only because I have to. He has me pressed in front of him, and if I stopped moving my feet he’d probably just lift me higher off the ground and carry me wherever we’re going.

Where are we going?

Mera’s words echo in my head: You’re being watched. They know your name.

Maybe he has a hidden trove of stolen gold and wine down here. Maybe his buddies will be waiting for us when we reach wherever we’re going, and they’ll share me as if I’m no more than plunder their position affords them. We are lost in darkness in the tunnel. The only way out I know is back where we came from. If I can get loose, maybe I can make a run for it.

That’s a big if. This guard is well built and bulky, as solid as a work horse.

I throw my weight into my arms, testing his strength, and in a split second his elbows collapse tighter into me. No way I’m getting away from him.

We’ve turned left twice now. Left, left. I repeat the sequence of our turns over and over in my head. When the time comes to run, I need to be ready. We turn right, and daylight spills down the tunnel. Another way out. My heart drums inside me. The light grows bigger and a few stench-covered breaths later, I can see the end of the tunnel, grass and sunlight beckoning from the other side.

The guard halts, his grip tightening on my arm. He presses his mouth close to my ear. “I’ll keep hold of your arm, but I’ll drop my hand from your mouth if you promise to be quiet. You scream and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t. Understand?”

I nod and, true to his word, he drops his hand from my mouth. He steps in front of me and pulls me forward. We walk to the end of the tunnel, and he releases my hand and pushes open the grate. He looks around and jumps out, and before I can think to turn and sprint the other direction, he reaches for me. His large hands come around my waist and he pulls me to the ground. Then his grasp of iron is on my arm again and we’re moving.

Minutes pass, a blur of color and sound. Wind whistling through pine trees. The creaking of oaks which don’t succumb so easily to the breeze. The steady crunch of this huge ogre’s feet as he trudges along, taking me God knows where.

A forest spreads in front of us, across from a cornfield. I peer over my shoulder, where the King’s castle and city lay behind us. We weave through the cornfield, and the memories churn up inside of me, but don’t flesh to life. My mind is too wound up on fear to allow them entry today. We’re in the forest soon enough and the guard pulls me along. I try to take note of things we pass, but nothing stands out: brown trees that all look the same; patches of sunlight I can glimpse through the trees. A small hut was visible when we first exited the sewer - the owner of the fields we tore through? - but that’s it. I rack my brain for any rumor I’ve heard about slave trade or selling girls for money. That can be the only thing he has in mind for me.

The sound of water cuts through my thoughts. It gets louder, and when we round a hill, water spreads out in front of us. A river. Think, Gretta! Two rivers converge along the King’s city. One flowing to it, and one away. I study the current of the river, pulling its waters away - away from the King and from home. The River Alden. We’re south of the city. Tall bluffs push out of the ground to our left, towering over us. The river bounces over rocks and turns sharply here before heading farther away from the city.

The guard halts behind a tree and pulls me close to his side. His tunic brushes against my arm, the fabric jarring against my wrist. He scans our surroundings, taking his time, checking for who knows what. Witnesses who can testify to whatever bad thing he’s about to do, I guess. As if it would matter. He’s a guard. He can do anything.

With me.

To me.

Saints help me.

When his patient search reveals nothing, he tugs me forward again. We parallel the river. He pulls me over the rough stone embankment instead of farther away where the path is easier to walk. Where it is made of mud and would leave our footprints behind. Maybe it’s a smuggling ring he’s involved in. We’re downriver; they could get things out of the city and to here easy enough.

Is that why he has me? I glance at my arm, tight in his grasp, grateful that my sleeves are still buttoned and pushed down. He can’t see my marks. He doesn’t know I’m Lyran. The guard moves behind a thicket and darkness drops on us once more.

“Duck,” he says.

I barely register his words before a low ceiling looms in front of me. I drop to keep from whacking my head. Rock walls surround us, a fortress not unlike the King’s black castle. The darkness is relieved by firelight.

Firelight?

"Flash,” a voice calls out.

“Lightning,” the guard responds.

A tall man appears out of the shadows. Firelight flickers against his face. He’s older than me, his brown pants and faded blue shirt telling me nothing about their intentions for me. He studies me then turns his attention back to the guard. “Another one?”

The guard shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

He yanks me forward before the other man can respond. We head down a dark tunnel. He’s dragging me into a pit. To do what? Kill me? Rape me? Would one be any better than the other? My breaths are shallow and fast, and my heart beats so loud it’s all I hear. I don’t want to die like this. I don’t want this to happen. I don’t want the King to have me. Even if it’s just through the hands of this guard. He can’t have everyone else and have me, too.

I throw my weight to the ground. The guard stops and reaches for me.

"No.” I yank my hand hard, but it doesn’t budge from his tight grasp. “No!”

The guard wraps his massive hands around me and lifts me to my feet. “Just a little further.” He puts his hand on my back and pushes me forward.

A little further to what? Death and agony? The King himself could be hiding down here, waiting to finish the horror he started seven years ago when he first started killing Lyrans. A crime ring. A swell of drunken guards. An underground brothel. A twisted sacrificial cult in whose fire I’ll burn. A tremble starts in my stomach and shoots through my limbs. Light at the end of the tunnel bounces off the rock walls. The cave opens up at the end to an enormous room – one filled with people.

Men sit around a fire talking. Two women stir something in a pot set over the flames. One of the women looks up and sees us. She straightens and says something to the man sitting closest to her. He snaps his head to us and stares straight at me.

The man steps toward us, but a little girl runs ahead of him. “Ward!” she cries. She runs full force and the guard drops his hand from my arm just in time to pick her up. I wrap my arms around myself and take a step back.

The man reaches us and looks at the guard. “We weren’t expecting you until Monday night, Ward.”

The guard, Ward, nods to me. “Had to get her out.”

The woman approaches and looks at me. “What’s your name, dear?”

Dear? I look from the man to her. “Gretta.”

"Welcome, Gretta,” she says. She looks at my dress. The bottom hem is coated with mess. Sewage has seeped into my shoes and each step my toes squish between things I don’t even want to think about. She looks back at me. “Come, we can get you cleaned up.”

She takes a step back, but I stand rooted in place. What is this? The woman’s green eyes soften and she lays a gentle hand on my arm. “Don’t worry, you’re safe here.”

I stare at her hand on my arm. The arm the guard had just clamped his hand on. My breath is caught in my lungs. I’m safe here? They don’t know I’m Lyran. Or think I’m Lyran. No smuggling ring, no being sold. There are women and children here. Air still won’t find its way into my lungs. The woman squeezes my arm and I look up. Bits of her blonde hair have fallen from where she has them pinned at the nape of her neck. She smiles, and her lips are pink like berries or the underside of a baby bunny. Her brows furrow as she stares at me. I look from her to the guard. He doesn’t have his hands on me. Nothing’s happened.

I turn back to the woman and burst into tears.

 

 

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.

 

 

MARKS - Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

I wake up Friday to the splattering of pouring rain against the window.

A grin erupts on my face. I could die for what I wrote, but for now I bask in the satisfaction of knowing I made rain fall on the King’s party. He probably has his servants standing over his gaudy statues with towels to catch the rain. I peel back the covers and hum a tune while I dress.

After a quick breakfast I push open the door to the rain, my hood pulled over my head. Rivers of water carve themselves along the cobblestones, and by the time I get to work, the bottom of my dress is soaked. I’ll be wet and cold all day. But I don’t care. So will the King and all his guests.

Scarlett’s scowl is per usual this morning, as steady a part of my day as getting dressed or eating breakfast. Today our color is grey, my least favorite because it is the color of wet days, dirty cobblestones, and dying people.

Who would want to wear grey? Granted, I have a grey dress, but only because grey fabric is cheap, and I’m not exactly buying wine and gold-plated corsets from working at Houghman’s. I throw an armful of newly dyed grey wool over the line, my back screaming in protest as I do. The King’s order for blue linen had Scarlett and me working through lunch and a little over time yesterday. Now we’re behind on normal orders, and our frenzied pace means I’m sweating through my kerchief. I have a headache, the stoves never stop, and it’s hot enough to be the backside of hell in here.

Scarlett, amazingly enough, can’t stop talking about the King’s festival. “They say even the prince of Faraday is here.”

She casts a long look at me, as if wondering if I even know where Faraday is. I make my eyes go wide. “A real prince? Here in the city?” I contort my face into an expression of what I hope is doe-eyed dreams of finding true love with a prince. I’m not really sure what that looks like, but I give it my best shot, and clutch my hands to my chest for effect. “How exciting,” I say dreamily.

Scarlett looks up from where she’s stirring a pot of dye and narrows her brows. “Don’t know why you’re so excited. You’d only glimpse him from the courtyard gates, if you saw him at all. Rumor is he’s here to negotiate an alliance.”

My fake smile melts into a scorn. An alliance? Faraday has never fought Dracon, but the threat of war has been simmering for years. Tensions are high and often the two kingdoms – alike in size and power - do nothing more than tolerate each other, coming together for forced civility only when the occasion calls for it. Why would Faraday make an alliance now? And why would the King even want it? He doesn’t want alliances. He wants victory.

What does the prince of Faraday want with Dracon? The thought nibbles at my brain all day. And I detest thinking about the King. The bread and cheese I brought for lunch does little to suppress my appetite or my terrible mood.

Not that it matters. It’s back to greys after lunch. Scarlett props the door open, and barely a snippet of air makes its way to the tables where I work. Sweat beads up at the nape of my neck, and every other minute I fight the urge to scratch it. My fingers leave traces of dye everywhere. A lesson I learned in earnest the first time I scratched my nose after dyeing greens and sported the stain across my face for days afterward.

The grey fabric hangs from the lines, like clouds weighed down with rain and clogging the sky. I suppose there could be good in greys. Grey like a warm, wool dress; a cocoon against cold days. Light grey like winter before it gives way to pale sunlight and the smell of fresh grass. Steel grey like the stones Papa and I used to throw into the lake when I was a little girl.

I stop and roll my shoulders to loosen the kinks in my neck. The smell of cinnamon buns wafts through the open door, and it is all I can do not to tie Scarlett up with cotton so I can run next door and get one. My mouth waters so much it’s a wonder I haven’t passed out from dehydration. The two coins in my pocket call to me. Mera and I need all we earn for taxes and rent and food. But as the smell of gooey sweetness continues to roll through the room, I know - I know - I’ll buy a cinnamon bun today.

I can’t untie my apron fast enough when we’re done. Scarlett hasn’t even hung hers on the wall by the time I dart through the door. A bell above the bakery door rings as I walk in, and sugared air hits my nose. Stacks of pastries line the counter, and I fight the impulse to grab two and stuff them in my mouth as I walk to the end. Oh, sweet warm goodness! How I’ve longed for you! I inhale a huge breath of sticky air and smile.

Then immediately wish I’d never come in.

 

Two guards burst through the door. Not just guards. Blackfeet. Their black tunics are slick with rain water and one runs a hand through his hair, sending a wave of water off the tips and onto the floor. The insignia on his tunic comes alive and dances in my vision. My mouth goes dry and the air in the room is too heavy. Too sweet and too hot and my stomach churns. I step back on my heel and eye the door behind them.

One of them looks up and sees me. Walking out would seem suspicious. Oh Saints, what if they’re here for me?

Oh, stop being ridiculous, Gretta. They didn’t know you would be here. You didn’t even know you were coming.

I shut my eyes and remain rooted in place. One of the Blackfeet steps forward and yells to the man on the other side of the counter. The other one stands at the front window and shakes his tunic, sending more water to the floor. It collects in rivers and puddles under his feet. His boots are caked with mud, and he looks out the window as though picking his next target. His next victim.

And perhaps he is. Blackfeet are above the law and any civility. The Chancellor has been in charge of them since the King created the special group years ago. Now the Chancellor sends them to bully and terrify. And to murder.

The Blackfeet at the counter leans over it, water dripping from his sleeve onto the clean wood. The man behind the counter eyes the muddy water but doesn’t say anything. Instead he wraps four cinnamon buns and hands it across the counter to the Blackfeet, who offers no payment. The stony faced baker says nothing.

The Blackfeet strides to the front of the bakery, a trail of mud and who knows what else marking his visit here. He tears into the bag, and he and the other fellow stuff cinnamon buns in their mouths, not even pausing to enjoy the sweetness. Why would they? They can get whatever they want. Guards are supposed to pay, but of course they don’t. Especially for small things they can get away with taking. How many people in the Kingdom never get to experience the little luxuries the King’s men steal and enjoy whenever they want?

The Blackfeet each prop a foot on the window ledge. Nothing more to do on a rainy day than take what isn’t theirs and escape the rain, the ninnies. As if they’re made of sugar and would melt if they got wet. A sentence of seven words pops into mind, but I shake my head and turn to the baker. “One cinnamon bun, please.”

I plunk my coin on the counter as he wraps it up. He passes it to me and I smile and thank him. Finally, I can get out of here. The bell above the door jingles again, and a girl about my age enters. Her blue dress is worn and thin, and she has no cloak, though it’s cold out. Her blonde hair is tied back with a ribbon, and I wonder if that bow is the only prettiness and luxury she knows. She walks to the counter and speaks to the clerk in a voice so soft it makes me think she must be made of cotton. The clerk turns and heads to the kitchen, and the girl settles back on her heels and waits.

I sink my teeth into my pastry and lick a bit of sugar from my lips. Oh, it’s so good. If I were rich, I’d eat cinnamon buns for every meal. The clerk returns and hands a package to the girl, and I can see the end of a loaf of bread peeking out from its paper wrapping. Yesterday’s bread no doubt, a loaf now dry and going stale, but one he sells to her for a cheap price. Probably the only bread her family can afford. I lick my finger and feel in my pocket for the other coin I have, enough payment for another cinnamon bun.

The girl turns but doesn’t move toward the door. Instead her eyes widen and she ducks her head, but not before a pink flush settles into her cheeks and her eyes dart left. I dip my head that direction. The two Blackfeet are staring right at her. Staring and grinning. One elbows the other and says something in a low voice that drips with crassness and evil. The girl keeps her head down and pushes open the door.

The Blackfeet follow after her.

Two steps later, I’m right behind them.

Rain falls steadily, but still the streets heave with people running to the market or on their way home after a hard day’s work. The Blackfeet walk down the center of the street, and the crowd seems to part around them, like water flowing over rocks. I haven’t been this close to a Blackfeet in years. A shiver tiptoes up my spine. It’s as if the air itself is heavy with evil just because these two men are here.

They amble up the street. Maybe they’re not following her? Perhaps not everyone is out to get everyone else as I often think. But then, in an opening between their shoulders, I see the girl from the bakery. The two Blackfeet stride down the street, their steps purposeful now. The girl turns right, and so do they.

The sugared bun I just ate feels like dead weight in my stomach. They are after her. A girl they saw only because she happened to be in the bakery the same time they were. A bakery they were in only to escape the rain. Rain I wrote.

I thrust my hands into my pockets and follow after them. When I make the turn onto the street, I can see the girl’s blonde head bobbing as she rushes down it. The Blackfeet have picked up their pace, too, and I nearly have to run to keep up. I fix my eye on the girl, hoping she’ll turn fast and lose them. But if she’s not from this neighborhood there’s no way she’ll risk it. Too many of the alleys crisscrossing through the city dead end. Unless you know the right ones to take, you could get trapped.

We’re heading away from my house, so I couldn’t help the girl evade these two even if I wanted to. I keep my pace, and within two blocks the Blackfeet are only a few feet from her. She looks over her shoulder and breaks into a run.

Two steps; that’s all it takes before one of the men has her by the arm. Others around them scatter, their faces white and eyes wide. I glance around the street, wondering what I could do to make a commotion and get the Blackfeets’ attention.

But that won’t work. Their attention is completely on her.

One of them lifts his head and looks up the street. I pause in front of a store and put my hand on the handle. I sneak a glimpse, and he’s no longer looking at me. I turn from the door and yank my hood over my hair. My feet fly over the cobblestone streets, bringing me closer and closer to the two Blackfeet. One of them grabs the girl, and they drag her down an alley. I ease down the street and peer down the alleyway.

The Blackfeet who has the girl by the arm caresses her face with his free hand. She flinches, but he grabs the back of her neck and holds her still. “Pretty girl.” He traces his finger down her cheek.  

Even from here I can see her trembling.

The other Blackfeet turns toward me. I snap my head back and strain to listen.  The girl gasps, then a deep, rumbly voice echoes off the walls. “Watch the street, Jacks.”

“Don’t be long, Tyce. I want my turn.”

I break into a run. Away from the alley.

From the Blackfeet.

From the girl.

I push through throngs of people, flying over puddles and whispering to myself.

Jacks.

Tyce.

I construct sentences of seven words in my head, my rage fueling my feet as I race over Dunway Street.

A sentence solidifies in my mind as I race up the stairs of Meggie and Sam’s apartment. I burst through the door. Meggie looks up from her stove, but I do nothing more than glance at her before I head toward her bedroom. I rifle through diapers and find the paper and pen and write a sentence faster than I ever have before. Jacks and Tyce won’t have the girl.

Then my name. Gretta Marks.

I tear off the words and wad them up, then stuff them in my pocket. Meggie furrows her brow as I enter the main room.

"I have to go, Meggie.”

 

She nods, her hand resting on her growing belly. Bless Meggie and the fact she doesn’t ask questions. 

And for always having paper.

I return to the street and make my way back to the alley. It’s only a half a block away when the hum of voices reaches my ears. People talking. A yell reverberates off the shop door beside me, and when I turn the corner I nearly collide right into a huddle of people. A crowd has gathered around the alley. Dread explodes through me. What did I cause?

Words are powerful, Mama would say. What a Lyran writes down comes true. But we never know how. Rain was easy - how else does it rain but from the sky? How else could Meggie’s baby be a girl except by being it? But this: writing they will not have her…

The crowd has grown dense despite the rain, and I elbow my way through. I did this.

Rain.

The Blackfeet.

The girl.

I peer over the shoulder of an old man. The girl stands in the street, eyes wide and fear radiating from her face. Tears stream down her cheeks. In front of the crowd the two Blackfeet are wrestling with a boy. One my age, who is tall but whose height seems to prophesy that he will grow taller still. One Blackfeet punches the boy in the stomach and he doubles over just as the blond girl shouts a name. A name I did not write on paper. The name of the boy.

Of her boy.

Her boy - a boy who cares for her and maybe loves her - who somehow saw her or heard her screams, but who in one way or another was ushered here by the power of my words to keep the Blackfeet from having her.

Sweet mercy.

Two Blackfeet yank the boy to his feet. One of his eyes is stained purple, and blood the color of roses trickles from his nose and down his face. I squeeze the wad of paper in my hand. One of the King’s wagons rolls into view, and the Blackfeet toss the boy on it as if he were no more than a sack of dirt.

The girl rushes to him, but the boy lifts his head and screams. “No!”

The girl stops in her tracks, her feet obeying but her face stricken. They are taking him. To kill him? To beat him? I don’t know. My fingers fumble over my left sleeve. But no, I’ve already killed my three. Surely I did not write his death.

Did I?

But there are many things worse than death. They could torture him, maim him. Destroy his world because of one cruel twist of fate. One sentence written.

The King’s wagon ambles toward the castle and the crowd scatters. The girl stands still, rain mixing with her tears so I can’t tell what it is that runs down her face. I thought I’d saved her. But once again my attempt at saving has created more chaos.

The paper between my fingers grows soggy in the rain. I need to get rid of it, and fast. Blackfeet could come back. I leave the girl and walk down the street, then swing left toward Mavery’s print shop. Rain follows me inside. The clerk looks up. A fire roars in the stove behind him. Bits of paper litter the floor. Ink stains his fingertips.

“How much for a paper?” I ask him.

He names his price, and I fish out a coin. When he turns to grab a paper off the stack, I toss my wadded scrap of paper onto the floor. Then I take my newspaper and leave. When I pass the alley, the girl is no longer there. My chest tightens, wound upon itself, the grief I keep hidden there breaking apart in pieces.

My words changed her fate, and I may have saved her only to usher her into a new kind of death.

I brush my fingers over the marks on my arm. Death is a word I know, and a sentence I have written too many times before.

 

MARKS - Chapter 6

Chapter Six

I grab a crust of bread left over from yesterday’s dinner and am out the door just as dawn cracks open the sky. Pale November sunlight trickles down through the cold morning air. I stuff my hands inside my cloak as I walk. This is my second morning out before dawn this week. Mera is going to start asking questions, and I have no idea what I’ll do if she forbids me to go out. She would be right to tell me not to do it. But I’m too excited to stop myself.

From what I’ve been able to find out, there are about seven printing shops still running in the city. They’re not outlawed yet, but the King’s hatred of Lyrans and his distrust of words make the shops likely targets for suspicion and bullying from the guards. So far I’ve found three of them. Today I head to the fourth, which is on the other side of the city. I stare straight ahead as I walk. A bent head means you’re up to something. And if anyone asks, I’m out for a walk, moving my limbs before work. That’s a good enough excuse, right?

Fogelman’s shop is so small and nondescript I almost walk past it. From what I’ve heard, his paper covers the east end of the city, reporting normal things. Weather forecasts. Arrests. Job postings. Houses vacant for mysterious reasons are listed, the reasons for the absences of the previous occupants conveniently not included. The King is always watching. Always listening.

Always reading, blast his wicked heart.

I push open the door to Fogelman’s. A lone clerk stands in the middle of the room, stoking the fire in the stove. He’s a wiry old man, and small. The stacks of paper behind him could crush him in an instant if they fell. He bends over the stove, either ignoring me or oblivious to the fact his door was open and I walked right in. I clear my throat and he jumps.

 "We’re not open until eight,” he tells me. “If you’ve got a posting, you’ll have to come back then.”

 I give him a shy smile. “I was actually wondering if you had any work available.”

 He pushes his glasses up on his nose and looks me as if he doubts I’m looking for work. I step forward. “I have a job during the day, but my Mama is expecting again and we could use any extra we can get. I can do odd jobs.”

He studies me as my lies swirl around the room. I peer over his head and beside him, noting where papers are. Where windows are if I need to break in. Which would be stupid, of course, but I might as well take note of everything while I’m here.

“I can sweep floors or clean up after hours,” I tell him. “Or take the old stacks down to the docks.” His gaze narrows so I quickly continue. “My Papa is a fisherman and his boss uses old papers to wrap the fish.”

The wiry clerk shuts the door to the stove. “Fishermen come pick up ours before the shift starts, so we’ve no need for someone to run them down.”

I make myself frown despite the elation bubbling inside me. Fishermen start in the evening. Which means I can come here after work and stuff my words in the stacks before they’re picked up. Perfect.

The clerk ushers me out the door. “Sorry, lass. Try Dorrelen’s on the south side.”

“Thank you.” I dip my head and leave. Bless the man’s heart. He gave me more than I bargained for.

####

Two days later, I’ve discovered that all the printing shops have stacks of papers behind them. Used for starting fires or wiping butts or wrapping fish.

Or hiding treason.

Dorrelen’s is on the other side of town, and I’ve worked up a sweat by the time I get there. His pickup is early, just after dawn. I left the house when the first beam of daylight tripped over the rooftops. One glance down the alley tells me it’s empty. Because of course, people who are up to no good are never up early to do it. Dorrelen’s stacks are disheveled, a small tower of leaning papers, some intact but most ruined from tears and cuts. Many have jagged edges, pieces ripped or partially shredded. Perfect.

I rip off some of the newspaper’s edges and add my latest paper of words, then wad it all up and stuff it between the sheets. Then I tuck myself behind some old crates in an alley across the street. The cold creeps into my toes, and I flex my feet, willing my blood to flow extra warm today. It shouldn’t be too much longer, dear toes.

Sure enough, not minutes after I’ve stuffed my words in the stacks of paper, a man appears and totes them away. I trail after him, my footsteps small and silent as I follow him all the way to the docks. He heaves the stacks onto a vendor stall, where soon they will be wrapped in fish and oil and carried all over the city. Thank you, Mr. Dorrelen.

Giddiness works its way inside me, and I bounce in my shoes as I walk to work. The streets closest to the castle are clogged with people. The King’s festival is two days away. All the guests have arrived by now. The gates looking into the King’s gardens and courtyards have been crammed with people wanting to peek at the visiting nobles and royalty.

I walk by without so much as a glance inside. Who cares what dress a rich woman is wearing? The only thing I want to see is the whole place burn to the ground, or a new king inside. Our King is unwed and without an heir, so I have no idea who would come to power after he’s gone. Maybe beyond writing against an assassination, a Lyran has gone so far as to have written the King’s immortality.

But no, that’s impossible. Our powers are confined to what could logically happen. No sprouting wings or pink skin or anything. But someone has written something about the King. Lots of Lyrans probably have. I wonder where those papers are hidden, if they even are. The King may have them framed and lining his chambers for all I know. Words that testify to his power and probably still sport the blood of those who died after writing them.

A shiver runs up my spine, and it has nothing to do with the cool morning. Actually, the weather has been quite fine the past few days. Unseasonably warm. I’ve left work to afternoons doused in sunshine. Has the King had Lyrans writing good weather for him? That can’t be, though. He’d just as soon kill every one he finds, and most of us devote our energy to evading capture. From rumors circulating around town, the King hasn’t found a Lyran in a couple of years. As evidenced by the battles and wars he keeps losing. He doesn’t have anyone to write his success.

I scurry past the castle gates and away from the square. My movements are so rushed I beat Scarlett to work. I’m wrist-deep in reds by the time she walks in. My lips spread into the widest grin this side of heaven, and I wiggle my fingers at her in hello. She stops still, because evidently the energy needed to scowl in so fierce a way as she does exceeds that needed to scowl and walk at the same time.

Scarlett is delightful. If she were a color, she’d be sickly yellow like a bruise or the putrid green of vomit. I return to my reds and let Scarlett fume. She’ll probably beat me here tomorrow by a full half hour. Which is fine. I’d rather be sleeping. I’ve snuck out each day and hidden my papers. Some at Dorrelen’s in the morning before they’re picked up. Some at Lidden’s after work. Some at John Mavery’s, where I went after work, only to find them still open. Not to be deterred, I crumpled my papers into tiny balls. Then I flirted with the young clerk on duty, who was too entranced by me, Saints help him, to notice the balls of paper I flicked under the counter to the four corners of the room.

It’s not large things I’m writing. No wars or famines or plagues. Our neighbor had a cough, and he’s the only one to bring home money and food for his wife and three young children. So I wrote him well. Our clerk, Everett, told us his wife is expecting and though he didn’t ask, I found myself writing my second baby girl this month. Everett, the big softy, will no doubt spoil her rotten and indulge her as much as he can. And he won’t lose her to the King like he would a son.

I wish I could write for Ashtin. I see her in everything today. The color of her lips in the light red linen I stretch tight over the drying line. The deep red wool I help Scarlett with reminds me of the oak leaves and how red they were the autumn Mama told me I would have a new baby brother or sister. Memories flood my mind. I try to focus on my work - on the scratchy wool under my fingers or the glare Scarlett sends me when I nearly dump the pot of dye over. But I can’t. Everything is tainted with Ashtin.

I’m so worked up the last hour of orders seems to take forever. Finally, we’re through and I unwrap my kerchief and run my fingers through my hair. The tension in my head won’t leave. I grab my cloak, and instead of turning right to go home, I turn left.

In minutes I swing down the street Ashtin lives on. I do this sometimes, when I think I can bear it. I’m nearly to the house she lives in when I see her. She’s on the street playing with two other little girls. They’re twirling.

Ashtin’s blue dress flies through the air as she spins. The muted blue of the fabric speaks to its age and how worn it is. But it’s clean. And she looks well fed. A healthy pink glow colors her cheeks. Her brown hair - the exact shade of mine and Mama’s - lies in two braids that fly out from her head. She stops spinning and topples to the side and giggles.

A rush of pain tears through me as I hear my baby sister laugh. She is laughing. Laughing and living life. A meager one, but she is here. Safe and well, for now. Her powers may not exist, and even if she is Lyran, she may never know it. For how would she? She thinks her adopted parents are her real ones. Her secret is hidden away with her new life.

I should stay hidden, too. But I can’t.

I need to do more. To write more. But there’s nothing I can do.