MARKS - Chapter 18

 Chapter Eighteen

Ward, Saints bless him, says nothing about me slicing him or collapsing into his arms like a weak-willed idiot. And to further add to his gentle manner, he leads us back through the rear entrance, right to the tunnel full of my dyes and cloth. My own dyer’s guild. A haven.

He settles on a bench. I start mixing dye, half out of habit and half out of a need to do something. Besides, it can’t hurt to have more on hand.

I collect what I need, my actions awkward and stilted, like I’m moving through water. Ward doesn’t say anything. I could, but have no idea what. Comment on the weather? Ask him about his family? Everything seems either a door to something painful or an avenue on which my secret will get exposed. And then I’ll endanger them all. They’ll kick me out for fear the King will find them with me. And what if I do? What if he finds them because he’s looking for me, and all these people die? My hand shakes so badly I knock over one of my bowls.

Great Saints, Gretta, calm down.

Ward takes the dagger in his hand and begins sharpening it. The sound of metal against the whetstone fills our silence, and my fingers find their rhythm. Soon I’ve mixed everything I need and bring the dye to a boil over the fire.

I glance at Ward, who remains bent over his blade.

“Is Blair your only sibling?”

He lifts his head. “I had an older brother. He died from plague when I was just a baby.”

Not surprising. Nearly everyone in Dracon lost someone they loved to the plague. A plague a Lyran wrote. It was a mistake. An accident. Something caused by words the writers of which couldn’t anticipate. How many people have died because of the power of the Lryans? I think of the black marks on my own forearm and am too terrified of the answer to that question to give it more thought.

I don’t know what to say, because nothing can make death and suffering all right. “I really like your family,” I tell him.

And you, I want to say, but don’t because as relaxed as my muscles are, my tongue has certainly not eased out of its tension. I can’t find my words around Ward, something that drives me to madness. Surely he’ll think me an uneducated idiot who can’t string two sentences together.

“My family likes you,” he says. “Especially Liddy. I think I’ve given you a four-year-old shadow,” he says. “I guess now you can say you have a little sister.”

His words are like a thunderclap, and they startle me so much I can’t move, my hand frozen over the pot. A shudder possesses my body, a tremble for each place in me I have fear. Which is all over.

“Gretta?”

I hear Ward set the dagger on the table. My knees shake underneath my weight. I do have a little sister. And two brothers.

I did have them. All of them, once.

My breaths come out ragged and choppy, like my anger does when it mixes with the horror of my memories.

Ward stands in front of me. “Gretta?”

I stare at the dye on my fingers and look up at him. “My brother Lucas was four.” I cover my mouth with my hand, sure I’ll vomit or cry and I’m not sure which, but I need to keep it all from coming out.

Ward places a hand on my back. “He died?”

I press my hands to my side and nod.

“The plague?”

The King and his evil are a plague, so I suppose that’s true. And I can’t speak about what really happened. So I nod my head. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Gretta.”

“You didn’t kill them.”

Ward grabs my chin and forces my eyes to his. “Neither did you.”

My chin quivers in his hand. Bile swishes around my stomach. The King took everything from me. “I hate him.”

Ward drops his hand. “I know.”

My body shudders, as if my anger is boiling inside me. “Is it wrong to wish someone dead? And not just dead, but a horrible, torturous death?” I press my hands to my face, surprised at how clammy and cold I am. “I wish I could make him disappear.”

Ward studies me a moment. “Maybe you can. Come on.”

He heads farther down the tunnel, away from the main room, and I follow him. The light from the torches dims as we move further away, and soon we’re enveloped in darkness.

“Ward.”

He stops and I nearly crash into him. His hand gropes for mine and when he has it he tugs me along. I try not to get lost in the darkness, or the feel of Ward’s hand enveloping mine. Soon light spills out the other end of the tunnel.

“How far does this go?” I ask.

“It doesn’t,” he says as he steps into a room and drops my hand. “It connects to the room beside it.”

I hardly hear what he says, because all my senses are focused on this room. Papers are stacked on crates and boxes along the wall. Stacks and stacks of paper. And on a long wooden table in the middle of the room is a printing press.

Ward beckons me closer.

I step toward the table, my heart thundering in my chest. “You’re printing papers?”

Ward nods. Saints above. This is the underground printing ring the guard was talking about. The one who was in my house that day. With Ward.

“The King has control of everything that’s written in Dracon,” Ward says. “The only way to spread the truth is by printing a paper he at least can’t find.”

But he could find it here. And if he did…

“But why? Why not just get your stories around verbally?” My heart constricts and it’s like a dagger piercing me. “There’s no risk doing it that way.”

“It’s not about eliminating risk, Gretta. It’s about getting rid of evil.”

He takes one of the papers and gives it to me. There’s no name or title. Just columns and columns of words.

“Look at the words, Gretta.”

I study the paper in front of me. All words in script. There are no stories or headlines. Just random names. Lists of births. Of deaths. But all randomly thrown together. A puzzle?

I look to Ward but he just stares at me. I study the paper again. The sentences make no sense. There’s no order or cohesiveness. It looks like a bad print, just a jumbled mess of words. But it’s not. I stare at the words until they blur. What am I supposed to be seeing?

“Count the words, Gretta.”

I count one, then another. And another. Seven. All sentences of seven. Great Saints.

“You’re hiding Lyran sentences in here?” The air has been sucked from the room. I try to take a deep breath but can’t. Does he know I am one?

“Yes,” he says. “They’d never find it in here.” He turns to the press. “We make the letter blocks from their handwriting. We weren’t sure it would work, but so far it has.”

Lyrans are alive and writing. In things the King can find. “You have access to Lyrans.”

“A few. More each month.”

He turns the page over, and I grip the table as the room starts to spin. “How many?”

“About three dozen now.”

Three dozen? Great Saints. I didn’t even know there were that many in the King’s City. I grip the table harder to hide the tremble in my arms. “What are you doing to get them to do this?”

Ward freezes. “Doing? What do you mean ‘doing’?”

I stare at the paper then at him. “Lyrans are willingly risking their lives?”

He blinks twice. “We all are.”