MARKS- Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

I inch back to my dyer’s space and stare at this room I’ve worked in these past few weeks. Making red and blue, the colors of guard uniforms. Blast it all, Gretta. Why didn’t you think of that? What are they going to do? Walk right in and kill the King? The hues I’ve dyed aren’t rich enough. There’s no way those colors are a match.

What if the King finds out? All those men dead, because they were foolish enough to try and kill the King. All these women without husbands, children without fathers. All because I found drakeroot. Pointed it out. Stupid, naive me.

I slam my fist on the table, then stride up the tunnel to the main room. The women are milling about as usual. Blair stands over her fire. I grab her and pull her to the side of the room. “Where are they going?”

She cocks her head.

“Blair!” The rumble in my voice surprises me more than her. “Where are they going?”

"Best you don’t know.”

“You think if the King finds us here, he’ll only kill us if we know something? He’ll kill us all, Blair.”

She puts her hand on top of mine. “They’ve gone to poison someone in the castle.”

“The King?”

“No, he can’t be killed.”

Blasted truth of that statement.

She studies my face. “They’re going to poison the Chancellor.”

The Chancellor? “Why?”

“From what Ward can tell, he seems to be half the brain and half the evil of the King. Eliminating him would throw the King off a bit. Maybe make him reckless.”

 As if he hasn’t been reckless enough. I shake my head. “It’s too dangerous, Blair.”

 "The King has written away his own assassination, Gretta. And he’s not that old. We and everyone else in Dracon will be stuck under his thumb for as long as we live, and maybe as long as our children live.” She points a finger at Liddy, Reid, and Mason, who sit on a ledge eating their lunch. “I want a better life for my children, and if I have to die providing it, then so be it.”

Her face and words are so hard they carve my anger out of me. She’s right. Wasn’t that what Mama and Papa were doing for me? Doing whatever they could - even helping with a war - so their children could have life?

So I could have life?

I spin from Blair and head down the tunnel to the printing room. The press stands in the middle, quiet and useless today, all the men who work it probably tied up with this crazy mission. I clench my fists, but still grief and anger birth a tremble that I can’t squeeze or shake out. Anger, always anger, as much a part of me as my power or those cursed marks on my arm. Anger I can’t channel into anything, because the King can’t die. And we can’t win. Doesn’t Blair see this is pointless? The King can’t be beaten.

I could do it. Could write the mission success and the Chancellor dead. A stack of papers and ink sit before me. A stack of quills lies on the table; crude but they will do. I pick one up and hover it above a page.

But words won’t come.

I can’t. The men expect this to be difficult, and if it’s not, they’ll suspect someone interfered. And where could I hide my words here? I’m rarely outside and even then paper too close to this cavern could be found, and a search would reveal us all hidden here. My words are dangerous. So is my silence, but surely my words more so. I can’t let the King find these people. And my words are the biggest threat to them.

Shaking, I put the pen down, and a pit opens a mile deep in my stomach. Because I know the truth. The real reason I can’t do anything is because I don’t want the King to find me.

#

Dinner has long since passed, and still the men haven’t returned. Staying busy proved pointless - I accidentally dyed a batch of wool purple. So I’ve sat here in the main room watching the door, my feet tap, tap, tapping on the rock floor and my heart squeezing tighter and tighter with each passing minute.

This rock room seems smaller and eerily quiet. Even the children, as unaware as they are as to what the men have gone to do, know something is different. Women stir their fires and watch the tunnel. Children aren’t allowed to go outside for any reason. A baby cries and the mother’s rough shush cuts through the air, heavy with tension.

Shuffling boots and tight voices echo down the tunnel. We all glance up to the opening. A lone man sprints into the main room. I sit up straight, my heart hammering inside me. He’s one of ours. He says nothing, but rushes and grabs a bedroll and stretches it out along the floor.

We all watch him, stunned.

The rest of the men emerge, carrying someone between them. Someone caked in blood. I can’t see his face as the men bring him in and lower him onto the bed, but a dark red stain covers the man’s pants. My heart beats a staccato rhythm. The women surge forward, and behind me, someone screams.

Blair.

She already knows what I’m just now realizing: the bloodied man is Nolan.