Master: Arrow's Flight #3

by Casey Hays

  I lift my sleeve and examine the tiny cuts along my arm caused by the glass fragments. Today, they resemble mere scratches, but something else catches my eye. Something lower.

  A lumpy scar embedded in my wrist.

  Curious, I run my thumb over the area. I pull back the sleeve that has fallen over my other wrist. It, too, contains the same mark. I lift them, side by side.

  Big tears blur my vision, and for a moment, the marks are camouflaged inside them. A few days ago, I went to sleep whole and untouched, and I woke to scars I can’t remember and people I don’t know. All the things I’ve forgotten growl to life like a horrid, twisted monster—taunting me, daring me to remember them while promising me that I won’t.

  I drop my hands to my sides against the mattress. My lungs ache; my side feels as though I’ve been ripped in two. What else have I forgotten?

  My eyes wander to the far wall again where the mirror stands ready to share my image if I’ll only step in front of it. It’s the last thing I care to do at the moment. Next to the mirror hangs a cross shape. It is humbly made—two sticks tied together in the middle with string. It seems an odd thing to hang, but I keep looking at it. Something about it keeps my eyes glued to it.

  The door opens with a quiet click.

  “Good morning.”

  Claudia sidles into the room balancing a tray in one hand and a pitcher in the other. She wears a warm smile nestled behind a line of steam rising from a bowl on the tray. She kicks the door closed with her foot, sets the tray on the table, and immediately presses her hand against my forehead.

  No fever,” she announces. “Good. It means I’m doing something right.”

  She pours a cupful of water and holds out two pills. I take them without hesitation this time, wiping the back of my hand across my mouth after.

  “Oatmeal and toast,” she announces.

  She settles the tray across my lap. The “oatmeal” she refers to is porridge—a familiar food. It seems ages since I last had a bowl, and a sad tinge of home invades me as I take in its scent. A nostalgic feeling of my hogan and Mia. Even the sounds of the Village flood my thoughts.

  Claudia steps to the window, carefully peeks out. I dip the spoon in and tentatively take my first bite. The oatmeal is sweet on my tongue.

  “Any word on Penelope?” I ask.

  Claudia purses her lips, shakes her head.

  “Do you think they will let her go?”

  “Yes.” She changes the subject quickly, her back to me. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “I did.”

  The curtains fall closed. She turns.

  She’s wearing a white frock with large pockets. It covers her clothing completely. On the bridge of her nose sits a pair of eyeglasses. I’ve seen a pair in a book before. In real life, however, they are much more intriguing, and I can’t help staring.

  “How is your pain this morning?” she asks.

  “Excruciating.” I toss her a half-hearted smile and take another slow bite. The curve of the spoon fits snug against my tongue.

  “You’ll feel better once the narcotic kicks in.”

  She begins sorting through bandages and organizing other items on the table. She hums softly as she works. I tear a corner of the toast and chew it slowly. Even my jaws are weak.

  Claudia raises a long roll of white bandaging above her head and lets a good portion of it fall away to hang in front of her face. She pushes her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose with her free hand. I swallow and take another bite. She concentrates on measuring.

  “Aaron says Eden is under siege,” I say quietly.

  “That’s true.” She reaches for a pair of scissors and snips off the length of bandage.

  “Then why are the soldiers here?”

  She shrugs. “I suppose we’re a convenient stopping point along the way.”

  She snips another section, and her answers sounds just as sharp. The material flutters down to join the other strips piling on the table, but her face contorts with agitation, her movements brisk.

  “They . . . can’t go home. Justin. Jesse. Not anyone from Eden?”

  “No. They can’t.” She places the scissors on the table and begins to roll the varied lengths of bandages. Her eyes turn dark and flick toward the covered window. “But it doesn’t matter where they are. No village is safe, and that’s the truth.” She tosses the last roll of bandages onto the table and picks up a large bottle. She looks at me. “The Vortex has already killed in Jordan.”

  I stop chewing my last bit of toast.

  “The Vortex?”

  “That’s what they call themselves,” she concedes.

  “Who did they kill?”

  “A messenger was the first to die. His name was Grant Allen.” She swallows. “Sent by our board to warn Eden that an army was coming.” Tears gather beneath the green of her eyes. “He was young—about your age. But he volunteered. He wanted to be a part of something memorable.” She wipes a lone tear that unexpectedly escapes from her eye and clears her throat. “The soldiers chased him down, killed him in cold blood. Then, they came back . . . and executed some more of us.”

  The moist piece of toast sticks to the roof of my mouth, and my appetite is gone. I sit frozen another minute, then push aside the breakfast tray with weak and shaky hands.

  Her words unlock a memory inside me. Not a memory exactly, more of a feeling in a memory. A strange recollection that death is nothing new to me. I’m flooded with an overwhelming certainty accompanied by a thick sadness that I have lost much. Yet as hard as I try, I can’t recall a single death that has affected me.

  “Yesterday, Ian stood up to those soldiers.” Claudia hands me a trembling smile. “Aaron says it was the bravest thing he’s ever seen. Ian didn’t think about the danger to himself. He just reacted to protect Aaron and Penelope. And you.” She opens the bottle and douses a cloth with liquid to apply to the cuts on my arm.

  I raise my eyes to meet hers. She smiles wanly.

  “He gives us hope, you know? Maybe the boys of Eden can’t be defeated so easily. Not if one of them can do so much all on his own.”

  “But . . . why does the Vortex attack Eden?” I ask.

  “Because Eden has something they want.” She takes up my hand, tugs on my fingers one by one to test my muscle strength. Even this hurts, and it forces me to concentrate on her words more closely as a distraction. “One of them saw Ian come into Jordan.” She pauses in her examination. “Last we heard, they’ve been given strict orders to find ‘the girl’.”

  She raises her brows knowingly. I stiffen, fully aware of the soldiers on the other side of the glass. In the stunned silence, their voices, muffled but gruff, reach my ears. I hear their laughs, harsh and indifferent.

  “Me? But . . . why?”

  “Oh, Kate.” Claudia runs soft fingers along my forearm. They match the softness in her voice. “If you could remember the effect you have on Ian, you wouldn’t have to ask that question. It took me five minutes to notice.”

  “Are you saying they would take me to get to Ian?” I ask in horror.

  “They will if they find you.” She smiles and lifts a brow until it peeks out above the rim of her glasses. “But they aren’t going to find you.”

  Her words don’t ease the panic that rises up on its haunches like an animal ready to spring. I press it down, but I can’t help thinking that captivity waits right outside this window—so close I can taste it in the air. So close that if the wall were removed, I’d be able to see the glint of hate in the soldiers’ eyes from where I sit.

  I have never seen a soldier’s eyes, but where there are soldiers, there is war. And where there is war, there must be hate.

  Claudia lifts my shirt to examine my abdomen while I ruminate over this new information. From what I can gather, these men are ruthless. They are killers, and I can’t see how Claudia or Aaron or anyone else in this house intends to keep me safe. If they want to find me, it won’t be difficult in such a small village.


  Claudia cuts away the bandage attached to my side, and I steal a glance. The stitches form a black smile just above my waist, but the swelling is down, and the incision is not nearly so red. I’m tempted to touch it—this artifact which now joins my repertoire of scars. It seems I am a collector of them. Claudia leans in to examine my wounds more closely.

  “Do you think they will come here?” I ask.

  “Maybe.” She raises her eyes.

  “And this doesn’t worry you?”

  “Well . . . it’s concerning. But there’s no need to worry about. It hasn’t happened yet. The Word says worrying doesn’t add a single day to your life. I’d have to agree. It’s pointless to fret over something that may or may not happen.”

  I furrow my brow, confused by her words, but she offers no further explanation. She presses into my side gingerly.

  “And Ian?” I take a deep breath at her touch. “Where do you think he is?”

  Claudia shakes her head, her gloved-fingers fumbling over my wounds. “We don’t know.”

  “Then what would they gain from taking me?” I ask, and my voice trembles.

  “They hope to lure him out. And he will come for you, Kate. There’s no doubt.” She tilts her head, pushes her glasses up her nose. “Ian showed up in Jordan with you dying in his arms. Believe me, he would have paid any price to save you.”

  My skin prickles with the oddest sensation, and I know she speaks the truth. It lies somewhere buried in the trauma I’ve suffered. A flurry of sound—like a whisper in the wind—touches my heart. For a moment, I think I remember . . . something. But it flits away before I can capture it.

  “Has he said anything about me? About . . . us?”

  “I’m sure he’s told Penelope a few things.” She smiles and replaces the lid on a bottle.

  “Justin has said very nice things about Penelope.” I say quietly. “I would like to meet her.”

  “You will.”

  Confidence exudes from her. I toy with the scar on my left wrist.

  “Do you know how I got these?”

  I hold up my arms and breathe into the sudden silence of my heartbeat. A soldier’s grumbling voice calls out. I sink into my pillow. Claudia takes only a half second of her time to glance at the scars.

  “You had those already,” she answers gently. She peels off one glove. “Along with—” She hesitates before finishing the sentence, “some scars on your back.”

  “My back?”

  I exhale, distressed. Claudia removes my breakfast tray to the table and settles on the edge of my bed. She takes hold of both my wrists suspended in front of me.

  “I know this is hard for you. And frustrating. And scary.” Her fingers tighten with a gentle squeeze as I fight those big tears again. “You’ve only been awake for one day. Give it some time. It’ll come back to you.”

  I swallow an involuntary sob. She’s right. Of course, she is.

  I heave an enormous sigh that aches all the way up my spine.

  It will all come back to me.

  It will.

  Chapter 14

  I

  lie in this bed for two more days, and by the third, I’m restless. In fact, my body is so overly rested that sleep begins to evade me, even in the grogginess caused by the pain medication. Claudia comes with broth every few hours, and she stays with me while I eat. She examines me, pleased with the outcome of my healing wounds. The pain grows weaker as my strength returns, and if nothing else, I trust that I’m not going to die.

  I’m determined to get up, and in my head, I work through the movements to accomplish this. My body, however, isn’t keen on the idea. I roll carefully onto my good side, and ease my legs over the edge of the bed. I push with all my strength until I’m sitting. I gasp in relief, but my broken rib pinches. I suck my breath back into my lungs, ignoring the slicing pain.

  It takes a few minutes to regain some energy. I sit, fingers curled around the edge of the mattress, and assess my pain. It’s not too horrible.

  Another minute, and I stand on shaky legs. I hold my hands before me to balance, and take an unsteady step. And another.

  I catch my reflection in the full length mirror, and I pause in front of it. My dark, sunken eyes gape at me from a gaunt face. Only a glimmer of my former self is discernable in the image; the rest of me lies buried somewhere inside. It fights to find its way to the surface, but the longer I stare, the more I’m convinced that this girl on the other side of the glass is not me. She is intensely foreign—as foreign as these people who’ve taken me in, as kind as they are. I reach out a finger, press it against the glass. My other self complies with the action, and for a moment, the bony fingertips become one. I slide mine down the smooth surface and let it fall away.

  I turn slightly, chin tilted over my shoulder and—wincing—allow my loose blouse to slink off and gather at my elbows. I dare to take my first look. Intertwining between the bandages of my recent wounds, the scars, like crawling, fleshy vines, criss-cross along my back. They were most definitely caused by a whip, but why this instrument of torture left its mark upon my skin is lost on me. What could I have done to deserve such a punishment?

  Of course, I can’t deny my rebellious nature anymore than I can command the stars to quit their shining. And defiance meets with harsh results. I’ve read books to prove it. I frown and examine the deep ruts that encircle my wrists.

  “Was I so bold?” I whisper. I wrap the fingers of one hand tightly around the wrist of my other.

  My fresh wounds are healing despite how difficult it is to move. It is a slow and tiring process, and I know; Death knocked on my door more loudly than ever. Death knocked; he didn’t win.

  Suddenly weak, I ease down onto the edge of the bed and stare across the room at the window. The thick, faded curtains are still drawn, and the room is dim and unbearably stifling. I hear the soldiers’ voices outside, harsh and commanding, and I curse them silently. I’ve heard their scuffling around beneath this window like hungry wolves after prey. It’s unnerving.

  Aaron tells me the Vortex has the village surrounded to keep Ian from returning if he left. In actuality, the soldiers don’t know where he is. The last Aaron heard, the men were planning to sweep each house in search of Ian.

  “We’re making preparations for when this happens,” he explained last night when he brought me a bowl of broth. “They will not find you here.”

  This is all he said, and his words were confusing. But I found myself believing him all the same.

  I light the candle that sits on the bedside table. Claudia left a small stack of books there for me, but I’ve had yet to read any. I take one up now. The cover is the color of cream, and the pages protruding from inside are jagged and uneven. The spine is woven together with stitching that matches the stitches in my side. This doesn’t matter to me. A book is a beautiful thing in my mind. Curiously, I lift it.

  Two words are written across the cover in shaky script, and I hold it closer to the light to make it out. Holy Scriptures.

  I stare at the unfamiliar words for a long time, trying to decipher their meaning. This book, unlike the others, is handmade. I open it, flip through a few of the pages. It doesn’t take me long to notice that it contains segments of pages from several books. They’ve been pieced and woven together with some pages containing smaller print and letters in different shades of black. Many of the letters are in red, and some segments appear to be written in a different language altogether. I recognize none of those words at all.

  I pause somewhere in the middle and read aloud.

  “Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, but for a good man, someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”

  I stare at the words, read them again. Died for us?

  I turn to another page.

  “There is no one righteous, not even one. There is no one who understands, no one who seeks God. All have turned away an
d have together become worthless; there is no one who does good, not even one.”

  I swallow. The words speak straight through my soul. They somehow prick at my conscience, and I suddenly feel... what? Shame? Remorse? I read the words again, and uneasiness washes over me. These words are too much to bear, and I snap the book closed quickly and stare at the front cover. What is this book? And how is it that it pulls such emotions to the surface?

  A loud boom followed by raucous laughter echoes through the window, and I jump, dropping the book. It tumbles end over end several times, disappearing under the bed. I clutch my chest, and the book forgotten for the moment, I train all my attention toward the window.

  My heartbeat flutters erratically against my fist, and I take several painful breaths to still it. Another peal of laughter streams in so close to the window that if the curtains were open, I’d be sure to see who stands on the other side of it. And they’d be sure to see me.

  The soldiers have been a constant presence, but I’ve stayed clear of the window completely. But suddenly, I’m curious. I long to put a face to the trouble which harasses us.

  On shaky legs, I rise to my feet, and with painfully slow steps, I move to the window, slip my fingers between the division in the curtain, and peer out.

  Two soldiers linger a mere foot from the glass. They lounge against a tree near the side of the house dressed in matching black attire. This appears to be their assigned post.

  They talk quietly. One of them turns his head; I snap my hand back with a quick intake of breath, letting the curtain slide closed. Did he see me? It takes me a moment to compose myself before I chance another look.

  I study them closely—examine their stiff uniforms, their short-cropped heads of hair and long weapons. They don’t seem so terrible. Their voices casually filter through the window. They are young with smooth skin and bright eyes, and when one of them laughs, I see no danger in his smile. In fact, it is a nice smile, and this makes me curious.

  Across the way, two more soldiers drag a man off the road and into the brush where they deposit his body. He doesn’t move, and I have the worst feeling that he could be dead. I peer more closely thorough the glass.