One day she was woken from a half-dream by voices far above. At first she thought she was still dreaming, but gradually she realised it was real. Children’s voices, arguing. And unlike the guards and whoever it was who lowered the buckets, they were making no attempt at quietness.
‘Don’t be a big chicken –’
‘But Lani said –’
‘Who cares what Lani said? She just wants to keep the wishes to herself.’
‘Are you sure –’
‘I told you Surla, they’ve got a witch trapped in the well and if we pay her she has to give us wishes. So when we get there, you drop the coins –’
‘Ouch! What are you doing?’
‘You don’t think a witch grants wishes just for a normal coin do you?’
Orla pressed back against the wall of the well.
‘Now whatever you do, don’t let her trick you into staying. You have to throw them in and run, understand?’
A moment later there was a sudden shadow at the mouth of the well. Orla looked up and thought she made out a small face with wide dark eyes and a curly dark mass of hair. And then there was a patter as something landed on the floor beside her. She wanted to call, to ask for help, to ask what was going to happen to her. She wanted to call and have another human being respond. But as she opened her mouth, she found that she couldn’t. She had been so long in silence she couldn’t find the voice she needed. Then the dark shape was gone and she heard the peal of breathless giggles fading into the distance.
And then she was alone. She had been for days, of course, but somehow she’d never really felt it until now. She wished, if they were planning to kill her, they would just do it. She was not an animal, to be held at the bottom of a stone tube, for children to throw coins at. She felt around carefully, found one coin and then another. She picked them up. Just the shape and texture of something new in her hand caused her heart to beat faster. They were sticky. She smelt her finger where she’d touched them: blood. Her stomach turned. What kind of monster did they think she was?
Chapter seventeen
That night she dreamed of Din. The Metkara River was in flood and he was being washed away. She reached out for him but he was just out of her grasp. Things floated in the water around him, bobbing up and down, rushing past. Bodies. He was grabbing onto one to try to use it to hold himself up but it sank under the water beneath him and his head ducked below the surface. He came up spluttering. She was running along the bank, trying to keep up with him, trying to keep track of where he was. There was a bridge somewhere ahead and she might be able to intercept him. He looked at her and opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. He gulped water and sank. She kept running; the bridge was near now. When she reached it she crossed into the middle and looked for him, watched for him, waited. But the river was full of bodies, they were swollen and discoloured, and she watched them float past, one after another after another, and she couldn’t find Din. She didn’t know which one was him.
Then she saw her, face down, wearing the same blue cloak Orla had left her with. It was Merryn. Orla cried out, scrambled to reach her. She turned her face up, but as she did Merryn’s body fell apart under Orla’s fingers, flesh stringing from bones, skin peeling away.
She woke up sobbing.
She had to get out of this prison. There had to be a way. She had to find Merryn before it was too late.
✤
It was simple. She would stop eating. If they didn’t want to kill her then they didn’t want her to die. If they didn’t want her to die they would have to bring her up to force her to eat and drink.
A little later that morning the bucket was raised and then lowered again.
She looked in: a hard end of bread, some dried meat, and a small cup of water. She sipped a little of the water. She was hungry. She had been hungry for days. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a meal that had filled her stomach and satisfied her. She didn’t need to eat. She needed to be free of this place. She sank back against the wall and closed her eyes.
She sensed the gradual shifting of the light, but it seemed so slow, like pouring honey in mid-winter. The day might last forever, she thought. Eventually she heard the change of guards. She recognised their voices now. This evening it was the gruff man with the surprising deep-bellied laugh, and a woman whose voice was light as silver, hard to make out. Later, the bucket rose. She sat, tense, holding her breath, every fibre of her body waiting, waiting, though for what she was not sure. Was there a longer pause than usual before the fresh bucket was lowered? She couldn’t tell. But she heard it creaking down, jerkily, hand-over-hand, then landing beside her. She pushed it away.
That night hunger stalked her. It was like an angry cell-mate, tossing and turning beside her, unable to sleep and muttering incomprehensible words, waiting for a moment when she relaxed and let her guard down to jam a blade into her gut. She tried to distract herself by looking for stars. The night was clear. In the circle above she thought she could just make out tiny pin-pricks of light. She looked for them, tried to focus on them; her own small patch of sky. After so many years of curfew, even held captive as she was, hungry as she was, there was something magical about it. Eventually she slept, and woke at first light.
Another day, another bucket. Still whoever was lowering it said nothing, did nothing to indicate that they had noticed she was no longer eating. But then she smelled it. She looked in. The plate held bread again, but soft this time, and on top was fresh-cooked meat, fragrant with spices. Beside the bread there was something small wrapped in brightly-coloured paper: a milk-sweet. She hadn’t had one since she was a child, and even then they had been such a luxury she had probably only tried them three or four times in her entire life. Her stomach growled and lurched. Her mouth watered. Her limbs felt shaky and weak. She imagined the flavour, the soft, sticky sweetness infused with cinnamon and nutmeg, releasing itself into her mouth. The smell of food filled the small space. It was torture.
She closed her eyes and thought of Merryn. Her sister’s favourite food was apples, fresh off the tree. Orla would bring them home from Joseph’s orchard, the ones she’d find fallen onto the ground. She’d hide them under her jacket though she was pretty sure Joseph knew and didn’t care. Merryn would skip the thin porridge or dry bread or whatever Orla could scrounge for their breakfast and crunch away on an apple as she walked to school. And she’d always wait until they passed a tree or a conveniently tethered goat before disposing of the core. She would never just drop it in the street, even though streets in the Metkaran were strewn with rubbish of all sorts and an apple core would be by far the least offensive. She’d carry it until she could get rid of it properly. It would drive Orla crazy. ‘Just throw it away,’ she’d say, ‘What does it matter?’ But Merryn refused, because that’s who Merryn was. She always tried to do the right thing, even when to Orla’s mind it made no sense and made no difference. That wasn’t the point, for Merryn. And it wasn’t because she was scared of being caught either. Merryn would do the same in a deserted street with nobody around as she would in a crowded market place. It wasn’t about pleasing others; it was about what she believed to be right.
For the first time Orla wondered for a moment about the Confessor’s charges. Was there any basis to them? Was it possible that Merryn, her little sister, had managed to involve herself in something illegal on that stubborn and annoying basis of wishing to do right? Resistance took many forms in the Archipelago these days, though Orla knew of them only through whispers. There were those who resented the tightening grip of the Uruhenshi and their God, and who blamed the King for signing the Treaty that had allowed the Brethren such a privileged place in return for the defeat of the Dryuk. There were those who resented the hunger and the curfews and the strictures and who were willing to do something about it.
Orla pushed the bucket away. Her hunger was gone. She couldn’t believe Merryn would be involved in anything like that. Orla had to get her out. And then a little vo
ice, wondering, but what if she’s not even alive? She might have already been tried and sentenced and executed. Or killed in some other, slower, way. And for a moment she saw it again: the stone chair in the cell, the straps, the blood…
No. Orla couldn’t believe it. She would know, she was sure she would. If Merryn was gone she would sense the absence that would remain. It might only be the tiniest sensing, like catching the smell of smoke from a fire hundreds of miles away, but she would know. The world would be changed.
Merryn was alive, and she needed Orla’s help.
✤
Two more days passed. The bucket went up and the bucket came down and each time there was some new morsel offered – a tiny hard-boiled egg, sweet pastries, crumbled cheese, smoked fish. She drank a little water to be sure she stayed conscious, but she ate nothing. She had to listen. She didn’t know how or when the chance would come, but she believed that it would, and soon. After the third day the hunger receded. It was easy now to push the food to the far side of the well and wait until the bucket rose again and it was taken away.
She was light-headed. The sound of birds seemed both loud and far away. The circle of light receded. Her thoughts wandered and mingled and she was unable to tell which were hers and which were those of people whose minds she’d sensed, haunting her like ghosts. Orla started and opened her eyes. She’d been dreaming. There was only darkness.
When daylight came she was too tired to wake. She dozed, stirring occasionally, resettling herself on the ground. She knew she should wake, should try to open her eyes and sit up, but it was too much effort, much too much effort. The treacly darkness of sleep was better, gentler, softer than the day. She did not notice the bucket being raised or lowered. Maybe they’d given up on her, she thought vaguely. Maybe they didn’t care that she died.
She closed her eyes and let herself drift.
Chapter eighteen
How many days has it been?
Four or five, they reckon.
And they think she’s still alive?
Folk have survived longer.
There’s nothing to her. She’s but a child.
Orla stirred. Her dreams were full of voices but there was something different about these. She opened her eyes. It was difficult; her lids felt heavy and sticky, and each movement was ponderously slow. Daylight.
‘We’re bringing you up,’ she heard.
She closed her eyes again. She wasn’t sure where she was. For a moment she was sleeping in the straw in Joseph’s barn surrounded by the familiar smells and sounds of the animals. Then she was in the darkness, trapped under tonnes of rock, mouth full of dust.
‘Lowering the rope now,’ the voice said.
‘It’s not going to work. Even if she is alive, she won’t have the strength to hold on. One of us is going to have to go down there.’
‘They’re not paying me enough.’
‘But the Council ordered –’
‘Then the Council can come down here and do it. Do you see any of them beside us? Okay, ropes ahoy.’
She breathed. Something was tickling her face. She brushed it away. Merryn. It was probably Merryn. She’d slept too long and Merryn was trying to get her up so they wouldn’t be late.
‘Can you hear us? You need to grab a hold of the rope.’
‘I’ll do it,’ the first voice said impatiently. ‘Pull it back up. I’ll go down. Do you think you can lower me?’
‘Lowering you won’t be the problem. I might have to have a good hard think about bringing you back up again, though.’
‘We’re under orders, Brim. Best thing to do is just to get it done, don’t you think? And besides you saw her when she arrived. She’s just a girl and she’s starving herself to death. How dangerous do you think she can be?’
The tickling stopped. She drifted.
There was a noise beside her. Something she had not heard before. Breathing. Not her own. She shifted and opened her eyes a moment. She saw a man, grey-haired and kindly-faced.
‘Put your arm around me if you can, love,’ he said. He lifted her. She struggled for a moment. Where was he taking her? She was comfortable here. She belonged here. No, she reminded herself, a voice from far away, from another time. You need to get out. You wanted to get out. This is your chance.
He looped an arm around her, pulled her in close to his chest, and then steadied the rope with his free hand. Do the Council have no shame? This is no place for a child. Just skin and bone. Her head pounded with his thoughts as though someone were beating a drum beside her in the silence.
‘Righto, we’re ready.’ His voice was loud and excessively cheerful. Echoes bounced off the walls. She was scared now, all of a sudden. Her plan was working but she did not know what would happen next. She was weak, very weak.
The rope lurched and they began to rise.
‘Steady does it!’ he called again, and she felt him grip her tighter. ‘You right there, love?’ he asked her. She closed her eyes. She did not have the strength to reply.
✤
Something was pressing against her lips. There was a liquid, sweet and strong, filling her mouth. She tried to swallow and it caught in her throat. She coughed, unable to clear it, coughed until she retched painfully. Her stomach was empty; there was nothing to bring up.
‘Try again,’ the voice said. Again, the pressure against her lips, the sudden sweetness. This time she swallowed without coughing. There was a shivering rush of sensation, coldness and heat both at once.
‘Just once more,’ the voice said.
‘Not too much,’ someone interrupted. ‘She’s weak as it is.’
She swallowed once more and this time it was as though everything let go and she was tumbling into a darkness gentle and soft as a big feather bed. And then there was nothing.
✤
It had to be a dream. She was comfortable and warm. The air was filled with the smell of food. Somewhere she could hear the sound of someone practising guitar, picking away at a melody that was equal parts sad and sweet. She was suffused with a feeling of calm, of peace, of safety.
She tried to sit up. She pushed and nothing happened. She tried again, panic rising. Her arms wouldn’t bear her weight. They’d drugged her, she realised. Her last memory was of drinking something sickly sweet. Those bastards had drugged her and dumped her here, wherever here was, and whatever they’d given her was still flooding her bloodstream. She could barely move. Her heart raced. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious for, she had no idea where she was. She was losing time. The days she’d spent as a captive, and now however long she’d been sleeping, all of it was valuable time, vital time, time in which she had done nothing. Anything could have happened to Merryn.
She lay and looked at the ceiling, willing herself to stay awake, to fight the easy softness of the drug, willing strength back into her limbs. She wasn’t sure how long she lay for, but eventually she began to feel a tingling sensation in her hands and feet that grew to a sharp stabbing pain. Good. She gritted her teeth and tried again, pushed with all her might. She was shaky and unsteady, but somehow managed to get herself into a sitting position. Slowly, a centimetre at a time, she shifted one leg and then the other off the bed so her feet were just touching the ground. The sensation as it returned to her was almost unbearable, and with the physical pain came the exhaustion, the fear, the sense of failure.
She shivered despite the warm sun that flooded the room. Then she looked down and realised someone had changed her clothes. Her face flushed. She felt sick in the pit of her stomach at the thought that she had been unconscious and naked. Someone had bathed her too; the layer of grime that covered her was gone. Even her fingernails were clean. Now she was dressed in a pale-yellow nightgown of a finer material than anything she’d ever owned. It wafted around her like petals dropping from a flower.
She waited for her head to stop spinning then began to study her surroundings. The room was bright and open. On the wall hung a print which showed a mountai
n rising from mist. There was a woven rug, red as spilt blood, covering the floor. A jug of water and a basin rested on a stand under the window, and a soft white towel hung beside them. The window was open and looked out onto a garden. The door to her room was ajar. From somewhere nearby she heard music – strings being plucked, sad and sweet, a sound like running water.
I’m not locked in, she realised, dizzily.
She cursed her body’s weakness. The drugs and the days she’d gone without eating or moving combined so that her legs felt like they were made of jelly and her arms were flimsy as looped string. She lowered her weight down onto her feet, leaning against the bed as she did so, waiting for her strength to return. She took a step in the direction of the door. She didn’t know whether she was inside the Palace now, or if they’d taken her somewhere else altogether. For all she knew there was a guard posted outside to restrain her once she woke.
She paused, reaching out with her mind, trying to sense who was nearby, how many, and what their purpose was. She no longer had to fear her powers being detected, at least; everybody knew what she was. She waited a moment, even as her head began to ache, and the feeling of tension grew within her. She couldn’t sense anybody. Was it possible that they had left her unguarded? Alone? And if that was the case, where was the music coming from?
The Dying Flame Page 8