“I know your face,” Bray said blearily.
“What’s wrong with her?” Arlow asked. She felt his warm hand press firmly against her forehead.
“It’s the drugs,” Peer said. “We think they’re giving us all the same dosage, but she’s so much smaller, and getting smaller by the day.”
Arlow’s earnest brown eyes bored into hers. She felt like she knew this person, but she couldn’t place him.
“I will help you,” he said—a promise.
Arlow…Bray searched her mind. Where was there an Arlow? And then the memory clicked into place. A carriage and a sunny afternoon.
“Arlow Bowlerham,” Bray murmured, “a proud boy with a big book.”
Arlow moved away. She wished he hadn’t. It felt nice to have someone near.
“I’m going to speak to Quade. I will fix this,” he said yet again. The door opened and closed.
“Do you think he really can help?” Adearre asked.
“He already has.” Ko-Jin held up a gleaming silver pocket knife and tossed it to Yarrow.
“You picked his pocket?” Yarrow said with an appreciative laugh.
“My hands still work just fine,” Ko-Jin said with a flash of a smile—a smile that was so much like his usual self.
The men talked in hushed voices about how to proceed. But Bray did not hear—she had slipped deeper into the waters. And now she was back in her uncle’s pantry, locked in, unable to stretch her legs out or extend her neck straight in the limited space. Just a little girl, with nothing but mice and darkness and a stinging pain between her thighs for company.
Yarrow’s hands shook violently. He could feel the eyes of his companions on him, their gazes pleading with him to succeed.
He took a deep breath, attempted to steady himself. But his hands still trembled, all of his muscles twitched uncontrollably. The injections had begun to have a long list of side effects. His eyes felt deep and dead in his face, his mind was a hive of bees, buzzing endlessly without meaning.
Breathe, he counseled himself. He took, in one unsteady hand, Arlow’s pocketknife, feeling the etching of his friend’s initials against his palm, and in his other hand he held steady the manacle that bound his ankles. Carefully, he inserted the sharp end of the knife into the key hole and searched for the release.
His mind kept zooming in and out of focus. It leapt forward and backwards in time. If he lost focus he would slip right out of the present, out of the prison and into some other life. He’d find himself sweeping his father’s shop, practicing the Ada Chae at the Cape, teaching his little sister how to write, or having tea with Dedrre. Sometimes his mind would flick forward into an invented future. He and Bray in a house of their own with redheaded children running in the backyard. His mind clung to Bray more than all the rest—the removing of sodden clothes, passion-glazed emerald eyes, a gasp of ecstasy.
Yarrow breathed in sharply. He’d cut himself again. The knife nicked his ankle. He watched, mesmerized, as blood pooled at the base of the cut then ran, like raindrops down a pane, over the top of his foot and down to the floor. It hurt, but the pain was a distant thing.
“Are you sure you do not want someone else to try?” Adearre asked. He sounded concerned, but his voice was also slurred. They were all getting worse. The Chiona could barely stay alert—Bray had not formed a cogent sentence in days—and his and Ko-Jin’s twitches had been upgraded to spasms. They needed to escape now, or soon they would be physically unable to.
“No, no. I can do it. If my hands would just stay steady.” And my mind.
He understood how the mechanism worked. This was Dedrre’s expertise—mechanics. Dedrre would have been unbound the instant he had the knife in his hands, Yarrow was sure. He remembered, many years ago, Dedrre had invented a new kind of handcuff, more difficult to spring open without a key.
“You see,” the old Adourran had held up an old-fashioned manacle, one just like those that currently chained Yarrow to the cold hard floor, “these are so easily picked open.” And then he had done just that, with a pin, in a mere second. He had drawings on the wall, drawings in his own neat hand, showing how the insides worked. Yarrow had stared at them while he sipped his tea, hot and sweet down his throat. It smelt like cinnamon then; the manacle project had aligned with Dedrre’s desire to learn the Dalish art of baked cinnamon buns. He made them over and over, but never quite managed it.
Yarrow wondered if it had been an issue of climate. His mother’s buns had been perfection, light as a cloud. She used to make them in the morning, when most of the children, as well as her husband, were still sleeping. But Yarrow would hear her and wake. She would always let him help. She’d hold him up so he could look into the hearth and watch the buns rise. She’d give him a spoon and let him lick the glaze off, lick until the stickiness was gone and his tongue lapped against the wood of the utensil alone. Her dress would be covered in flour, her cheeks rosy from the effort and the heat of the oven. His father would come down and say, “My nose woke me up,” and she would say, “Are you sure it wasn’t your belly?”
The lock, Yarrow reminded himself. He turned the knife in the hole and felt it catch on something—could feel the shifting of metal within. That’s it. He licked his rough, chapped lips. Just there. He moved the knife’s tip, and in his mind’s eye, saw it press against the release. He felt a slight give and then heard a glorious sound: a soft click. The manacle sprung open.
“Well done,” Peer said. Yarrow smiled. He stretched his legs out, as he had been longing to do for weeks, and felt his muscles pull and stretch beneath the skin. It was a feeling of freedom, wonderful yet painful.
But he had to release his hands as well. He set to it. This task proved more difficult, as the lock was hard to reach. He had to twist his wrist at a strange angle, the metal pressed against his chafed, bleeding flesh. But he had gotten the knack of the thing. The knife found, with much more ease, the release it sought. With a second satisfying, just audible click, Yarrow was freed.
He stood, his entire body grateful and yet protesting after crouching for so long.
“Should you try and free the rest of us?” Adearre asked.
“No.” He didn’t want to cut them, and was sure he would. “We will stick with the plan. It shouldn’t be long now.”
Yarrow crossed the cell and sat down next to Bray, took her in his arms. He felt her pulse. It was sluggish, but present.
“Bray?” he asked, placing his dirty fingers against her equally grimy cheek.
“Mmm?” she murmured dreamily.
“We’re getting out of here. But you need to be able to phase. Do you think you can?” he asked.
Her brow creased in confusion, her bleary eyes shifting in the direction of the sphere.
“Once the sphere is gone. You remember the plan? What you have to do?”
She nodded.
“Good.” He bent low and kissed her forehead. “This will all be over soon. I promise.”
“Ko-Jin?” Yarrow looked up at his friend.
“I know, mate, I know.”
Yarrow gave him a firm nod.
“Do you think you will have the energy to run—and, if need be, fight?” Yarrow asked Adearre and Peer.
“If it means getting out of here,” Peer said, “I’ll find the energy.”
Adearre nodded agreement, though even this movement seemed to be accomplished with difficulty.
“Then there is nothing for it but to wait for dinner,” Yarrow said. He moved back to his usual spot and tucked the manacles out of sight behind him. And he waited. His mind still hummed, but it was more focused than it had been in a long time. He was going to get out—and then he would sleep. He would sleep for days on end.
Something important is happening, Bray reminded herself. The cell was tense with anticipation. The plan would fail without her, but what was she meant to do? It was so difficult to remember.
“Ready?” Yarrow said.
Ready for what? Bray wanted to ask, but
there was no time. She heard the familiar sound of the key turning in the lock. She would ask after dinner.
A boy with white-blond hair stepped into the room, cradling the usual tray of food and water.
“Now!” Yarrow bellowed.
Then many things happened at once.
Peer stuck out his feet, still chained, and tripped the boy. The tray, with its five bowls and five glasses, met the ground with a magnificent crescendo of crashes and clatters. Yarrow sprung to his feet, his unchained feet—when had that happened?—and grabbed the sphere from its perch. He hurled it with all of his might, like a pitcher in sapball, through the still-open door. Bray heard it land with a smack and continue to roll along the hallway.
With it went the blue swirling light, and the feeling of loss. Bray felt warm and whole—like a horrible weight had been lifted. She could breathe properly.
Yarrow scuffled with the boy on the ground. She heard the sounds of the fight, but she did not watch. Instead, she thought to herself, I’d rather not have these chains any longer. She made herself intangible and they clattered to the ground, still firmly closed but with nothing to hold onto.
“Bray,” Peer said, his blue eyes giving her the most blazing, determined look she had ever seen. “You need to help the rest of us out too.”
The words swam in her mind. Help them out with what?
She tried to stand, but found it too difficult; her legs were jelly. Rather, she crawled toward Peer.
Yarrow still struggled. He and the boy seemed to be deadlocked.
“Phase me through the chains,” Peer said. Bray’s mind tried to comprehend these words and failed, but her body seemed to understand. Her hand reached out and grabbed Peer’s arm. Then she, again, made herself phase into nothingness. His manacles clanked to the floor just as hers had.
“Great.” Peer helped Bray to her feet, though he was not terribly steady himself. “Now Adearre and Ko-Jin.”
Bray repeated the process for Ko-Jin, whose body was whole and strong once again. As soon as he was free, he jumped to his feet to help Yarrow. The boy was knocked unconscious in a moment.
“Thanks,” Yarrow wheezed, his fingers feeling at his throat.
Peer practically carried Bray over to Adearre. She did her job again.
“Thank you, my love,” he said.
“They’re coming.” Yarrow glanced up. She wasn’t sure who they were, but she could hear thundering footsteps from above. “Ko-Jin—”
“I know, Yarrow.”
And then Ko-Jin was there. He picked her up and she found herself cradled against his chest like a child. She wanted to protest this, say that she was not weak. But, at that moment, she was weak. There was no point in lying.
“Phase us, Bray,” he said.
She yawned, but did as he asked. It wasn’t difficult, after all—as natural as breathing.
She felt herself pass through the wall. It was colder outside, but the air was wonderfully stench-free and the breeze like new life. She bounced against Ko-Jin’s chest. He was running, carrying her. But where were the others?
Ko-Jin crossed the empty courtyard with impressive speed. They were, in minutes, out of the compound altogether and thundering down the grassy slope, towards the city of Easterly Point.
“You may as well sleep,” Ko-Jin said.
Yes, she thought, sleep would be nice.
It was full dark when Bray opened her eyes again. She awoke with a mind blissfully clear and alert. The drugs must be leaving her system. She was lying on a cushioned bench, a familiar black satin ceiling above. It was their carriage—the one they had abandoned outside Easterly Point an age ago.
“Ko-Jin?” she asked.
The carriage door opened and he appeared. “Good, you’re awake.”
“Where are the others?” Bray asked, climbing out of the carriage and joining him in the cool night air. Her entire body ached in protest.
“Not back yet.” He frowned. “But I see firelight moving towards us.”
Bray saw it too—three torches, not far off and moving in their direction.
“Is it them, do you think?”
“No,” he said. “They would not use a light. Quade’s men are looking for us.”
“What should we do?” Bray asked.
Ko-Jin sighed, his wide shoulders sagging. “I don’t know. Yarrow made me promise I would wait until dawn and, if they didn’t show, we would ride for the Temple to send out the alarm.”
“We can’t just leave them.”
“I made a promise.”
Bray looked at the far horizon. “It’s not dawn yet.”
“No,” Ko-Jin agreed, “but my fear is that, if Yarrow and the others have failed, this group approaching us may have the sphere.”
A spasm of fear shot through her body. She could not bear the idea of being trapped again. And it made sense that Quade would send the sphere—she and Ko-Jin were the most handicapped by the blighted thing. That must be why Yarrow had sent them ahead.
“If they don’t have it, there’s no problem. Even if I couldn’t overcome them, you could keep us untouchable,” Ko-Jin said. Bray watched the orbs of light disappear momentarily, then appear again as their bearers crested a nearby hill.
“So,” Ko-Jin asked. “Shall we run or stand our ground?”
Bray took a steadying breath. “I doubt we could outrun them in our current state. Let’s hide.”
Ko-Jin nodded. Bray realized he must be as afraid as she was, perhaps more so. If these searchers did have the sphere, Ko-Jin would be helpless and unable to run. But he raised no complaint.
Bray climbed deeper into the thicket behind which the carriage had been concealed. It was dark and she couldn’t see very well. Thorns scraped her shins and the bushes rustled loudly around her. She could hear Ko-Jin picking his way behind her.
When she deemed herself sufficiently concealed, she sat down, resting her back against the trunk of a tree. Ko-Jin sat close beside her in the small gap, his leg pressed against her own. She could feel the muscle of his thigh twitching.
“Couldn’t you phase us down into the ground, or something?” Ko- Jin asked.
“I could,” she said, “but if they have the sphere we would rematerialize down there. I don’t fancy being buried alive.” Of course, she could go so deep into the earth that she would be beyond range of the thing, but she never did this, out of fear. What if she got stuck down there, with the darkness pressing in, trapping her? No, she would not do that.
“How do you stay on the ground at all when you’re phased?” he whispered.
This seemed a rather inconsequential matter given the circumstances, but she answered nonetheless. “I don’t really. It’s more like levitating. I have to think about it.”
Ko-Jin nodded and Bray motioned for him to be quiet, thinking she heard something move nearby.
They waited, with steeled breath, for the sound of feet. But the night continued on in silence for what felt like a very long time. She could hear Ko-Jin breathing beside her, and she could smell him. His odor assaulted her. She imagined her own stench could hardly be better. How glorious it would be to take a bath and put on fresh clothes, she thought longingly.
Ko-Jin tensed beside her and she heard voices nearby.
“Quade reckons they have to have come this way,” a high male voice said.
“Well, they’re probably miles away by now. Don’t see how we could catch ‘em,” a girl said.
“I don’t know. They were real weak. I brought them dinner two days ago—that lady looked half dead. And one of them is a cripple,” a third male voice said.
Bray listened intently, but her fear was gone. They were close—close enough that, if they had the sphere, she would have felt it. Ko-Jin, beside her, looked thunderous. She remembered, well enough, his opinion on the word ‘cripple.’
“How many are there?” the first boy asked. He sounded as if he was more afraid of finding them than not.
“Five,” the third boy sa
id.
“Four,” the girl corrected. “One of them is dead already.”
Bray’s heart stopped dead in her chest. Her lips formed a silent “no.”
Before she could think, she was on her feet and running through the bushes toward the voices. She wanted to hurt them, hurt them until they told her it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true.
Ko-Jin was just behind her as she burst through the final branches and out onto the hilltop. By the light of their torches, Bray could see the shock on the three youths’ faces. She and Ko-Jin must have looked mad—smeared in grime and dirt, wide-eyed with rage and grief.
Ko-Jin met the first boy, who unsheathed a sword at his side. Ko-Jin had the weapon out of his hand in an instant. He did not stab the boy, however, but thumped him over the head with the hilt. The second lad, clearly the better fighter of the two, met Ko-Jin next, but Bray did not watch.
Her attention was only for the girl, the one who had made the horrible claim, had said a friend of hers was dead.
The youth punched and Bray let the fist fly ineffectively through her torso. The girl’s blue eyes widened and she stumbled forward. Bray solidified behind her and dealt two sharp blows to her kidney. The girl crumpled to the ground. Bray hopped down on top of her, flipped her over so she was face up, and pinned her to the ground.
“You will tell me everything you know about what has happened to our companions,” Bray said.
“I’m not telling you nothing,” the girl said.
“Ko-Jin?” Bray called. He appeared at her side, the other boy clearly dealt with.
“The sword, if you please,” Bray said, holding her hand out. She did not take her eyes off the girl, and was glad to see her complexion whiten in fear. If Ko-Jin had any compunction in handing her the weapon, he did not say so. She felt the cold hilt meet her palm.
She gripped the sword in a white-knuckled fist. “Could you hold her down?”
Ko-Jin knelt by the girl’s head and pressed strong hands on her shoulders, pinning her to the ground.
Bray phased, making the weapon in her hand immaterial as well, then she placed the tip of the sword straight through the girl’s throat. She shut her eyes tight, expecting to die, then looked up in confusion when she could not feel the blade.
Division of the Marked (The Marked Series) Page 32