By the time we get close enough for me to make out the dark silhouette of an opening in the rock ahead of us, or the tiny slanted rents in the towers that act as windows, I am covered in mud. It’s even flecked across the backs of my hands.
There’s no sound other than Olivia’s bells for a few minutes as we finally make it onto a gravel pathway that snakes up to the Keep. After that there’s the crunch of my boots as well. Olivia somehow manages to make it the whole way across the sharp rocks with bare feet. A rusted iron trough sits on the ground when we reach the entranceway, and Olivia dips her feet in, wiggling them around until they emerge pink and clean.
“You have to clean your boots off,” she tells me. I look down at the churned up mess caking my boots and frown. Underneath all that fresh sludge there’s about five days worth of dried mud.
“Or you can just take them off,” Olivia laughs, reading my mind. “You’re kind of supposed to anyway.” I sit down on the worn rock step, resigning myself to the fact that I have to go into the creepy looking Keep with freezing cold feet. I’m fighting with my laces when I feel a presence behind me. Olivia’s smile falls off her face and she bows her head.
“Good afternoon, Sister,” she says quietly. I look up at Olivia, wondering if I’m supposed to jump to my feet and bow or do…something. I have no idea how a person is supposed to act around the priestesses. Olivia offers me her hand and helps pull me up. The slender priestess standing in the entrance doesn’t do anything. From head to toe, she is covered in some kind of crimson veil. The material looks incredibly thin, and it’s obvious that she is wearing many layers of it over her body. The only place covered by a single, fine layer is her face. Or where her face should be, anyway. A pure white mask, blank and staring, greets us, only faintly shielded by the red material. Narrow black lines rim the mask just like the counters, the tattoos that mark the fighter’s arms. The priestess doesn’t say a word, just turns and disappears back inside the Keep.
Olivia picks up my boots and dispatches them by the iron trough, and then pulls me inside after her.
“Why is she wearing a mask?” I hiss, as we follow the priestess down narrow, darkened corridors, lit occasionally with burning gas lamps. The chemical smell coming off them snaps in the air, a bright, acidic burning.
“They’re ceramic. The priestesses never show their faces,” Olivia says, loud enough that it echoes off the walls. I flinch, knowing the woman must have heard her, but Olivia only laughs. “Don’t worry. It’s okay to talk about them. She’s not allowed to respond, though. They prefer that we act like they’re not even there. It’s said they See more clearly if they can move among us without being acknowledged.”
“They’d probably see more clearly if they didn’t wear masks and red veils over their faces,” I countered.
“Not see like that, Kit. See. Like visions.”
“Oh.” Ryka mentioned something about that before. The priestesses divided and promoted the fighters into differing categories, depending on their visions. Sounds like a load of nonsense to me. From the way Olivia greeted the priestess, though, she clearly does place some stock in it, and it would be unwise to comment.
We follow the priestess through a rabbit warren of tunnels until we reach a split in the corridor, where a narrow stairway leads up. Daylight streams in through a tapered slit in the rock, a welcome reminder that the world outside is only a couple of feet away. I have no idea how Olivia walks around with bare feet all day, because by the time we’re half way up the coarse steps, my toes have gone numb and I’ve spiked the sensitive skin on my soles too many time to keep track of. The priestess leaves us at the top of the stairs and Olivia thanks her. She vanishes as Olivia guides me into a bright, high ceilinged circular room, where four other women stand at stations by polished marble counter tops. It smells of spices in here and cooking meat. A huge bowl sits on a marble plinth in the centre of the room, filled with exotic looking fruit. The women pause in their work, picking me over with their kohled, dark eyes. Intrigue, confusion, irritation, not a single smile among them. Olivia grins at me, ignoring the overwhelming silence.
“We’ll be cleaning vegetables today.” She disappears into a small side room and comes back with a heavy wicker basket, loaded with potatoes and carrots and long white bulbs that I’ve never seen before. They’re all covered in mud and whiskery with roots.
A long afternoon stretches out where Olivia does most of the talking and I pretend I’m listening. Mostly, I do my best to ignore the hushed whispering of the other women. They don’t seem too impressed by me at all.
Four hours after our arrival, the other women have produced a rich, thick stew and Olivia and I have chapped our hands washing the vegetables in freezing cold water. Olivia ladles out two considerable portions of the stew under the watchful eye of the others, and we eat in silence before she drags me down the staircase. I try to pay attention to where we’re going as we head back to the entrance but there are just too many turns. A priestess is waiting for us when we arrive back at the iron trough. Oddly, my boots are clean. She holds out a smooth wooden bowl and in it are dozens of tiny bronze bells. Olivia leans forward and plucks out four. She hands them to me and then takes four for herself. Four bells for four hours work. I have no idea what the value of a bronze bell is but I’m hoping it’s a lot. Cleaning vegetables is really not fun. I slip them into my pocket and the priestess places her hand on Olivia’s shoulder. She bows her head and then nods.
“Hey, I think I’m needed. I sometimes do extra duties after my shift in the kitchens. Think you can make your own way back?”
I shift my gaze from Olivia to the priestess and back again. Over Olivia’s shoulder the faint outline of the boggy trail can be made out. “Sure.”
She hugs me again, but this time I’m prepared. I let my hands rest on her back for a second as she squeezes me, and when she pulls back she’s wearing a pleased smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it,” she laughs.
I watch her slip back into the Keep and the priestess follows without whispering a word; she turns and gives me a slow look over her shoulder, just before the darkness swallows the red of her dress and the white of her mask. In that moment, I swear I can see a set of pale blue eyes shine from within.
*****
Three steps off the gravel path my boots are filthy again. By the time I get halfway back up the slope they are just as dirty as they were before. I find it hard to concentrate on that, though; a solitary figure paces back and forth at the crest of the hill, turned to a dark silhouette by the sun setting beyond. I know who it is even before I have a chance to see properly. The way he keeps tucking his hair behind his ears is a dead giveaway.
I manage a taut smile when I arrive next to Ryka, trying to hide the fact that I’m a little out of breath. “Hi,” I say, walking straight past him. When he jogs after me and takes hold of my arm, I can’t say I’m surprised.
“Come with me,” he says.
I tug my arm free and stop walking, staring at him. “Why?”
His brown eyes are calm, but a small muscle jumps in his jaw. “The Tamjis from training made comments about you today. They’re not pleased that you invaded our training session, strutting around with that knife belt on. I told you there’d be trouble if you didn’t stop wearing them. Jack’s waiting for us.”
“Jack?” I blow out a deep breath. If Jack is waiting for us, then am I in trouble? Am I about to get kicked out, just like Ryka said I would? “All right. Lead on.” Surprise flits across Ryka’s face. Maybe he wants me to protest, but I don’t. There’s no point. If I’m getting booted out for nonconformity, then so be it. I set off walking, tracing the pads of my thumbs over the heels of my daggers. Ryka pushes ahead, swinging his arms so that his rolled-up shirtsleeves ride up, revealing glimpses of his tattoos. He shoots me a glance over his shoulder, his face unreadable.
“Do you like fighting, Kit?”
I stare at the black ink on his arms, quiet for a moment. “With you o
r in general?” I eventually say.
He laughs softly. “Both.”
“No, I don’t like it.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“I don’t, not any more. I didn’t have a choice in the Sanctuary, but now―”
“I’m not talking about physically. I’m talking about how defensive you are.” Ryka slows so that we walk side by side. He tucks his hands into his pockets and studies the darkening sky as we make our way towards Freetown. He’s quiet, and seems genuinely interested in my response. I don’t rightly know what to say that doesn’t sound stupid. In the end, I just tell him the truth.
“I don’t know how else to be.” I look at him out of the corner of my eye to find him smiling. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him do that, but the sight isn’t getting any less confronting. “What’s so entertaining?”
“Oh, nothing. I just think we’re pretty alike, you and I.”
I want to laugh at the thought, but he’s not being a complete jerk as per usual so I don’t. “That’s an interesting theory.”
“Yup.”
We walk down the hill in silence and it’s not until we reach the outskirts of the camp that he speaks again. “I’m sorry, okay? For the way I’ve been the past few days. I know it may be hard to believe, but I’m not usually like that.”
Patiently, I wait for the caustic comment that will ruin his apology. It doesn’t come. “So why have you been?”
He shrugs, wrestling with himself. I have to give him credit; he seems to be trying really hard. “You put me on my ass in the forest,” he says eventually. “I massively underestimated you. And now, well, with Freetown’s traditions, you kind of…own me.”
“What?” I choke on my breath. “I kind of own you?”
Ryka tenses. “Sheez, don’t say it so loud! It’s just some stupid tradition.”
“How can I own you? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You cut me. You own me.”
I shake my head so vigorously that I briefly panic about brain damage. “No, no, no, that’s not right! Olivia said that if I cut you, you would have to fight me to the death!”
He smirks a little, but I can see he’s still freaked out. “Only if a fighter cuts another fighter. You’re a girl, Kit. When a girl cuts a guy, it’s like―it’s the most personal thing that can happen between a guy and a girl, okay? It’s basically like the guy’s surrendering to her, giving her his life.”
Holy crap! My hands are shaking as I shove them into my pockets, trying not to look at him. “I don’t think it counts in this instance,” I say, and horrifyingly my voice sounds uneven.
Ryka nods, giving me a cautious look out the corner of his eye. “Still. You really, really shouldn’t tell anyone that happened.”
“Would it be bad for you if they found out?”
Ryka stops dead. It seems as though he really wants to confuse the hell out of me, because he reaches out and places his hand on my cheek, and I can do nothing but stare up at him with wide eyes. Why the hell is he touching me? His gaze travels over my face, pausing on my lips for a second longer than is comfortable. “Bad for me. Bad for you,” he says softly. “Let’s just pretend it never happened, okay?”
This freeze frame in time is just too overwhelming. I back away slowly, out of his reach. His hand remains for a second before he allows it to drop to his side. Looking down at his boots, he clears his throat. “Agreed?”
I swallow and nod, because that’s all I’m capable of. We set off walking again, my cheek burning where he touched me. Suddenly I don’t want to be around him anymore.
“Is Jack in the tent you took me to the other night? I think I can make it there myself.” I really can if I have to. That tent is like Freetown’s version of the Colosseum; it can be seen from any vantage point within the city’s limits.
Ryka shakes his head. “Sorry, little Kit. The way those guys were talking this morning, they want to take those knives off you personally. Jack’ll kill me if I knew about that and didn’t make sure you got to him safely. Once you’re with him, don’t worry. I won’t be hanging around.”
It seems like all of Freetown knows I’m being taken to their leader as Ryka shoves his way through the market place. Whole crowds of people stop talking as I follow him towards Jack’s tent. When we pitch up outside our destination, Ryka tugs open the canvas flap and holds it aside, his face completely blank. No smiling or scowling. I kind of get the feeling I’ve done something to piss him off, which is nothing new, but this time he doesn’t want me to know it.
“Thanks.” I slip by him into the tent, unsurprised to find Jack sitting in the centre of the dusty room. There are no other chairs drawn up beside him this time; even the wobbling stacks are gone. The fire in the pit burns low, barely lit. A broad smile flashes across Jack’s face when he catches sight of us.
“Come to see me again so soon!” he laughs. “How are you, Kit? Ryka, stop pulling that face.”
So much for not coming in. Ryka hasn’t made good on his promise to leave as soon as he dropped me off. Standing at my side, I can see exactly which face Jack is referring to. Ryka’s eyebrows are pulled together, his mouth pressed into a tight line. “She won’t take off her knives,” he tells Jack.
Grandfather Jack raises his eyebrows at me. “Is that so?”
I nod. “If you say I’m not allowed to wear them, I’ll respect that.”
Ryka rocks on his heels, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his pants. “So you’ll take them off if he tells you to? Just not anyone else?”
“No.” I push down the bubbling, sharp feeling in my chest. “I can’t take them off. I’ll leave.”
“Oh, come on! You’re being ridiculous.”
“I will. I don’t feel safe without them.”
Jack interrupts, preventing Ryka from saying anything else. “You don’t have to leave, Kit, and you don’t have to take off your knives. I really wish you would, but I’m not going to make you. I’ve already told the others they’re not to bother you.”
Ryka’s eyes go wide. “But—”
“But nothing, Ry. If we make the girl leave, they’ll find her and haul her back to Lockdown. Do you want that?”
A nimbus of blond hair falls into Ryka’s face, disguising his expression when he mumbles, “It doesn’t make any difference to me.”
Jack stares at him for a second and then shakes his head. “You’re too stubborn for your own good, boy. I’m sure your father wasn’t as stern as you when he was your age. Your mother definitely wasn’t!” Ryka’s face loses all expression at the mention of his parents. I can practically feel a chill rolling off him.
“Thank you for understanding,” I tell Jack. The old man stops studying Ryka, who remains still and silent, and gives me a small nod.
“Of course I understand. If you’ve grown up with those things on you at all times, it’s going to take a while to break the habit. You will eventually, though, Kit. You’re not going to need them here. Before too long, you’ll realise Freetown is entirely different to the Sanctuary. The people are different. The way we are with one another is very different. Hell, even the way we fight is different. Maybe it’s time you saw for that for yourself.”
Ryka twitches, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “The pits are no place for her, Jack.”
“Don’t be stupid, boy. Everyone in Freetown comes to the fights. If your sister can go, I see no reason why Kit can’t.” He shrugs and sinks further into his chair, looking up at us both.
“Fine, Liv can take her,” Ryka sighs. He looks tired, and the fight seems to slide right off him. He turns to face me and I think I catch a flicker of concern. Could he really feel that? For me? His words say no, but his body language disagrees. He’s wound up like an impossibly taut bowstring. “You think you can handle seeing it? I mean, spilled blood when you’re anesthetised is one thing. When your hands are covered in it and you can smell it in the air, knowing what it means…that’s
entirely something else.” Ryka pauses, but I don’t get to tell him I’ll be fine. It’s like a switch gets thrown somewhere inside him. He pivots on his heel and Jack and I watch his back as he quietly leaves the tent. When I spin back around, there’s a twisted smile on Jack’s face. I’m definitely not smiling, though.
“Is he always this confusing?”
Jack curves a bushy steel grey eyebrow at me. They seem to be the most expressive part of his body. “My grandson can be a little misunderstood, sweetheart. I may give him a hard time, but he’s a good kid. He just worries about a lot of things.”
“Well, why would he be worried about me?” Jack just looks at me, smiling softly. He doesn’t reply, and it takes me a while to realise he’s not going to. It’s like he’s waiting for me to work out the answer to my question on my own, which is really annoying. I don’t even try. “Olivia’s going to take me to the blood ceremony? That’s different from a fight how?” I’d never considered what it might be like watching matches instead of fighting in them, and for some reason there’s a dark curiosity in me.
“Blood ceremonies take place a few days before matches, when the priestesses alter fighters’ rankings. We don’t have one every match. Only if one of the priestesses have had a vision.”
“And they’ve had one now?”
Jack nods, folding his hands over his belly. “They’ve had one now.
MASHINJI
Halo (Blood and Fire Series (A Young Adult Dystopian Series)) Page 13