“Arrrghh! Thank…you…?”
Ryka chuckles, grabbing his shirt out of my hands. He lunges forward and wipes it across my face before I can object. “There. You’re welcome.”
He slips the now damp shirt on and does up a button halfway down, leaving the rest open. Having accomplished that, he looks down at the rock at our feet.
“What is it?” I ask.
He gives me a pained look. “What does it look like?”
“A rock.”
“Congratulations. Your powers of deduction are impressive.” I shoot him a withering glance, which wipes the smile off his face. “All right. Look at this.” He motions me down with him and we both crouch beside the rock. It’s slimy and covered in green algae, which smells really bad. Hefting it over with the heel of his hand, Ryka points at a faint mark on the underside. He lets it go and the rock lands with a weighty grinding noise. On the underside are marks. Letters, in fact. The jagged engravings are two Ms, side by side. Beneath them, an O and an R are carved with careful precision.
“My dad did this,” Ryka says quietly, tracing his fingers over the marks. “We were little, but I remember.” He nods, as though reassuring himself that he actually does. “My dad was telling Liv and me about all the different kinds of rocks there are around Freetown. He tried to explain how they were all formed and which were good as building materials. We were too young to understand at the time, but we loved hearing him tell us anyway. He was a pretty smart man.”
“Sounds like it.” My voice is hushed, but it still feels too loud. Ryka’s eyes shine in the muted light, meeting mine.
“We wanted to know which one was the strongest of all the rocks. He told us it was marble, but there wasn’t any around here. Apparently, volcanic rock is pretty strong though.” He slaps the wet boulder and chews on his lip. “He explained that even though they’re really strong and difficult to mark, all rocks are eventually reduced to nothing. He said it would take millions of years, but it would happen one day. At the time we didn’t believe him. The buttress by the river, the stone of the Keep, all of it just seemed so solid and immoveable. My father took out his penknife and said he would prove it to us. All morning he spent carving our initials into this rock―his, my mother’s, mine and Liv’s. After that we kind of had to believe him, y’know?” Ryka falls silent for a minute, and I can tell the memories are painful for him. He presses his palm to the boulder, gently this time, the muscles in his neck working overtime.
“He said, ‘Son, there are many things in life that may seem indestructible. But remember, family is always stronger. Those are the only bonds that are truly unbreakable.’” Tracing his fingers over the markings one last time, Ryka picks up the rock and swings, launching it back into the river.
“What are you doing!”
The look he gives me is a hard one. “My family was worn away a long time ago. My father was wrong. That bond was broken when he left us, so I’m letting nature do what he said it would. One day that boulder will be nothing but sand and there’ll be no evidence that any of us ever even existed.”
“And that’s your secret? That you’re pissed off with your dad for lying to you because life isn’t perfect?” My head hurts. Hell, my chest, my eyes, my heart hurts. Ryka grins, at odds with how horribly I feel for him.
“No. Liv’s been looking for that rock for about five years now. That’s my secret. She’s never going to find it.” A look flashes over his face. “She’s never going to find it,” he says. “Okay?”
It’s painfully unfair that Ryka’s cynicism is robbing Olivia of something sweet their father did, but this is Ryka’s secret. He’s trusting me with it. “Fine,” I tell him. “I won’t say a word.”
******
“I’ve been waiting on you, Kit. Didn’t Ryka give you my message?” August’s thick mess of wavy hair kicks up in the breeze that teases the tents this morning, causing their canvas sides to undulate. It looks for all the world like they’re breathing, the soft movement a casual draw and pull of lungs.
“Yes, he did. I was going to come yesterday but Olivia was upset.”
Two tiny lines form between August’s eyebrows. “Yes, well, I heard about that. Callum explained what happened. Pass on my regards to her for me, will you?”
“Sure.” August’s regards probably aren’t going to do much to alleviate Olivia’s sudden absence of life. The crying has stopped this morning, but in its place is a distinct lack of everything Olivia. Her cheeks sunken in, she left after waking, not a word passing over her lips. Without her boisterous presence pulling me in one direction or another, I drifted towards the forge without even realising. August hands me a beaten metal mug of tea and a butter biscuit, and I can’t help it: I immediately think of Miranda’s words in the Colosseum before my match with Cai. I seethe at how unaffected I was by her cold, calculated demands back then―be nice to my hideous children, pretend that we love you. Smile. I swear if I never see Miranda’s haughty face again, it’ll be too soon.
“So, do you want it?” August says. Thankfully his voice brings me back, sweeps Miranda’s blank, pitiless expression from my mind.
“Yes,” I tell him.
Five seconds later, the thing is in August’s hands―my halo. Last time I saw it, it was battered and twisted out of shape, and now, to be honest, it doesn’t look much better. The once smooth, shining silver surface is scarred from where August used his tools to pry it from around my neck. At least it’s circular again, though. Kind of. It was never going to be perfect. He offers it out to me and I take it, immediately noticing that he hasn’t soldered it together. A small gap exists, breaking the circle.
“Have you thought about whether you want to put it back on yet?”
I shake my head, turning over the piece of metal in my hands. Its weight is so familiar. “I’m not ready. I just need to know―will it work? If I do decide to put it back on?”
August’s mouth pulls down, a grim, unhappy expression. “Yes. I fought with myself as to whether I ought to give it back to you, you know. The inner mechanisms were well beyond my ken, but there are others here who have first-hand experience with these things. They were able to assist in the repairs.”
There are other people in Freetown who know about the halos―how they work and what literally makes them tick? I make a mental note to question Jack about them later. “And the drugs? It’ll still produce the drugs?”
“It’s probably capable of producing around another year’s worth of the toxin. After that, I don’t know. I suppose we could try and work out how it’s formulated in the first place. Once we know how, it’s possible that we might be able to reproduce it.”
Toxin.
I say drug, August says toxin. That’s how everyone here sees the halo and what it does to a person. Before, I thought of it exactly how the administrators in the Sanctuary wanted me to―as a medication. I slip the halo into my leather bag and clasp it close to my body. It’s scary having it so close to me again, but also comforting. I wish there was some half measure between being affected by the halo and still being able to experience my own emotions. A dulled down, manageable kind of ache would be preferable over the loud roar of guilt I feel most days. Maybe I can just wear it at night. If there’s a chance it would hold back the nightmares―Cai’s bleached out, lifeless face―then I’d even think it might be worth it. But, of course, there is no half measure. It’s either off or it’s on, because I’m not stupid enough to believe that I’ll be strong enough to remove it once I’m blissfully numb to the world again.
“Thanks for this, August.” I give him a bleak smile and we part ways, but not before he gives me a firm hug. I’m slowly getting used to them.
Halfway back to my tent, I catch sight of Ryka running in the distance. He looks like he’s heading towards the Holy Walk, probably to train, and I have to dismiss the immediate urge to go after him. He doesn’t need me distracting him. Freetown’s matches are two days away now, and the whole place is buzzing with a
static hum I’m more than used to. It was the same back in the Sanctuary, only this time I’m awake and I can feel the anticipation, the electricity in the air. It’s not a pleasant sensation for me, now that I’ve associated it with death and blood.
I take my halo home and hide it under my bed. The day is my own after that, and I sneak through the stalls of August’s market, careful to make eye contact with no one as I survey all the glinting hardware. It’s not just Freetown’s smith’s work that is showcased; a whole armoury of blades in all shapes and sizes are displayed, each exhibiting the signature of its creator. Short squat men with stubby fingers demonstrate the benefits of small handled throwing knives, whilst others, men with too much flair to have ever been fighters themselves, flaunt flashy folding blades, twirling the silver in the air to appreciative gasps from the crowds. Even Callum has his own stall. A small selection of slender pieces are arranged carefully on a folded cloth when I find him on the outskirts of the market place.
“Hi, Kit,” he greets, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“These are beautiful,” I tell him, running a hand over the nearest knife, a six-inch stiletto blade. They really are impressive. I gesture to the table, asking if I can touch. Callum grins and tosses the stiletto at me so I have to catch it out of the air. My hand snaps out and I flip the knife over quickly, testing the balance and the weight.
“Figured you’d know how to handle that,” Callum says, his eyes watching me as I spin it.
I pull my cheek to one side, half a smile. “So you aren’t of the opinion that women shouldn’t touch weaponry?” Ryka would probably have a fit if he saw me now, touching a knife in public, attitude adjustment or no. Callum doesn’t seem fazed one bit.
“James thinks women should have the right to fight if they want to. Everyone else argues that the population would suffer too greatly if women were dying all over the place.”
“What, even more than if it was a guy dying in the pits?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, one guy can get a lot of women pregnant, y’know? Women can only bear one child a year, realistically. That’s how some people look at it: hard figures.”
“And what do you think?”
“About women fighting? I don’t see how it would be a bad thing, so long as they fight other women. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise.” A short snort of laughter tells Callum what I think of that statement. His blue eyes cloud over. “I mean, it makes sense. Men are so much stronger than women. We’re supposed to be hunters. Fighters.”
“Doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference whether you’re male or female when you’ve been trained with one of these properly,” I tell him, holding up his knife. Doesn’t matter if you’ve been trained for twelve years in the art of killing. The smallest of women can bring down the most monstrous of men in the blink of an eye. I should know, after all.
I take a closer look at Callum’s work, noticing that his signature is a soft engraving into the metal of the blades. It’s pretty really, decorative, but that doesn’t mean the equipment is just for show. The edges are honed and bitingly sharp.
“I may have to buy one of these from you,” I tell him. The empty sheaths on my knife belt are irritating, and it would be nice to feel them full again. “How much for this one?”
A little pride peppers Callum’s tone. “I don’t think any of these are the right knives for you, Kit. Give me a week. I’ve been working on something I think would be perfect. And we can discuss price later.”
Gratitude floods me. Not only is Callum not trying to remove my knives from my hands, he’s actually willing to give me more. Grinning, I know I’ll pretty much pay him anything for the weapon he makes me. The quality of the blade will be excellent, but Callum’s given me something more than a knife. He’s given me respect enough to believe I could use it. Even if he somehow thinks it should only be against other women. I smirk and toss the stiletto one last time before placing it back on the folded cloth.
“Nice work, Cal.” The voice takes Callum by surprise, but honestly, I’ve kind of been expecting him to show up. Waiting to see his face, or maybe I’ve been hoping? I turn and Ryka’s leaning against the stall, absentmindedly prodding the tip of his index finger with his own knife. The author of his weaponry is the same as the daggers I wear on my hips: August.
“Sold much?” Ryka steps forward to take a look at what remains on the table.
“Nearly all of it,” Callum replies, another swell of pride in his voice. “All my best pieces are gone. These are just what’s left.”
“Then the others must have been amazing.” Ryka tests the same stiletto I held a minute ago. His dark eyes focus on the tilt of the knife as he weighs it in his hand. “I’ll take this one.”
Callum beams. No bells exchange hands, but Ryka and I walk away from the stall under the understanding that Ryka is now in for a twenty-five hour trade in labour with Callum. “What on earth would Callum need you to do for twenty-five hours for him?” I ask. Our shoulders bump together as we move through the jostling crowd, and the contact makes me feel slightly disorientated.
“He can ask me to help him with anything. Usually, trade and craftsmen get their buyers to take their places on their shifts out in the fields. Every man in Freetown gets allotted them, regardless of their business. If a customer works the allocated time they’re supposed to be tending to the crops, the craftsmen are free to work at their trade. It happens a lot. That’s why there are men who spend most of their time labouring, and you never see bakers or carpenters or smiths with a till in their hands.”
“Huh.” I am still yet to see these fields, a mile out past the Keep, further than I’ve dared explore outside Freetown’s limits.
“It was nice of you to buy the knife, anyway,” I tell him. It really was nice of him. It’s clear Max and his brother look up to Ryka, and that one sale is probably worth more to Callum than all the others combined. Ryka drags his hair back out of his eyes and gives me a look. Nervous? Does he look nervous?
“Here.” He quickly holds out the stiletto to me. “You can have it.”
For five paces I stare dumbly at the flashing silver weapon he’s offering me, not sure which is more shocking: Ryka giving me a gift, or the fact that the gift is actually a knife.
He sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and exhales through his nose. “Look, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want it. It probably doesn’t match your daggers or something. Girls worry about that, right? I can always―”
I snatch it out of his hands before he can even think of rescinding his offer. “You’re giving this to me?” I raise an eyebrow at him.
He scowls, but he doesn’t mean it. I can tell. “I heard you ask how much it was. I thought you wanted it.”
A strange prickle chases across my cheeks. “I did. I do,” I say.
“Good. Now put it away before anyone notices.”
That’s more like it; he’s not entirely on board with me arming myself while others can see. I smirk as I tuck the stiletto into my knife belt, drawing my shirt back over it to keep it from view. “You didn’t need to do that, y’know. Olivia gave me―well, I think I’d struggle to walk under the weight of all the bells she gave me. I probably could have afforded that without you needing to sweat it out for twenty-five hours.” A flat look passes over Ryka’s face and somehow, strangely, I know I’ve hurt him. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture. I―”
“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “Manual labour’s a good workout.” He clenches his jaw and we walk through the market without saying much of anything else for a while. It’s only when we reach the huge bonfire at the far end of the market that Ryka breathes out a curse and pauses.
“What is it?” I follow his gaze and struggle to pick out what could have put him on edge. The bright flames of the fire steal my ability to differentiate much in the surrounding darkness.
“There,” he points. “Olivia. And Max.”
Sure enough, Olivia’s bright blonde h
air gleams like a beacon in the shadows. Max is bent close to her ear, talking hurriedly. Olivia shakes her head, one arm wrapped around her stomach, the other hanging listlessly down at her side. An uncomfortable groan clues me in to the fact that Ryka’s just as conflicted as I am right now.
“Should we go over?” he asks.
“I have no idea. I don’t think so.”
Ryka sighs. “He would have been good for her. Everyone’s thought they were going to be together since they were kids.”
“You don’t think she’ll change her mind? About going to the priestesses?”
Ryka shakes his head. “She can barely remember our parents. Liv’s always been happy enough, but there’s been this hole in her life that our mother should have filled. Until she finally figures out that our mother isn’t in that Keep, she’s going to be immoveable. They’re going to wind that red cloth around her body and then she’s going to discover she was wrong after all. But by then―” His voice goes stiff.
“It will be too late to leave?”
He bites his lip. Nods. “Way too late.”
We’re still watching them when Simone approaches. The girl with the cornflower blue eyes has a timid way about her as she slowly makes her presence known. I hold my breath. From the way Ryka stills at my side, he’s holding his breath, too. Pain flashes across Max’s face―I am getting too good at recognising that emotion―and Olivia’s shoulders sag. I’ve seen women here in Freetown argue. Their heated, high-pitched voices resonate around the campfires after dark. It would be out of character for Olivia to start shouting, but something tells me that with feelings like this, people are liable to surprise you with how they act.
Olivia proves me wrong. She rushes the slender girl, whose eyes round out to twice their normal size. Where some women might have slapped or attacked, Olivia pulls Simone into a fierce hug. A burning sensation ignites at the back of my throat.
“Oh.”
“I know.” Ryka breathes. Then he does something that makes my throat close up entirely: he takes me hand. He’s done it before, but this is different. He’s so incredibly gentle, conscious of what he’s doing. “Come on,” he says, “I can’t watch her do this to herself.”
Halo (Blood and Fire Series (A Young Adult Dystopian Series)) Page 21