Halo (Blood and Fire Series (A Young Adult Dystopian Series)) (17 page)

I look back at the men, squinting against the sunlight. From here it’s impossible to try and count those thin black lines, but it would take a lot to get to the elbow let alone the shoulder. All of these men are killers. All of them dangerous. I can’t help but study the ones fighting, still oblivious to our presence, wondering if I would be able to take them.

Ryka is among them. He wheels around the figure of a broad man with dark hair, the sounds of their fight echoing off the buttressing walls of the cove. Slash, retreat, slash, retreat, over and over. He’s quicker than when he fought me in the forest, which makes me even more annoyed. I’d suspected that he’d held back, and this is solid proof. The man fighting him is bigger and more muscular, and definitely older. It takes me a moment to figure out where I recognise him from: it’s James, the man who was in Jack’s tent the night I arrived.

His face is just as controlled as it was then, but there’s something extra
―
something dangerous in his eyes. When he pivots to avoid a broad cut from Ryka, I see that his tattoos sweep up over his shoulder blades and almost meet at the back of his neck.

“Huh. So James is a good fighter, then?” I ask.

Olivia grunts and folds her hands nervously in her lap. “He’s Kansho, the highest level of fighter. The
only
Kansho.”

“So how does that work, then? Does that mean he can stop fighting soon?”

Olivia looks at me and laughs. “Any of them can stop fighting, Kit. They can give up any time they like. But if they do, they give up all hope of attaining a position on the council that helps Jack run Freetown. Plus people…I don’t know. People have strange ideas about men who don’t fight. There’s a stigma attached to it, like you’re less of a man.”

This is possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. “So they kill each other and die out of pride?”

“You could put it like that,” she says. “They don’t see it that way, though. It’s more about honour.”

A derisive laugh bubbles out of me, louder than I’d intended. A dozen faces turn towards us and Ryka’s is among them. Recognition flashes across his face as he sees me sitting next to his sister. A frown follows, severe and quick, before he spins back to face James, baring his teeth. James dances back, graceful really, considering his size. He twitches his knife over the back of his hand and darts forward. It almost catches Ryka’s wrist, but he tucks himself up and rolls from James’ reach. Olivia sucks in a sharp breath, her eyes wide.
 

“What?” I ask. Sure, James had nearly had the drop on Ryka, but the knife would have barely grazed him. Olivia fidgets, pulling at her shirtsleeve.
 

“James nearly drew blood,” she murmurs.

“It was a good move,” I say. “Probably wouldn’t have hurt, though.”

Confusion flits across Olivia’s face as she watches the two of them. “Don’t you have the blood demand in Lockdown?”

“No. What’s the blood demand?”

“All blood must be answered with blood here. It’s the way it’s always been. If a fighter gets cut, even if it’s an accident, it has to be answered in the pits. And a fight in the pits is a fight to the death.”

A jolt runs through me as I turn back to watch Ryka and James skirt around each other. This time I notice the effort on both their parts not to make good on their strikes. They are just training, after all. Ryka makes eye contact with me and I glare at him. Suddenly his comments out in the forest make a lot more sense. His anger, too. I’d cut him. I’d marked him with his own blood, and where he came from that meant a fight to the death.

Suddenly, something else seems mighty suspicious. “And what happens if their opponent takes their weapon?”

Olivia goes pale. “That’s just about the most shameful thing that can happen to a man here. They get cast out of Freetown for good.”

I knew it. If Ryka had walked back into Freetown and I had been wearing his stiletto, he would have been humiliated and made to leave. I wouldn’t have wanted that for him, even back then, but he still could have been less of a jerk.

“Why?” Olivia asks, turning away from her brother as he topples backwards into the sand. James stands over him and laughs, holding his hand out to help Ryka up. It appears their match is over.

“No reason,” I lie. It’s becoming too easy.

Ryka looks rueful as he stalks barefoot toward us over the sand. On the way, he gathers his hair and re-ties it so that it’s out of his face. For the first time I notice that his tattoos reach his shoulders and curl over the top. Not as high as some of the other fighters, but definitely high enough to make him a force to be reckoned with. I scowl at him, hard, and he stiffens up.

“What are you doing here, Liv?” he demands. He may have addressed his sister, but he is looking straight at me.

“Kit wanted
―
”

“I wanted to come and thank you for encouraging your sister to restock my wardrobe. There was no need, though. I’m not wearing any of it.” I shoot Olivia an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” she sighs. I narrow my eyes, refocusing on Ryka.

“Olivia was just filling me in on some of the differences between Freetown and the Sanctuary. It’s been really interesting. I had no idea about the blood demand, or what would happen to a fighter should he lose his weapon.”

I don’t get the reaction from him I thought I would. In place of his warning glare, a lazy smile rolls across Ryka’s face. He laughs, an easy, delicious sound that makes my skin prickle. “There are many differences between here and Lockdown,” he says. “I’m sure there are plenty of things you have to learn and adapt to before you fit in, Kit.” His eyes flicker down to the neckline of my black shirt, which is low enough to reveal my missing halo. That makes him pause. His reactions are weird, and him staring at the naked skin where my halo used to be makes me uncomfortable.

“Oh, I’m all for learning the rules and rituals here.” I give him a sharp smile. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to walk around with jangling bells sewn into my clothes, though. And I’m certainly not going to wear dresses because you think you can goad me into it.”

Ryka shrugs, the movement causing a strand of his hair to fall loose already. “No big deal. If you want Jack to kick you out of Freetown, then that’s your business. There are plenty of other places you can go. Try Sweeton. I’ve heard they treat their women wonderfully there.”

“Ry!” Olivia is a blur of gold as she leaps to her feet. “The only women in Sweeton are
prostitutes
!” she hisses. “Don’t you dare even
suggest
she go there!”

Ryka smiles, dusting his hands free of sand. “You’re probably right. Any man who tried to go near her would end up castrated, anyway.
 
But
―
” he holds up his index finger, looking at me. “They do use coins instead of bells in Sweeton. Would solve your aversion to
jangling
.”

He spins around and saunters away before I can open my mouth to say anything in response. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. The muscles shift in his back, still marbled down his left side with sand as he walks away. I can’t help it. My hands automatically shift to my hips, searching for my daggers. Olivia gives me a wild look and grabs hold of my arm.

“Ignore him. Jack would never make you leave. My grandfather’s an old sweetheart. Come on, let’s get out of here before I end up an only child.”

PRIESTESS

I don’t like the look of the Keep.
 
Columns of black rock jut out of the hillside like stone spears fifty meters high. At their base the same rock lies in shattered ruins where one of the pillars must have tumbled to the earth long ago. It can’t have happened in my lifetime. Fat layers of springy green moss have swallowed some of the great boulders, camouflaging them against the rest of landscape. The undergrowth is thick and damp and smells like rot. Once a dry, narrow track on the other side of the hill, the Holy Walk is now the Holy Wade. Mud sucks up to my ankles, and for the third time in as many days I feel like swearing. Olivia holds her skirts up in one hand as she trudges through the filthy mire in bare feet. The thought of doing the same makes me feel queasy.

“Where are we going?” I ask, as we navigate our way across the base of the valley floor.
 
Olivia points towards the soaring rock formation and smiles.

“The entrance is at the foot of the tallest tower. They’re hollow inside. That’s where the priestesses’ chambers are. The prayer vaults are below ground. Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Beautiful isn’t a word I would use. Sinister seems more appropriate. The sun vanished as we summited the hill blocking the Keep, and now a low lying level of cloud presses down on the world, throwing stretched out shadows off the spears of rock like crooked fingers. It could be the shadows or it could be the residual anger from my encounter with Ryka, but an unwelcome sense of foreboding sits heavy in the pit of my stomach. If it was an option, I might have reconsidered taking care of the children instead of cooking for the priestesses. But Olivia can’t stop grinning, and I think she likes the idea of working with me, so I don’t suggest it.

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.