Halo (Blood and Fire Series (A Young Adult Dystopian Series)) (20 page)

So, it turns out Freetown has its own version of the Death Bet. I take this on board, wondering why it feels like I’m going to throw up. “And is Ryka a strong competitor?”

A pained look flashes across Olivia’s face. “Yes.”

The High Priestess steps forward and gestures for Ryka’s hand, and for a minute I think she’s going to repeat her actions with Calden. Ryka doesn’t give anything away. If I didn’t know any better I’d suspect him of wearing a halo from the completely void expression he wears. I feel Olivia pull in a sharp breath as the High Priestess throws her arm over her head. The anticipation of what will come next draws us both back to the very edge of the pit. The blade gleams for a split second before the High Priestess plunges down once more, but this time she stops. The point of the blade is so close to Ryka’s skin that it has to be puncturing his palm.
 
The woman in red grips hold of his hand and pulls him closer, at which point she leans down and gently slices the edge of the metal across the very tip of his index finger.

The smallest of cuts. Olivia looks at me, just as confused as I am. The crowd of people watching along side us burst into laughter and raucous shouts, clapping their hands. When the High Priestess lets Ryka go, he immediately paces back to the opposite side of the pit and jumps, lifting himself out before anyone has chance to offer him help.

“Did you see that?” a man behind us laughs to his friends. “Even the Priestess isn’t going to test Ryka’s worthiness. The Gods know he’s fit to die.”

Olivia spins around and glares at the man behind us. The second he sees her face, his smile vanishes.

“Apologies, Miss Olivia. I didn’t see you there. I should be more careful with my words.”

“Yes,” she snaps. “You should.” With that, she grabs hold of my hand and storms off, leaving behind the crumbled earth where we’d stood and watched her brother accept his death sentence.

SING

Under a blanket of stars I finally find the place I am looking for. After the crush and madness of the blood ceremonies, this is exactly what I need. Silent, secluded, far from the outskirts of the Freetown and its inquisitive inhabitants, the small clearing is perfect. More perfect still is the solitary tree growing in its centre, gnarled and twisted in every direction, like it forgot which way was up. When I look at it, I see a tool, the exact tool I need to practice with. I kick my boots through the wet grass, enjoying the slick catching noise it makes against the muddy toes of the leather.

Once I reach the tree I slip out my daggers, one in each hand, and I begin. It takes three minutes to warm up, another five to find my rhythm, and another to become fluid. I continue slashing and blocking against the tree, driving my knife into the bark, only to rip it free and attack anew. My muscles burn and my limbs are weak, but the feeling is so good. I am made for this. I used to be a machine, created for this specific purpose, and right now I am finding out which parts of me still work after being switched off for so long. Luckily, it seems I am just in need of a little oiling.
 

By the time I can hardly hold my knife up anymore, there are wood chips in my hair and the tree is covered in deep gouges, bark-less in places. I step back and admire my handiwork, only to jump out of my skin at the voice behind me.
 

“What did it ever do to you?”

I spin around to find Ryka sitting in the grass, legs crossed, watching me. He looks completely different to the last time I saw him leaping out of the pit. Balancing the tip of a knife on his index finger, shifting his hand slightly back and forth to keep it upright, he looks relaxed and untroubled. “Bad night?” he asks, smirking.

I curse at myself for not paying attention. He totally sneaked up on me and I didn’t hear a peep. “No,” I tell him. “I wanted to come and train a little. Can I do that in peace?”

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?” he asks brightly, falling back into the grass. His knife disappears back into his belt.
 

“Yes, you are, actually.”

“You know that tree was about four hundred years old, don’t you?” he asks, ignoring the frustrated tone in my voice.

“What? Trees live that long?”

“Much longer if you don’t stab them to death.”

“I didn’t stab it to death. It’ll grow back.”

Ryka lifts his head up and looks at me, smiling. “Sadly, no. It doesn’t just
grow back
. I’m afraid you just spelled the end for that tree. Bad karma, too, since it’s a prayer tree.”

“Prayer tree?”

He nods. “Look up.”

I tilt my head back and that’s when I notice the thin strips of material tied around the branches higher up. In the dark, they’re all a murky grey colour but I know without a doubt that they will be red in the daylight. It’s just like back in the Sanctuary: a small green halo, clacking away; red ribbons in tiny hands, tying them to branches; Cai and me, the day I killed him. I shiver and focus on the tree. “Well, damn.”

“Yeah. You might not want to own up to that. “Ryka chuckles and lays back down in the grass.

“You just sat there and watched me! You could have said something.”

“I know better than to surprise you when you have something sharp in your hand, little Kit.”

I make my way over to him with a sinking feeling setting over me. Now I’m killing things without even realising it. When I reach Ryka, he is lying on the ground with his eyes closed and his shirt hiked up a little, exposing a strip of skin across his stomach.

“Want to join me?” he asks, his hands rising and falling where they are stacked on his chest.

“I don’t think so. Why are you even here?”

He opens one eye. “I was coming to pray. Dangerous pastime, though, by the looks of things.”

He’s lying, I can tell. “Try again.”

A resigned sigh works out of him as he opens the other eye and heaves himself up into a sitting position. “I’m here to make sure you don’t get skewered on one of Jack’s traps. And before you even start with the,
I don’t need looking after, I know everything
speech, just take a look at that poor, brutally murdered tree over there and consider how much you really do know about being out here.”

I glance at the tree. Four hundred years of doing just fine and then I come along. “Point taken,” I concede. “I just wanted to warm up my knives. I’ll know better next time.”

“Yes, next time come and see me. I’ll help you train. I told you I’d be up for a rematch any time, didn’t I?” Ryka grins at me, even more pleased when he sees that I am blushing.

“Good night, Ryka.” I turn and set off back towards Freetown, moving quickly in the hope I’ll be able to get a decent head start on him.

“Wait!”

I pause, hands on my dagger hilts. Why the hell did I stop? I should just keep going. I’m about to do just that when he says, “I’m serious. Come on, if you really want to train, then I’ll help you.”

I turn slowly to find him standing a few feet behind me, hands shoved in his pockets. He doesn’t look like he’s making fun of me. Doesn’t sound like it, either.

“Why would you do that? You’ve made it very clear you don’t think I should even have knives in the first place.”

With a shrug, Ryka plucks a dagger from his knife belt and toys with it in his hands. “There are only so many trees out here, Kit. I’m just trying to save the forest.”

“Tell the truth!”

“Okay, fine,” he sighs. “I’m Mashinji now. I’m not allowed to train with any of the other fighters.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just not. It’s part of the rules.”

“I see. So I’d actually be doing you a huge favour, and after you gave me such a hard time about my knives, too, right?”

Ryka spins around, ignoring me, and throws his knife, hard, so that it
thunks
into a tree trunk. Apparently not ready to admit to such a thing, he stalks off to retrieve his blade while I think. Should I take him up on his offer? It’s not like I have anyone else to partner with. Of course, fighting him would be easier if I didn’t feel so strangely nervous. I have no idea where this bizarre fluttering feeling has suddenly come from. It’s annoying as hell, and gets much worse when I remember my body locking around his, wrestling with him the first time we met. In the darkness, I catch Ryka’s eyes dilating and I’m almost one hundred percent sure he’s remembering that, too. His smile broadens, and my hands start to itch. I can’t let him make me feel so strange. I won’t. “Okay, then. You’re on.” I begin to pace back toward him, but he holds his hand up, stopping me in my tracks.

“Whoa, wait a minute. You have to connect with your weapons a little first. You’ve just thrashed the living hell out of them.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him, wondering what on earth he’s talking about. “They’re knives. Tools. You said as much yourself when we were in the forest. Now, are you going to fight me or not?”

“I was a little pissed off, if you’ll recall. And yes, a weapon is a tool, sure, but it’s also a living thing, has a personality. You need to treat it with the proper love and respect.” He levels me in his gaze, holding out his dagger point-first. The moonlight glints off its wickedly sharp tip. “Close your eyes,” he tells me.

“What? No way!” He’s crazy if he thinks I’m putting myself at such a disadvantage around him. He drops the knife to his side, huffing.

“You’re impossible. Just do it. Close your eyes. I’m not going to hurt you, I swear.”

I study him—the way every muscle in his body is slack, and how his eyes seem gentle—and I find my scowl fading. “Fine.” I snap my eyes closed but I’m too wary to trust him completely. I leave my left eye cracked a little, enough that I can discern his blurry shadow as he makes his way silently towards me. He just stands there, looking at me, for a moment. I have no idea what he finds so interesting, but it’s awkward that I’m standing here with my dagger held out in front of me, and he’s just staring.

“Well?” I ask. He shakes his head and pulls a face, and it’s all I can do not to react. I don’t want him to know I’m peeking, though, so I keep my blank expression trained on my face. He steps closer, and closer still, and with every step he takes I get more and more uneasy. It starts as an unsettled feeling in my stomach, a low flutter that grows and grows until I feel oddly short of breath. When he’s finally standing in front of me, my dagger pointed behind him out toward the trees, I feel like I’m going to pass out. His breath comes out in slow, long exhalations, brushing across the skin on my cheek. Ryka tips his head to one side, and the look in his eyes is so invasive that I can’t do it anymore; I scrunch both eyes shut, unable to bear it.

“That’s better,” he whispers.

I could say something waspish, but I don’t. I just keep my arm raised, my knife out like he showed me, waiting. He shifts around and then I feel it—he presses something against the edge of blade. A slow drawing motion slides up and down my knife, putting pressure against it. My arm moves under the tension, but Ryka tuts.

“Push back. Gentle,” he says softly.

I do as I’m told, and a low hum travels up my arm, flowing like electricity all the way to my shoulder. It’s a vibrating, tingling sensation that feels kind of amazing. The slow movement across my knife becomes rhythmic and I find myself copying the motion, drawing back when Ryka does, easing forward a second later. What he’s doing quickly becomes apparent. I know the feeling of metal on metal, know what two sharp edges feel like together. His knife is working mine, sharpening it. A soft, low, humming sound develops in the silence. “There,” he whispers. “That’s how you make them sing.”

I want to open my eyes, but I’m too trapped to do it. Trapped in how peaceful and strangely intimate the moment is.

“You do this with all your Tamji buddies?” I ask him.

Ryka laughs gently. “Not quite.” He inhales and then I feel him move, closing the gap between us. “I’m going to stop now.” His hand closes around my wrist as the pressure ceases, and I open my eyes to find him staring down at me. I feel ridiculous still brandishing my knife up at him, and since I can’t lower my arm—he still has hold of my wrist—I lower my eyes instead.

“Are you blushing, Kit?” he whispers.

“I—maybe.” There’s no point in lying; my face feels like it is on fire, and my bright red cheeks must be visible even in the darkness. Ryka narrows his eyes slightly, searching my face.

“Why do you think that is?”

I have no idea why he’s asking me. I mean, how am I supposed to know? Suddenly, far too warm, I panic. I pull back and go to shove my knife back in my belt, but my quick movement startles him. He goes to grab hold of me, following which a searing pain burns into the skin above my hip.

“Ow!”

“Kit! Gods, I am so sorry!” Ryka lets go of my arm and drops his knife on the ground, fumbling with my shirt.

“What—what the hell are you doing!” My cries don’t deter him; he grabs hold of my shirt, lifts it a couple of inches, and then freezes. His whole body goes still.

“Oh,” he says quietly.

“Oh?
Oh?!
You just stabbed me with your knife, Ry! I’m bleeding, for crying out loud!”

Ryka inches upwards until he is standing straight again, and looks down at his feet. “I did
not
mean to do that.”