Resurgence (13 page)

I’m wearing a thick padded coat taken from the hideout. Someone there found it on one of their scavenging trips to the nearby towns and happily gave it up. With the hood up, Opie tells me
I could pass for a child.

I hold his hand and thank him for coming, telling him one final time what I need him to do and where he has to be. He listens and nods, even though it’s for my benefit, and then pecks me
on the forehead. He hesitates but I pull him towards me afterwards, kissing his bottom lip softly and then more forcefully, putting my arms around him and forcing him to hold me. Vez’s
warning runs through my head – but he missed one thing. If I am killed today, I don’t get to choose anyway. Before I do what I have to, I need Opie’s support. I need to know that
the first boy to kiss me, the first boy to tell me he loved me, still feels that way.

He tenderly brushes the hair away from my face, cupping me under my chin, and kisses me once more before reminding me it is time.

Hood up and hat on, we head towards the crowd, separating as soon as we reach the stragglers at the back.

From a distance the sea of people is impressive, but being part of it feels different. Everywhere I move there are elbows and knees blocking my way. Small children are running around their
parents’ feet and elderly couples are bickering over where they’re going to get the best view.

Off to the side, there are Kingsmen handing out flags and food. Bottles of water are on tables, available to whomever wants one and almost everyone is feasting greedily on the free rations that
are so alien. There is a party atmosphere.

I don’t blame them. If only there was more food, more water. Enough for everyone.

The screens are high on stilts, enabling everyone to have a decent view no matter how far back in the throng they are. The screens are showing long shots of the crowd that are no doubt being
broadcast to everyone at home too. The Minister Prime and the King probably didn’t mean for it to happen but the higher angles allow me to get my bearings and work out where everything is
placed on the central square.

As Vez predicted, the green is immaculate – the grass has been cut and debris cleared. Towards the back, a stage has been erected with a huge throne in the centre and more seats on either
side. At one end there is a gallows with a noose hanging limply and ominously. The stage is empty but there are lines of Kingsmen around the grass, keeping the public from getting too close.

I take my time moving through the crowds and hope Opie is doing the same. The atmosphere at first appears friendly – jovial even – but the further forward I get, the more I feel an
undercurrent. It’s not my imagination: I can hear my name being whispered. Some want to see me hanged; some don’t think I’ll show up. Others lean in closer to talk into their
friends’ and relatives’ ears, not wanting to be overheard.

With an hour to go, a countdown clock appears on the screen and the murmurs increase.

‘Silver.’ ‘Silver.’ ‘Silver.’

As the crowds become more tightly packed, my progress slows, but it gives me a chance to watch everyone more closely. They all seem to be scratching their faces or arms, tugging at their hair,
looking from side to side, standing on tiptoes to see the screen.

Suddenly their nerves are my nerves.

Have I thought things through enough, or have I misjudged the King – and, probably more importantly, the Minister Prime? Can I get myself, Imrin and Opie away from here safely?

I was confident before, but now my throat is dry and my stomach flutters uncomfortably. I’m drawn to the clock counting down, just like at Martindale’s village hall.

The only way I can catch my breath is by forcing myself to turn away from the screen, keeping my head down and edging through the masses of people.

I am three-quarters of the way to the front when I jump, as a roar ripples through the crowd. On screen is a close-up of the King stepping out of a horse-drawn carriage. He is directly in front
of the stage and turns to wave. Another much louder cheer of appreciation goes up and, although I’m listening for a hum of disapproval, there is nothing. Whether it is because of the amassed
Kingsmen, or because they genuinely feel it, the crowd are firmly showing their appreciation for the King. He is at his majestic best, his ginger hair clean, his beard clipped and tidy. He waves a
second time, milking the applause and adulation.

Moments later, another carriage comes to a stop, the horses’ hooves thudding into the ground and echoing through the speakers. The Minister Prime climbs out, each movement calculated and
elegant. While the King waved and took the adoration, Bathix narrows his eyes, glancing towards the huddled horde and oozing authority in his entirely black outfit. The screen focuses on a close-up
of his face and it is as if he is staring into each of us. The temperature feels like it has dropped a few degrees and a subdued hush replaces the revelry.

The King and Minister Prime are joined on stage by two other Head Kingsmen from Windsor Castle, whom I vaguely recognise. In all, there are five people facing the crowd, including Ignacia, the
Deputy Minister Prime who had responsibility for all the females at the castle. She leans across and chats to the Kingsman next to her, sometimes indicating towards the crowd to make a point. The
Minister Prime is unmoving, fingers interlocked on his lap, gazing directly ahead.

As I near them, the pylons feel so much taller than they did from a distance. They soar high into the sky, black strips of metal criss-crossing and climbing.

Fifteen minutes to go and there is another wave of sound. I peer up at the screen, knowing what I am going to see. I brace myself for it but the reality is so much worse than anything I have
imagined. Imrin is dragged from the back of a carriage, hunched over, head hanging limply. Torn, bloodstained trousers hang from his waist and he is wearing no top. His torso is a warning in
itself, a rainbow mass of welts from where he has been whipped. As he is led towards the gallows, his hair is yanked back, giving the cameras a good view of his face. I can’t see where the
bruises begin and the cuts end, pulped flesh and dried blood seeming to take up every part of him.

I put my head down, unable to take any more.

A high-pitched whine blasts from the speakers before a woman’s voice erupts. Ignacia introduces everyone on the stage, cheers becoming louder until I feel as if my ears are going to
explode when she presents the King.

Imrin’s name is met by howls of derision, shouts of ‘die, die, die’ and people punching the air in fury. The atmosphere has been manufactured so perfectly that I’m in the
middle of a seething uproar. Suddenly this doesn’t seem like a good idea. I’ve let the talk go to my head, made myself believe that the public aren’t committed to their King and
that I’m not some child out of my depth.

‘Two minutes,’ Ignacia announces, sending more cheers through the crowd. There are now just ten rows of people between me and the front. The sound from the speakers booms, eclipsing
and merging with the excited whispering.

I slide around a woman and delicately move a young girl to one side. I have no idea how she can see anything but she’s waving a flag ecstatically. Two more rows, thirty more seconds. A
woman looks around angrily as I try to pass her but I keep my head down, moving sideways until I see a gap.

My mother’s clock above the sink.
Tick-tock
. Three rows to go, one minute.

I don’t need to watch the screens any longer because I can see the stage across the green. Imrin is crumpled on the floor, not even chained. He is so weak, so broken, that there is no
point. The King rises slowly, raising a hand to acknowledge the applause.

There are still lines of Kingsmen but they have retreated from the front row, creating a space where two cameramen are waiting, anxiously panning along the crowd.

The front three rows are so densely packed that I have no choice other than to squeeze in between a husband and wife. They turn sideways in annoyance but my hood is still up and I’m
smaller than both of them.

‘Ten, nine, eight . . .’ The crowd start counting with the King standing next to a lectern in the centre of the stage, swinging his arms from side to side, conducting. To him, this
is a game and I realise that they never expected me to show up. They wanted to kill a traitor and make me a coward at the same time, all while the nation watches an adoring crowd cheer.

‘Seven, six, five, four . . .’

I shove a cheering woman in the back and elbow the man next to her as he leaps into the air. It doesn’t matter if I’m noticed any more.

‘Three, two, one . . .’

The King stands and smiles. His voice roars around but it is too loud for me to hear anything other than odd words. ‘Time’s up’, ‘cowardly’,
‘predictable’.

I step through the final row onto the lush green grass, lowering my hood and flicking my hair so my silver streak catches in the breeze for everyone to see.

It’s time.

Everyone breathes in at the same time, a collective gasp that sucks the air from my lungs. On either side, I feel the cameramen rushing towards me and the King stops speaking
mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. Above him, my face is on the big screen but it doesn’t look like mine. This person seems strong and confident, staring ahead determinedly.

I continue to walk, pace quickening as the breeze picks up, whipping the silver-coloured strands across my face. Usually I would push these back, tuck them behind my ear, but I can feel the
anxious chatter of the crowd starting to build. The Kingsmen separating the crowd from the stage part, allowing me to continue untouched. Even they are mumbling to each other, a mixture of surprise
and awe that I have shown myself.

There is a smattering of boos but they are drowned out by a thunderous silence that is so unnatural that I can hear birds calling to each other in the distance. The mood has changed again. No
longer hostile or party-like – instead it is brimming with anticipation. This is the first time a crowd such as this has seen me in person and I have already done what I can to dispel the way
the King has portrayed me. In their wanted pictures I was a fearsome warrior with sallow white skin and reddened, demonic eyes. Here I look even younger than the girl I actually am. The crowd are
fascinated by how someone as small as me can create the fuss that has been made. I am a child before them because that’s what I want to be: the child who defied a King.

The King himself seems surprised but the Minister Prime only stares, his beady dark eyes glaring through me. I know now this was not his idea. He would have executed Imrin in the safety of the
castle, not wanting to risk anything going wrong. This spectacle was the King’s doing and he glances towards Bathix for support that doesn’t come. He quickly regains his composure but
the cameras miss it, focusing entirely on me.

The King returns to the lectern, standing straighter and holding his arms out, embracing the public. He looks confident and in control but his leg is twitching. It isn’t just me the
nervous hum has affected.

Behind me there is a clatter of boots and swords as the Kingsmen apparently come to their senses en masse. I continue staring ahead at the King, who holds a hand up and says ‘no’.
The noise stops instantly and I continue walking until there are only a few metres between us. We only have eyes for each other: the most powerful man in the country and me.

One of his eyebrows jerks uncontrollably before he regains his composure. For a man who isn’t used to having anyone defy him, I know he has little idea of how to deal with this. His
default response is violence.

‘I am a man of my word,’ he says slowly, turning to indicate Imrin on the other side of the stage.

I don’t want to look as it is this that could break me. I tell myself to keep staring at the King but my body betrays me and I glance sideways. The two Kingsmen that were closest to Imrin
step forward, picking him up under the armpits and throwing him off the stage where he lands in a shattered heap on the grass. I want to rush across and help but know I have my own role to
play.

Imrin’s injuries are far worse close up. It’s not even the bruises and cuts; it is the way he holds himself. As he tries to stand, his legs can barely support his weight and he
starts to wobble. His back is arched forward painfully and he seems unable to lift his head.

He turns backwards slightly and for a second our eyes meet. I can see the agony he has been through but there is nothing I can say now, not with the ears of the country listening to me. All I
can do is widen my eyes slightly, imploring him to go and hoping he gets the message.

There are a few more boos around the crowd but it is still mostly a gentle buzz of anticipation. This is the warm-up.

I’m not sure if he understands my expression but Imrin starts to stumble towards the wall of Kingsmen, who step aside, allowing him to crawl towards the crowd. I knew the King would have
to keep his word after what he said on camera but he isn’t stupid. If he could whip the crowd into enough of a frenzy, they would tear Imrin apart regardless of whether he was released. As it
is, they see a teenager who has been tortured and can barely stand, let alone cause them harm.

I squint towards the crowd, where the shape of Opie is nudging through the mob until he is in front of Imrin. He holds a hand out and pulls Imrin towards him, supporting his weight. The people
around them don’t know how to react. Should they be afraid or angry? Should they stop Imrin from escaping, or stay as far away from him as they can? In the uncertainty, they simply part,
allowing Opie and Imrin to disappear into the huddle.

I turn back to face the King, knowing I need to stall for at least ten minutes to help Imrin and Opie get far enough back to be out of danger. The King has a satisfied look on his face. He was
never genuinely interested in Imrin but has proven himself to be a man of his word in front of the country. I glance at the Minister Prime, who has a face of thunder. The angles of his cheeks seem
to have sharpened and his thin lips are clamped together. If this wasn’t so public, if he didn’t have to obey the King – at least publicly – he would have already had me
strapped onto the gallows.