Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. (7 page)

“She had to get back to Chloe and the baby,” Bastian explains. I nod. There isn’t anything she could do to help anyway. “She suggested you might want to have something on hand, in case he wakes.”

I nod again and stumble over to the corner. There is a nook here, under the floor, where Grandad and I keep certain things. I take out a vial of liquid steeped from poppy seeds, identifiable by the markings on the stopper.

I put the vial on the bench. I stand there looking at the rough wooden surface under my fingers, and Bastian places his hand on top of mine.

The scene in the marketplace comes back to me. I whisk my hand out, and turn away from him.

“Arcadia…” he starts.

“You did nothing,” I interrupt him.

“You know that I tried. You know that I did what I could.” He tries to touch my shoulder and I bat his hand away.

“You did nothing!” I repeat, louder now. “You were right there, Grandad was beaten to a pulp, you were right there, and you did nothing to stop it!” My voice is shrill now, rising with every accusation. I know how I sound, but I don’t care. My Grandad is dying in the next room.

When I look up at Bastian’s face I can see that his eyes are full of tears. He has known Grandad as long as I have, and loves him too. I can’t forgive him for standing by while the soldiers used my grandfather as a warning for interfering, but I feel the direction of my anger switch when I witness his pain. He’s hurting too.

“What will I do without him?” I wail, dropping to the floor and propping my forehead on my hand.

Bastian sits next to me, both of us leaning our backs against the wall. I hug my knees close, feeling small and very much alone.

“I told you that I had something I wanted to talk to you about, Dia. This isn’t exactly how I’d imagined it happening, but I need you to know – “

“Now’s not the time, Bastian,” I sigh, into my arms.

“Just shut up and listen, will you? I’m trying to tell you that I think we should get married.”

This isn’t how I’d imagined it either. I’m salt-stained, sweat-stained, dusty and dishevelled, and I’m sitting on the floor with my emotions in shreds around me. When I look at myself as though from the outside, I realise that it is at moments like this when Bastian is at his best. When I’m at my worst.

“Why do you want to get married?” I ask.

“Think about it, it makes so much sense. As my wife, you’ll be given certain privileges not afforded to you as a… a single girl. And people wouldn’t dare to say those kinds of things about my wife. Life will be better for you. And with your Grandad… well, if he doesn’t recover…”

He’s right, of course. He hasn’t mentioned the mark of the Unworthy, but he doesn’t need to. For a girl like me, there are few ways out of the nightmare that is my life. Marriage to a Firstborn would improve it. This thought is not a new one, but it is the first time Bastian has spoken to me of marriage, and I find myself annoyed that it comes with such clinical analysis.

A beautiful, generous and warm man has just asked me to marry him and I don’t feel a flutter of excitement or romance. I feel wary.

“Not now, Bastian,” I manage. This will take some processing. I have enough to deal with right now without having to work out why I’m not jumping into his arms.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it,” he says. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

I turn to him and take his hands. I press my lips together and force myself to look into his warm brown eyes. I see written there that he is in turmoil too, but his timing is completely off. His willingness to be vulnerable right now makes me choose gentle words. “I promise,” I say, “but now is not the time.” I let him give my fingers a squeeze before pulling them away and wiping my palms on my thighs.

A sudden sharp knock on the door startles both of us.

“Open up!” comes an unfamiliar shout, laced with authority. We both stand, but Bastian motions me to stay back, and cracks the door cautiously.

His demeanour changes as soon as it is open; he straightens up, immediately at attention.

A Polis soldier in grey and black uniform stands in the shadowy passageway.

Chapter Eight

“I’m looking for Matthias Clark.”

“Matthias… Clark? No, there’s no-one – “

“Old man, fifty-six years old.”

I realise who he’s here for. I lurch forward. “What do you want with him now, you coward? Here to finish what you started?” My anger, simmering below the surface under tight reign, bubbles up anew. I’m at the doorway, hands clenched into fists, the awkward conversation with Bastian forgotten.

Bastian pushes me away, which is probably good, because I’m about to hit the idiot who’s just showed up. Who looks amused rather than threatened by me.

Bastian pulls me behind him. “It’s a different soldier, Dia,” he shushes me. To the Polis soldier he says, “I don’t know Matthias Clark, Sir. There was an altercation in the square this afternoon. Matthias Grey was involved. He’s injured, and in the back room.”

The soldier considers this. “I’ll need to see him,” he tells us. Bastian motions towards the doorway. I’m opening my mouth for a retort when he covers it and holds me back as the soldier walks past us and enters Grandad’s room. Bastian forces me down onto the bench and as soon as my hands are free I am hitting him. A flurry of raindrops against steel. I’m so angry at him I could scream.

“Arcadia!” Bastian is calling my name, quietly but firmly. “Stop fighting me! Please!” He’s willing me to listen. He’s pinning me to the bench. “Just stop! You can’t fight this guy, you can’t win against him. You can’t help your Grandad by resisting him. Please, Dia!”

I start to calm down. I know he’s right, it’s just that I’m so mad right now. As I quieten, I begin to hear voices from Grandad’s room. When he sees that I’m not thrashing, Bastian lets me up.

“I’m sorry, Dia, you know I -” I stop him; I want to hear what they’re talking about.

I move closer so that I can overhear.

Grandad’s voice is very quiet, but he’s awake. The officer’s voice is clearer.

“- just that he requested she come. General Graham said that you would know.”

I hear Grandad’s voice again, a request. It sounds as though he is asking for protection.

“The General will - ” the soldier begins, but is interrupted by my grandfather, more forcefully this time.

“No, I said you!
You
need to protect her! Promise me!” When the officer remains silent, he adds, “You have no idea what you’re taking her into.”

The soldier turns on his heel and comes out to us. “You are Arcadia?” I’m frozen, wondering what is going on. I don’t know what to make of this exchange.

I nod, and manage, “He was unconscious…”

“I gave him something.” Straight back on track, he adds, “You’re coming with me to the Polis. Pack light and get some sleep. We leave tomorrow at dawn.”

With that, he’s gone, leaving Bastian and me looking at each other. What has just happened? The first thing that shakes me out of my bewilderment is the sound of Grandad whispering my name.

“Grandad!” I fly to his room.

I kneel by his head and take his hand in mine. Bastian hovers in the doorway.

“You need to go with him, Arcadia,” he whispers to me. His breathing is laboured and his voice wavering.

It takes me aback that Grandad would want me to leave him right now when he’s in such a bad way. “Shhh, Grandad, please, just save your energy till you’re better…”

“I’m not getting better, Dia. Listen to me. Go with him to the Polis.” He is trying to grip my hand, but his fingers are weak.

He struggles to move himself, and I can see pain cross his face as he tries. His grip on my hand is faltering.

“Just rest Grandad,” I plead. “I’m not going to the Polis. Let’s not talk about it now.”
I adjust my fingers around his and move so that he can see my face without trying to crane his neck.

“How many have you saved?” he mumbles. When I hesitate, he repeats more urgently, “How many?”

“Twelve,” I respond, my voice quiet.

“Twelve,” he croaks. “And how many still live?”

“Seven,” I whisper.

“You’re fighting the good fight, Arcadia. With the wrong strategy.” He coughs and then continues, “Go with him… you’ll have the chance to do something bigger… save more than twelve. There are things I should have told you…” he begins, but his words are coming more and more slowly. “I always thought that there would be more time.”

I know he’s not listening to me, and I know that I’m losing him. Bastian comes to kneel on the other side of the cot and puts his hand on Grandad’s shoulder. He has a cup in the other.

“Poppy,” he says. Grandad makes a tiny nod and I help Bastian raise him a little. Much of it spills, but he manages to drink some of the liquid. He grimaces as we lie him down again, and breathes heavily.

His eyes are shut, and as his breathing quietens I think he may have lapsed into unconsciousness again. My chest is shaking at the thought when he speaks again. “Don’t let them change you. Arcadia… remember who you are.”

Bastian and I sit on either side of the mattress with Grandad small between us. His breathing stops altogether and I realise that he has gone.

I stroke his cheek and smooth the covers around him. Bastian places a hand on my shoulder, and in his face I see my grief mirrored. His eyes sparkle with unshed tears.

Remember who you are.
I am desperately trying to keep control of my emotions. My world has been turned upside-down, the strands of the carpet unravelling under my feet.

Chapter Nine

The officer’s off-hand order about getting some rest is laughable, and I don’t even attempt it. I spend most of the night with Grandad, trying to say goodbye, or with Bastian, weakly arguing that I don’t want to go. Bastian, ever practical, knows there’s no point trying to disobey, but I can tell that he is afraid for me. This reminds me that so many of his early experiences in the Polis haven’t been good. However, as the night wears on I offer fewer disagreements. I have a plan forming.

One of the soldier’s orders I follow. I have packed very few items as I figure there will be less to carry when I give him the slip.

As dawn breaks over the ocean I find myself at the door of our pod, a small backpack at my feet. As ready as I will ever be. Bastian is by my side, and as much as I appreciate his strength, I also feel constricted by it. Is it wrong of me to feel excitement at the prospect of leaving? I have no idea what is in front of me. It’s certainly not the Polis, no-matter what the soldier or Bastian might think, and despite Grandad’s encouragement. Why would he want me to go? I guiltily push my Grandad’s last words out of my mind.

The thought of stepping forward into the unknown does not make me uneasy - instead I feel a buzz of elation. Even the pang of sadness I feel at giving up my night vigils for good cannot cast a shadow over my excitement. For the first time I am in control of my own destiny.

Well, maybe not completely in control, I think ruefully, as I see a figure approaching in the early dawn greyness. Although he is still a long way off, his proud stance and easy gait is unmistakably Polis. No-one else walks like a Polis soldier, with nothing to be afraid of, certain of his own importance.

I see as he draws closer that he is not in uniform today. A check shirt over loose-fitting cotton pants, boots, a cap. He’s dressed like a hubbite.

He stops a few paces from us and appraises my appearance. I throw the look right back at him. His hair is dark, close-cropped to his head but long enough to hint at curling. He is clean-shaven, as all soldiers are, also shorter than Bastian, and leaner.

I motion to my woollen tunic, long leggings and leather boots. “So, is this okay for the Polis?” I ask sarcastically, and give a half-bow.

“For travelling, yes. For the Polis, no.” Long, expressionless face. Cold, grey eyes that have a far-off look to them, as though he is in the habit of staring into the distance. Those eyes fix on the stick tucked into my belt. “I tell you to pack light and you bring a flute?”

I put a hand protectively over it. Nothing would make me remove it or the pouch of vials next to it on the belt. Hiding in plain sight, as Grandad would say. Out of sight, under the tunic, there is also my knife. He sees my expression and waves his hand, as though allowing me to bring it.

Without any pleasantries, he turns and heads back the way he has come, expecting me to follow. Bastian, who has stood silently all this time, takes a deep breath. “Just… stay safe,” he says. “Do what they tell you. I’ll be here when you get back. And we can… talk.”

“You’ll see to Grandad?”

“You know I will.” He hesitates for a second and then adds, “Arcadia, try to keep an open mind. About the Polis.” This makes me shoot him a suspicious glance, but he looks away and it’s clear he’s not willing to say any more. I leave it. It occurs to me that I might never see him again, and I don’t want to pick a fight.

“Thank-you. For everything, Bastian. Thank-you.”

We hug for a minute, and wrapped tightly in his arms I recall the feeling of our greeting. Was that only two days ago? So much has happened. I swallow hard, and turn away without looking at him again. I can’t risk him seeing a hint of what I intend to do. I hate keeping it from him, but I know that he would never go along with disobedience to the Polis.