TWENTY-TWO
MY FATHER. HERE. ALIVE.
He walks me through the cool stone passages and back to the cot I first awoke in. I remember seeing his face above me as I succumb to darkness.
When some subconscious drive deems me strong enough to open my eyes again, Bree is sitting beside me, examining her weapon. I wonder if it ever leaves her hands. She wears an outfit oddly reminiscent of Claysoot: a lightly woven jacket and thick, cotton pants.
“How long was I out?” I ask, sitting up quickly. I feel strong again. Hungry, but strong.
“A full day.”
It feels much longer. “Where’s my father?”
“He’s waiting to see you. I’m supposed to bring you in now that you’re up.”
“And my brother?”
“He’s been brought to the hospital. At Mount Martyr.”
“Aren’t we already there?”
She scowls. “You think I’m that stupid? That I would have brought you both to our headquarters before confirming you were Owen’s sons?”
“But you said—back when Clipper came in . . .”
“No. You said we were at Mount Martyr. I neither confirmed nor denied that fact.”
She’s right. “How come I had to stay here?”
“Because you are not in a coma like your brother. He’s harmless. But you, on the other hand . . . we just don’t trust you.”
“Right. Don’t trust the guy that practically died of dehydration looking for the so-called Rebels.”
She stands aggressively and pushes a wild strand of blond hair out of her eyes. “You know nothing. Absolutely nothing. You come in wearing that horrible Order uniform, and we spare you, nurse you back to health. We take unnecessary risks for you because you’re a captain’s son. And instead of seeing what’s happening around you, you focus on how we’ve treated you unfairly.”
I roll my eyes, uninterested in arguing with her. “Maybe you should have shot me then, Bree. Me and my brother. Maybe that would have made things easier for you.”
“If you think I actually want another death on my conscience, you’re even dumber than I thought.” She snatches up her gun. “Do you want to see your father or not?”
“Yes.”
“Then shut up and follow me. You try to run, I shoot you. You try to attack me, I shoot you. You do anything else I find to be slightly suspicious, I shoot you. Got it?”
I nod. I don’t trust her, but what choice do I have? And there’s my father. Waiting. Holding answers. Going forward is the only way.
“Good. Now let’s move.” Bree nudges me with the gun. It’s not pressed straight into me, like in our earlier encounters, but it’s positioned well enough, screaming that she is in control and I am still a prisoner. I’m certain I could take her now if I really wanted. I feel well enough. But that doesn’t get me to my father, and it certainly won’t help me earn anyone’s trust.
“We don’t have all day,” she says, motioning more adamantly.
I raise my hands above my head playfully, as if I am truly threatened by her command. “We’re back to this again, I see?”
“Always.” She actually smiles a little. Not an angry smile, but a smirk, visible for a second and then gone.
It turns out I was being held in an interrogation center. We pass Luke on our way through the stone passageways. He holds bloody hands before us, an ugly, twisted tool in their grasp. From somewhere down a dark hallway behind him, I can hear a mangled cry ring out. It sends shivers down my spine that only multiply when Luke shoots me what I’m sure he intends to be a reassuring smile. I’m still attempting to shake off the chills when we step from the dark confines of rock and out into a sunny afternoon.
There is no path, but Bree leads as though there is one. After twenty minutes of a steep, uphill climb, I am out of breath. At the top of a crest, where the land levels out momentarily, I buckle over and heave for air. Bree waits patiently and then tosses me a canteen when I straighten up. Before I can thank her, we are moving again.
We hike silently until we come to what appears to be a dead end. The steep slopes of what must be Mount Martyr bear down on us. To climb over them would take days, and before us sits only a towering rockface.
“We’re here,” Bree announces.
I look around, thinking she’s speaking to someone, but we are alone. There is nowhere to go but back.
“We just climbed the lower base of Mount Martyr. And this”—she motions back toward the monstrous wall—“is the entrance to Crevice Valley.”
“Crevice Valley?” That name wasn’t on Frank’s Operation Ferret map.
She nods. “Headquarters.”
I stare at the massive mountain. “It sure doesn’t look like a valley.”
“That’s because you have to go through the crevice first.” She moves toward the rock towering above us, and as I follow, the passageway becomes visible to my eyes. It is a dark slit, running the length of the stone, from our feet toward the sky, so narrow it’s barely visible. No wonder the Order has been unsuccessful locating this place. The entrance is hard to see even when you are directly in front of it.
“You first,” Bree says.
“Through here?” I point doubtfully at the cramped break in the rock. “Isn’t there another entrance?”
“Yes, but that would require us to hike all the way around the mountain, and we don’t have the time. Now move.”
Shimmying through the crevice ends up being easier than I anticipate, not because it’s spacious or well lit, but because there is only one path to take. We wiggle sideways through the tiny space, our backs pressed to rock behind us, and our noses nearly scraping the opposing side of the mountain.
Eventually, the passage begins to widen. Soon I can walk normally, the space large enough to house my shoulders. Moments after that, Bree is at my side. The light from the entrance has nearly faded out completely when a new light appears ahead.
“What if you need to escape?” I ask as we continue down the ever-widening path. “What if the Order infiltrates?”
“Then we leave through the rear.”
“And what if they infiltrate both at the same time? You guys are sitting ducks in here. You’ve trapped yourself.”
“You give us so little credit.” I stare at her, confused, and she points up into the clefts in the rock walls surrounding us. High up, hidden like insects in the crannies of the crevice’s tall rock face, are armed men. “Both entrances are patrolled day and night. And there’s always the tear gas if needed.”
Her words are foreign to me, but I shudder nonetheless. How had Evan and his team expected to be even remotely successful? This is a fortress, with no way in other than by invitation.
Eventually, the place lives up to its name. The crevice’s width doubles, triples, quadruples. It grows so wide that it is immeasurable, at least to my eyes. The rock walls continue to surround us but give way to clouds and fresh air overhead. And before us lies the valley, a footpath twisting down into it. Fields and gardens are plowed out beneath the open-air ceiling. Dirt streets snake between houses and livestock pens. A market in the distance brings the scents of herbs and roasting meat to my nose. There are people, too, hundreds of them. I never would have guessed that Harvey had amassed so many followers. Or maybe it was Elijah. I think back to the records in Union Central, perplexed. I’m starting to question the accuracy of Frank’s information. Something doesn’t add up. Maybe Harvey’s not even here.
I look down at the town. From our elevated position, the people appear as tiny dolls, dressed in drab clothes. They are young and old, women and children, men and boys. The place is oddly familiar, like Claysoot, only picked up and shoved into a hollowed-out mountain. On the outskirts of the open valley, where the steep walls begin reaching for the sky, tunnels and passageways twist into the rock’s depth. If Harvey really is here, finding him will be no easy task.
“What’s to keep your enemy from coming in the top?” I ask.
“We have our defenses, even if they can’t be seen, but I’m not sure you can be trusted with those details yet. Better wait ’til after your vote.”
We hit the base of the valley floor, and Bree cuts up the street that passes the market. People stare at the red triangle atop my chest, the f stitched in its center. They have hatred in their eyes, hatred so clear I know they wish me dead.
“This vote,” I say as we leave the market and turn up a side street. “What do you mean when you say it’s mine?”
“Exactly that. It’s your vote. They’re deciding if you live or die.”
“What? I . . . I thought that’s what my father was deciding, back when he met me in the interrogation center.”
“Well, yes and no. Owen was deciding if you lived to see Crevice Valley, but he doesn’t make all the calls. Now the others get to weigh in.”
“What others?”
We are approaching two men near one of the dark tunnels that breaks off from the valley. They are monstrous, both taller than me and nearly twice as wide.
“Bree, what others?” I ask again anxiously. She doesn’t answer. Instead, the two men swipe me up effortlessly, each one grabbing me beneath an elbow. I struggle against them, but it’s pointless. Why had I trusted Bree? My father? Why did I think the Rebel headquarters would be any safer than Taem itself? They are going to have me killed, just like Frank ordered.
I shout to Bree as the men drag me away, but she remains rooted in place, quiet and stoic. She has a look of pity in her eyes, if only for a moment.
The next thing I know, we are bursting into a large room housed off a torch-lit tunnel. The men throw me into a chair and bind my wrists to its armrests. Circling the table are five people: the votes for my sentence. Four are strangers, but one is my father.