Ensnared (Enchained Trilogy Book 2) Page 2

  “Get back!” I yell, jumping ahead of them and pushing them back to the room, through the door and away from the falling debris as the walls and ceiling crumble around us, barreling through the floor and to the inferno below.

  Dust and smoke dance around us, choking us, and my lungs seize from the pollution, torn between allowing me to breathe or coughing to expel the smoke. I peek out the door. A giant hole is all that remains of the hallway, its ceiling, and its floor as fire winds its way upward, heading straight for us. We cannot go that way. Dismayed, I bow my head, believing that I have failed and that these children will die because of me. The boy puts his hand on mine, comforting me and shaming me because it should be me reassuring all of them.

  A breeze caresses my neck, cooling the sweat that coats it and snapping my brain back into focus. Turning toward it, I notice an open window. Most times, the windows are kept shut, but sometimes a teacher will open one (they never open more than three or four inches) to allow fresh air in. I race to the window and peer outside where people dart about in a frantic state to put out the fire and where arbiters attempt to establish order amidst the chaos.

  I snatch the plank of wood from the floor where I had left it and pause before the window, gauging the amount of force needed to break the glass. The children gather around me. “Turn away,” I tell them and they obey.

  With all the strength I have, I ram the plank into the window three times and watch as cracks form in the glass, spreading and growing with each strike until it bursts, sending shards below, and a gush of fresh air swoops into the classroom, pulling a few renegade flames from the hallway into the area, which disappear as quick as they arrive. I lean out, observing the distance to the ground. There is no jumping it.

  As though reading my mind, the plebeian girl points at the ceiling above us at a series of Arelian flags, created by the students, that are attached to a cable stretching across the ceiling. I never noticed them until now. Thanking her, I stand upon a desk and reach up, snatching the line and ripping it free of its hold, coiling it around my arm as I gather it up.

  Once back at the window, I call to the people below for help, but no one hears me. I spot Renal. I need to get his attention. Looking around for anything I can throw at him, I spot a tablet on a nearby desk and snatch it. I chuck it out the window like a frisbee and nick him in the foot. He jumps and looks right at me as I wave my arms and point at the children. No words are needed. He calls to a group of arbiters, ordering them to stand below the window and await my next move.

  “All right”—I tie the cable around a heating pipe as I talk to the children—“I am going to lower each of you down to the people waiting below.”

  One of the children whimpers.

  “I need you to be brave,” I tell her.

  “Like an arbiter,” says another.

  “Yes,” I reply, “like an arbiter.”

  “Like you,” the boy from the stairwell whispers and the others nod.

  I pause for a second, touched by his words, having never thought of myself as brave before. I just don’t want any of them to die. I tie the line around his waist, telling him to hold on as I help him out the window and lower him down. Once he reaches the ground, Renal takes him and tugs on the rope. I pull it up and tie it around another of the children, helping her out the window and lowering her to the ground like the boy before her. Minutes pass like hours, but I manage to free them from this prison of fire and smoke.

  It is my turn. Unsure if the cable will support my weight, I tug on it a bit, making certain the knot around the heating pipe will hold. It will have to do. I crawl out the window, snagging my shirt on a bit of glass and cutting my side. Wincing from the pain, I cling to the rope, lowering myself inch by inch, taking my time so as not to lose my grip, and plummet to the hard ground below. The line lurches. Fear rises within me and my heart beats against my chest as I realize that my knot is not holding.

  I ease my way downward, breathing so hard that my lungs burn and my pulse thuds in my neck and ears, drowning the shouts aimed in my direction. The rope lurches again. I am only halfway down. I glance below me at the ground that seems so far away. The rope lurches for a third time. Weighing my options, all of which end with me smashing into the pavement, I take in a deep breath to steady my nerves, accepting my fate and what awaits me if I fail to survive.

  I let go just as the rope breaks free of the heating pipe. Air rushes by me, and for a moment, I believe that I am flying, until I crash into the ground below, landing on my side; the air in my lungs break free and I gasp for oxygen, curling into a ball from the ripping pain in my left shoulder.

  Renal’s strong arms seize me around my waist and help me to my feet. He wraps my good arm around his shoulders, allowing me to lean on him as he drags me to a medical transport.

  “Bring her here,” says a familiar voice and Natalie’s face appears, ushering us to a gurney within the transport, and Renal places me on it with a gentleness I never thought he possessed.

  “Her shoulder is dislocated,” Natalie tells him. “Hold her still.”

  Renal obeys.

  Before I have a chance to grasp what she plans to do, Natalie pushes my shoulder back into its socket and the pain courses through my body as I bite my tongue to refrain from crying out.

  “Pain is weakness!” Molers’ voice repeats in my head and memories of the times at the training facility when the instructors would beat us with switches until we no longer acknowledged physical pain flood my mind.

  “You’ll have to refrain from using that arm for a while,” Natalie says as she places my arm in a sling. She looks at Renal’s concerned face. “She’ll be fine. Go, do your duty.”

  Renal leaves us alone, allowing Natalie to assess my wounds.

  “Thank you,” I tell her.

  “It is my job,” she says as she examines the cut on my side.

  I have not seen her since the day I followed her to the plebeian quarters and find myself thinking about the mystery of the syringe and vial of medicine with instructions that had ended up in my coat pocket. “Not for this,” I say, taking a gamble and knowing what awaits me if I am wrong, yet cautious enough to choose my words with care, “but for earlier, back at the medical center.”

  “Again, I was just doing my job,” replies Natalie, and I cannot tell if she understood my meaning or not, nor can I risk being more specific in case I have misjudged her.

  “Of course,” I say, keeping my voice low.

  “I do appreciate your gratitude. It is nice to be thanked once in a while,” Natalie says as she places gauze over my cut, securing it with medical tape. “Though we all must do our part for Arel.”

  I listen to her, to the tone within her voice, trying to determine if she speaks what she believes, or is testing me, as is the way in Arel: all must be assessed to determine their loyalty.

  I remain calm, reserved, and keep my face impassive and my voice even, unsure if my gamble paid off, or buried me. “I guess I owe you a debt,” I say in a joking manner.

  “Be careful,” warns Natalie. “People have a way of collecting.”

  I chuckle at her statement. Such is our way.

  “Here.” Natalie places an oxygen mask over my face. “Breathe deep and slow.” She glances outside and at the plebeian girl who stands alone among a stormy sea of rushing feet, anguished shouts, and blaring alarms, ignored by all while holding her arms close as she tries to comfort herself. I see it. A look of pity, the same one that I had seen on Mandi during the banquet, but before I have time to register its meaning, it is gone, and Natalie resumes her businesslike demeanor.

  She steps out of the medical transport, but before she can close the door, I spot something painted on the ground that I had not noticed before: the symbol of Arel crossed out, almost like a warning. The doors to the transport slam shut and the vehicle jerks as it drives away with me on board, leaving me alone with my thoughts and to dwell upon everything that has transpired during my patrol.

>   Chapter 2

  Chilling Consequence

  An insistent knock on my door yanks me from a restless sleep as my mind desires to go back to that land of unconsciousness and ignorance, but the distant pounding in my ears breaks through the barrier, forcing me to open my eyes. I blink a couple of times to clear away the sand and focus on the ceiling above me with its panels of tarnished gray, each outlined by a black rimming—the color of my world. Arbiters are not encouraged to enjoy colors, like the vibrant bands of a rainbow after a spring rain, as they might evoke emotional responses, and we are to be emotionless beings.

  I always liked the color red, not the bright color that blood brings but more subdued, yet bold, letting the world know it exists and isn’t just one small part in a sea of black uniforms. Cherries; their robust color is the shade I have always admired, and their life-giving fruit.

  I remember the cherry tree that grew in the courtyard of the training facility. No one knew where it came from, none admitted to planting it, but it appeared one day. In my fourth year, I spotted it—it was no more than four inches tall—and I admired it for growing in a place that did not allow such frivolous luxuries to flourish. Flowers, bushes, trees—all were forbidden within the facility. Arbiters are not to focus on frolicsome things but keep their minds on their duties and the protection of Arel; but this one cherry tree managed to thrive in the very center of our court yard, in the center of where our drills were carried out, in an area known for its heat and humidity. For ten years I snuck it water, admiring its tenacity, stubbornness, and beauty as it grew stronger. I remember the day it first flowered, with beautiful, soft pink petals, and produced fruit as though it mocked my gray surroundings, inviting me to be daring like it was. One night, I slipped down to the courtyard and plucked a ripe cherry from the tree, marveling at its red color and savoring its tart flavor, feeling pride and hoping that the water I gave it in its early life helped it produce such delightful fruit. What I hadn’t counted on was being seen by someone else, by someone who despised anything that could be considered good. When I awoke the next morning, all that remained of that cherry tree was a lone stump, a reminder that life is fleeting and that anything as wonderful as that tree can be taken away in an instant. From then on, the shade of that one cherry the tree allowed me to eat has been my favorite color.

  The knocking stops and the door to my room slides open. Startled, I bolt upright and turn toward the door, ready to defend myself against this uninvited guest. Chase stands in my room, a worried look on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, throwing my blanket off me.

  He does not answer.

  “Gwen, she isn’t…”

  “She’s fine,” says Chase.

  Before I can do anything, Chase rushes toward me and envelops me in those strong, yet gentle, arms of his, holding me close as though he is afraid of losing me. My shoulder pains me and I push him away, but instead of being insulted, he lets me go, realizing that his intended comfort has caused me pain.

  “I heard the explosions,” he says, “and I was afraid that…”

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, reassuring him, and wondering where this newfound affection for me came from, or has he always had it since the time we were lost in the wildlands? I have never been able to get that time out of my head. “I should get dressed. I have a review today and have to answer for my actions.”

  Without being told, Chase goes to my closet and pulls out a pair of pressed pants, a fresh under shirt, and an ironed jacket. I pull the shirt I am wearing off, doing my best to keep my face placid despite the burning in my shoulder from each little movement. The doctor I had been assigned at the medical wing the night of the bombing had told me that it would take a minimum of six weeks for my shoulder to heal. I wish it would heal faster. I detest being helpless. I stand before Chase with my breasts exposed, not caring about privacy, since it never existed at the training facility, and I learned long ago not to feel embarrassed when exposed, but he never glances at them, choosing to avert his eyes instead, giving some semblance of decency, doing his best to be mindful of my current situation. He hands me the clean undershirt and I put it on, forcing myself past the gripping pain in my shoulder, demanding that it work and pull the cotton material over my chin until the built-in bra snuggles my breasts and the hem settles at the top of my hips.

  Next, I pull on my pants with Chase still averting his eyes, while I ease the snug material over my buttocks, allowing the waistband to hug my middle, securing my undershirt beneath its prison. My jacket appears in front of me, and I take it from Chase’s outstretched hand. “Thank you,” I whisper, putting my good arm through the sleeve and allowing Chase to pull the other sleeve over my injured one, being reminded of when he had to carry me through the wildlands because of my broken leg.

  I reach for my sling, but he beats me to it, grabbing it from the chair I had flung it on before going to bed, and slips it around my arm, taking great care to not cause me to wince, not that I would display such weakness, and wraps the thick, padded strap around my shoulder, securing it in place. Before I can say anything, he picks up my boots and waves me to the only chair in the room. Knowing that he would not take a refusal for an answer, I sit and allow him to lace up my boots, until they are snug and do not wiggle. His fingers work with an efficiency I never thought a plebeian could possess and after a couple of minutes, I am dressed and ready to report for duty.

  “You didn’t have to,” I say. “I can put my own boots on.”

  Chase looks at me, his gray eyes filled with sympathy and… respect? “I know,” he replies, “but I wanted to.”

  He grabs the bobby pins sitting on the desk and motions for me to turn around. With delicate fingers, her lifts the strands of my long hair as it reflects the pale light in the room and twists them together, forming a bun. One by one, he sticks the pins in, securing the bun while making certain that each pin neither pulls nor tugs so as to cause any discomfort. Once done, he admires his handiwork, saying, “Now you look every bit the arbiter, and are ready for your review.”

  “How…”

  “My former mistress used to have me help her with putting her hair up. Her hands didn’t work well and the slightest movement caused her pain. I help Gwen with her hair too.”

  Being helped with a simple task such as getting dressed is foreign to me. While at the training facility, we were never encouraged to seek assistance, much less accept it. If an arbiter cannot do things on their own, they are not worthy of defending Arel. My mind drifts back to when I was eleven and each recruit in my year had one arm tied behind their backs where they could not use it. We were to conduct our duties that day one-armed. Some, like Trevors, thrived and managed to do everything as though they were not handicapped at all, while others struggled. One recruit was unable to do the simplest of tasks, and upon Molers’ orders, received a beating from one of the instructors. I watched as the recruit fell to the ground, doing her best to cover her head, but was unable to escape the torment brought down upon her.

  In a rare moment of compassion, I ran to her and shoved the instructor aside, demanding that he stop before he killed her: one of my many mistakes. The instructor knocked me to the ground, kicking me in the stomach, and while I lay there with pebbles boring into my skin, he lashed me with his switch, stopping when Molers strolled by, his hands clasped behind his back as his lips curled into a sardonic smile, baring his teeth.

  “Compassion, mercy, sympathy are for the weak,” he said. “If you cannot conduct yourselves with one arm tied behind your backs, how are you all going to be of any use if we are attacked and you are wounded? You must be able to push through your inabilities and your pain. Those who cannot are feeble and unfit to be arbiters. If your fellow recruit is dealt a punishment, watch them accept it because they deserve it for not being stronger. If you challenge their punishment, then you shall also be reprimanded.” Molers bent low, placing his lips against my ear so that his hot, sticky breath stuck to my skin. �
�Is that understood?” he whispered to me.

  “Yes, sir,” I had replied.

  His salacious grim implanted itself in my mind—an image I cannot rid myself of—as he stood up and nodded his head at the instructor. With one final strike, the switch lashed me across the side of my neck, implanting a red mark that lasted for four days. Afterward, both my arms were bound as two arbiters placed me in a straight-jacket.

  “Because of your actions,” Molers announced as he circled me, “you will spend the rest of the day confined in this jacket. No one is to help you. Any who do will suffer a worse fate.”

  Memories of sitting alone during mealtime with both my arms strapped down so that I could not use them flood my mind as the feeling of isolation wells within me, forcing me back to that moment as though it is happening now. That day, I ate like a dog, planting my face in my food and using my tongue to scoop up bits of peas and potatoes into my mouth, and when I had to use the bathroom, I urinated myself because I was unable to pull down my pants and use the toilet in any manner of dignity: a humiliation that overshadowed me for weeks.

  “Hey,” says Chase, bringing me back to the present. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I reply, not wanting to burden him with my past.

  He reaches up and places a calloused hand on my cheek, using the lightest of pressure to force me to look at him and those gray eyes that hold no amount of loathing, anger, or hatred like they did the first time I ever saw them—not even pity. All that dwells within them is caring.

  “I should be able to do all this myself,” I say, remembering my training. “Weakness is…”

  “You’re not weak,” Chase cuts me off. “It’s okay to ask for help.”

  What changed? How did we go from being enemies who despised one another to caring about the other’s well-being and helping them when we can?

  “Why did you lie for me when they found us?” I ask; the question still lingers on my mind as he had never given me a satisfactory answer.