people crammed into a bunker. Maybe he’s planning to elevate them all. Maybe he wants to give me the good news in person. But in my heart I know that’s not true.
The horses take a corner too fast and I grab the leather handle as I’m flung against the window, my injured shoulder jolting with pain. My heart pounds. If more of my blood is shed, will more dark forces be released? What other damage can they do?
*
WHEN WE DRIVE past the shrine, I notice that the golden sheaves – the emblem of the Prosperites – have been ripped off the doors. The place is crawling with soldiers. We reach the offices and a group of soldiers is gathered around the statue of the High Priest, trying to pull it off the stone pedestal.
Captain Atherton’s face is impassive as he opens the carriage door and gestures to me to get out.
“Follow me.”
I look up the flight of stairs flanked by stone lions – it’s a long, long way to the top. The last time I was here, the council warned me there would be no more chances. I know that if I walk up these stairs, I may never come down again.
Another carriage drives up and Mr Frye leaps out and comes bustling towards me.
“Ebba,” he murmurs as he kisses me on both cheeks. “I’m so glad to see you looking so much better.”
“Please, Mr Frye, don’t let them …” I start to whisper but, before I can finish, Major Zungu appears in the doorway and salutes. Revulsion floods me as I look into his dark face. “Miss den Eeden,” he says with a curt nod. “This way.”
But instead of going up the stairs, he opens a door in the wall and enters a gloomy passage leading into the mountain. I follow, desperately trying to read his body language. He’s marching with his usual gait – shoulders back to balance the weight of his heavy paunch, jutting jaw, arms stiff by his sides. He seems as impenetrable as the rock walls, and as hard to read. But I know the violence this man is capable of. I adjust the strap over my sore shoulder, recalling how he grabbed my amulet, punched me in the stomach and threw me so hard against the carriage window that the glass broke.
We turn a corner and descend a steep flight of stairs lit by burning torches. My heart tightens with each step: This isn’t the way to the council chamber. When we reach the black iron gates at the bottom of the stairs, I know we’re heading towards the prison cells. They’re going to lock me up, and this time there will be no escape.
It’s over. I’m going to die in here. I’m sixteen, and my life is about to end. I falter, look back to see if I can run for freedom. But there’s a guard behind us with a rifle, and three standing in front at the gates.
“This way,” Major Zungu snaps as a guard unlocks the heavy padlock.
I shiver as we follow him through the gates and down another corridor. The air here is cold and stale. My lungs feel like they’ll never fill up. Someone nearby is whimpering, and my gut twists with fear. I want to grab Mr Frye’s hand, beg him to take me out into the sunshine again, and to set free whoever it is I can hear crying like she’s given up hope.
We turn a corner and I see who is weeping. It’s Cassie. She’s crouched in her cell but when she sees me, relief flickers in her grimy, tear-stained face. She jumps up.
“Please help us,” she whispers gripping the bars. “Help me, please, Ebba. They’re … hurting me.”
She’s been beaten. One eye is swollen shut, her hair is matted. I flinch as she reaches out – there’s a huge bruise on her arm.
“Please, Ebba, we’re your friends. I gave you my favourite robe – the turquoise one, remember? I gave you shoes too. Don’t leave me here.”
I have no words; my throat is tight with fear.
“They’re going to shoot us all!” She’s suddenly hysterical. “Stop them, Uncle Fergus, stop them!” She grabs Mr Frye’s robe and tries to pull him towards her.
“We’ll see what we can do,” Mr Frye says, untangling her fingers. “You stay strong now.”
Cassie was my friend. What are they going to do to her?
I try to swallow but there’s a stone in my throat. “I’m so sorry, Cassie, I don’t know … I …” My voice bounces off the narrow walls, sounding louder than it is.
For a moment she looks like the High Priest: She lifts her chin and her hooded eyes half close. She thinks I’m choosing not to help her.
“Come along, Ebba,” Mr Frye says, moving on.
In the next cell is Evelyn, Hal and Cassie’s mother. She’s sitting at the back, head sunken. But when she sees me she runs to the bars. She’s always been so groomed and pretty. Now she is haggard, her robe dirty and torn as though someone has tried to rip it off. When she beats on the bars with her fist I see that there’s a raw, bloody mess where her thumb-nail used to be.
I can’t look. Is Major Zungu going to pull out my nails too? He’s standing back, face blank, as Evelyn starts to scream.
“Get us out of here! Get us out!” She’s banging on the bars, and blood drips from her thumb.
Why is she telling me to let them out? I’m in as much trouble as she is.
Her face darkens. “You always were a self-absorbed little bitch, Ebba,” she snarls. “And you, Fergus Frye, you’re a spineless little creep.” She spits onto the hem of his robe.
“Yes, dear,” Mr Frye says smoothly. “And a lovely day to you too.” He flicks the spittle off, and turns away. “Come along, Ebba,” he says. “Horrible people. They deserve what they have coming.”
“We’re the chosen ones of Prospiroh!” Evelyn screeches as we move down the corridor. “He’ll punish you for this. You’ll lose everything – your house, your farm, your friends. You’ll be poorer than the dirty boat people. Especially you, Ebba den Eeden!”
Mr Frye smiles drily and leans over to murmur in my ear. “Don’t let her upset you, dear. The Prosperites are finished. The general has banned any worship of Prospiroh, and good riddance to bad rubbish, if you ask me.”
“So there’s no new High Priest?”
“No priest, no shrine, no religion. The army has taken over everything. ”
“Hurry along, please,” Major Zungu snaps. “The general does not appreciate being kept waiting.”
We’ve reached the end of the corridor. We turn left, and then left again into another row of cells – cells for three more of the High Priest’s wives. I hurry past, trying not to make eye contact, feeling each one’s gaze bore into my back. Soon I’ll be in a cell like these, cramped and smelling as bad.
Mr Frye pulls out his hanky and covers his nose. “Disgusting.”
The source of the smell is an overflowing toilet bucket in the corner of the next cell. It’s a small stone room packed with the children, all fourteen of them. The youngest is just a toddler, and like the others he’s slumped against the wall, staring at the floor.
But
