Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. by Joanne Armstrong Page B

to occupy my hands. By the time the horses are secured and our belongings are safely under cover, the rain has become a steady patter.
    “Get some sleep,” he says. “I’m going to keep an eye on the monitor.”
    I crawl into the tent and arrange a blanket around myself, with my rucksack for a pillow. I keep my pouch and blowpipe close at hand, and leave the knife sheathed on my thigh. I feel more secure knowing it’s there.
    I lie on my side and close my eyes. Although I’m exhausted and sore in places I haven’t felt for years, sleep is slow to come. Instead, thoughts of my loss, which have hounded me all day rush in to fill the space. I am too weary to push them back.
    Grandad, teaching me to ride. Setting and mending my broken arm. Showing me how he distilled plant essences. The look on his face when I gave him a jersey I’d knitted in secret. It had taken me four months and was full of holes and dropped stitches, but he wore it anyway.
    Tears are in my eyes and I let them slide across the bridge of my nose and onto my backpack. It’s hard to believe that Grandad is truly gone. I don’t want to believe I’ll never see him again. Why would he want me to go to the Polis? And what was it that he should have told me? That he loved me? Grandad was never one for emotional speeches, but I always knew that he loved me. He didn’t need to tell me in so many words. It’s more likely he meant that he should have told me about my mark.
    Remember who you are . I am Arcadia. Grandad was actually a Clark, according to the Polis anyway, so does that mean I’m a Clark too? My Grandfather was Matthias Clark.
    I can hear the wind roaring through the firs as the analytical thoughts chase my emotions aside, and Hayes comes into the tent to sit in the doorway. There is a faint glow from the monitor in his hands.
    “All quiet on the western front?” I ask.
    “What?”
    “Just something my Grandad used to say.” I’m not sure why I used this phrase. Maybe because I was thinking of him.
    “I know the term. Yes, there’s no activity on the monitor. That dog might have been on his own after all.”
    I hadn’t given the dog a second thought, but I suppose they are pack animals. “Perhaps this is his territory.”
    “Perhaps.”
    I turn to something which has been on my mind all day. “You called my Grandfather Matthias Clark.”
    He allows the monitor to go dim, but I hear him turn in my direction. “And?”
    “We always called him Grey, Matthias Grey.” There is silence from the doorway, so I continue. “Is my last name Clark, too?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Now it’s my turn to be silent. How could he not know my last name?
    “But… I thought… you came to Greytown to find me?”
    “I came to Sector Four - Greytown - to find the Firstborn Matthias Clark, possibly Grey. I was told that he would be able to point me towards the child he raised, likely to be called Arcadia.”
    “The child he raised?” The wording is awkward and immediately I am wary.
    He shrugs. I get the feeling he thinks it’s odd too, but is reluctant to question authority. I’m convinced of it a little later when he breaks the silence by adding, “I tried to find out a bit more about Matthias before I left the City. The first time Matthias Grey appeared on our records was seventeen years ago.”
    “That’s when I was born.”
    “It’s also when Firstborn Matthias Clark finished his Polis service and, by official records, died.”

    Chapter Twelve
    The terrain changes drastically the next day, as we leave the canopy of the forest for the foothills of the mountains, riding in a more northerly direction. There is less shelter here, and fewer signs of habitation, abandoned or otherwise. Nevertheless, Hayes keeps his thermal imaging monitor close at hand. There is very little cover and I’m guessing he would need a lot of warning if we had to hide.
    The horses reach the top of a rise and an expansive view opens out in front. An enormous arid