Alexandria (44 page)

“There
are
good places,” she whispers.
“Beautiful places, Jack.”

The Nezra settle for the night not far from the old mansion, deserted now atop the knoll. They circle a ring of men around a small bivouac and take turns sleeping in shifts. In the center of the ring, several warriors dust out the campfire and stow away their gear before lying down with their heads resting on their packs. The horses stand in groupings around the perimeter of trees to which they are bound, trance-like on stiffened legs. A bent, limping form passes through the rows of sleeping men, lurching several times in the dark. Keslin. He steps past the line of watchmen and walks out to a raised anvil of rock. Taket kneels there on a bent leg and looks over the map by the light of a small lantern.

“Four more days,” he says. “If we keep this pace.”

Keslin appraises the map and runs his finger down the length of their route, resting it on the coastal star. “There’s nothing there.”

“Why are we going?” asks Taket, looking up at Keslin’s tired old face.

“We’re not.”

“We have orders.”

“I’m changing them.”

Taket narrows his reptilian eyes.

“One of the two is lying,” says Keslin. “Ethan with his map, or Renning with his confession—and I know which. The map is worthless. It’s a trick.”

Taket scowls down at the map. “How do you know?”

“Because I saw Renning’s eyes when the girl bled. He told the truth. Tomorrow morning, we change course. We’re going to move across the southern tip of the valley, between these ridges here, and we’re heading to the second location first. If I’m wrong, then we double back and come up on this other spot from the east. It’s what we should have planned from the outset.”

Taket holds the lantern up to the map, scanning the light across the faded desert to a second marking drawn out in some oasis.

“We’ll ride in ourselves, if we can, and we’ll burn it to the ground.”

“Search it and burn it,” says Taket. “Arana wants everything brought back.”

“No. It’s worthless, I promise you—whatever they have is rot. All Thomas ever did was poison the well. We burn it.”

“Damn it,” says Nyla.

Her wrench clatters to the floor and she nurses her pinched thumb, glaring at the stubborn driveshaft. She snatches it back and works the handle against the coupling, levering it into place, and with her free hand reaches down and fetches a long bolt resting on an oily cloth. She slips it through the aligned holes and lets everything settle into place, then spins the nut and wrenches it tight.

She steps out into the courtyard and looks around for the old weaver, wiping her hands on a frayed rag.
Into the keg again
, she thinks rightly. A tireless crew of children flashes past, racing down the stone walkway toward the gazebo to listen the concert.

“Aaron,” she calls after her own, a scappy kid about ten.

He turns impatiently, backpacing away. “What, Mom?”

“Save me a seat,” she says, and her boy turns and bolts off.

Discordant pluckings wobble through the air as the musicians finesse their tuning keys, strumming absently as if their minds are elsewhere, then adjusting and strumming again. She spots Rick in the grass, his dumpling stomach spilling over the top of his belt buckle. She catches his eye and he nods very seriously, then bumbles down the walk to meet her.

“Finished already?” he calls, halfway across the yard.

She smiles and spins back into the mill, her pony-tail whipping around behind her. Rick dawdles into the doorway and leans his shoulder against it.

“What’d I break?”

“The shuttle arm,” she says, smacking the loom with her wrench.

“It’s fixed?”

“Let’s see,” she says, stepping around a barrel-sized iron tank, braced with thick straps and riveted, wisps of steam hissing out from the overflow valve. She reaches across and turns the lathed handle, gives the flywheel a nudge, then stands back as the mechanism begins to spin. The massive loom animates—skeletal metal arms shuttle back and forth, internal gears click round, and the beam glides up and down on its pivot, trying to snatch at threads that aren’t there.

“Don’t run it so fast next time,” she says, grinning.

“Thought I’d busted the whole thing,” he bellows, his voice rising above the din of the machine.

Nyla powers it down and releases the pent-up steam from the boiler, then collects her tools in a little wooden box and shoves it back under the workbench.

“Coming to the show?” asks Rick.

“I’ll be out—just gonna get cleaned up.” She plucks the fabric of her stained smock.

He salutes her, then empties his mug and meanders back down the walkway. Nyla scrubs the grease from her hands, swishing them around in a bucket by the door and flicking off the excess water. She steps out into the cool evening, closes the mill door, and sets off toward her cabin along the ridge, longing for a wash rag and a clean blouse. She takes three steps and freezes—a panicked voice calls her name. She sweeps her eye over the gathering audience, looking for the source. The little concert begins—acoustic thrumming spills from the gazebo, and the various gossip circles quiet themselves and settle in on blankets laid out across the yard.

“Nyla!”
calls Tyler, cutting through the placid melody. He runs across the walk, waving his arm frantically.

Nyla sighs, wondering what else is broken that needs fixing, and starts to shuffle toward him.

“We got a problem,” he yells, and the mandolin players cease mid-chord.

The faces in the courtyard follow her movements as she jogs down to meet Tyler.

“What is it?”

“We have visitors. You need to hear this.”

“Visitors? Who?”

“Don’t know. They said Renning is dead.”

“What?”

Tyler leads her away from the perplexed crowd, between a row of cabins, and out toward the fenced pasture where the horses roam. She sees her husband, Denit, leading a pack of men with their bows leveled at something approaching from down the hill. She breaks into a sprint, coursing along the graying wood fence, and spots the boy and girl at the bottom of the slope, climbing over the rocks toward their settlement. They look wretched. The boy stops and picks the girl up off the ground and they press forward. A red-crusted machete dangles from the boy’s hip. Denit trains his arrow and advances a few steps.

“Hold right there,” he yells.

The boy stops and raises up his palms.

Nyla bristles past and moves down by Denit.

“What’s going on?”

“Saw them when I was closing up the gate,” says Denit. “Said something about Renning and Ethan.”

Nyla looks at them and tightens her face. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Jack.”

“You look hurt.”

“A little…”

“You needing help? Why did you come here?”

“We have… a message,” he says, catching his breath. “We’re told to tell you… Ethan and Renning are dead.”

Nyla pushes brazenly away from the armed men and runs down to meet them. “How do you know this?” she asks, her voice hushed.

“They took them.”

“Who?
Who took them?”

“They live up north on the coast… in a huge Temple. They have a king, Arana Nezra the Second. He took
us
, too. We got away. Ethan said they know… they know about Alexandria.”

Nyla’s hand flies to her mouth.

“We came here to warn you,” says the girl, steadying herself with a tall walking stick.

Nyla steps closer and looks them over. They are ripped to shreds, cut in a dozen places each, and bruised all over. She takes two more tentative steps, listening to her instincts, then rushes over and helps brace up the girl.

“I’m Nyla,” she says.

“Lia.”

“Come on, let’s get you inside. Denit, give me a hand.”

The group drops their weapons and hurries down. They take the two in their arms and help them up the slope, toward a wide stone shelter at the edge of the settlement.

“Boil some water,” says Nyla to the scattering of onlookers. “Get me some milk and bread for poultice, and heat up something to eat. Are you thirsty?”

Jack and Lia nod
yes
. A canteen is produced from the crowd and they take long slogs as they are led into the shelter.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Got hit with a rock,” says Lia.

“We’ll wrap it up soon as we get you clean. I’ve got some clothes that might fit you. Tyler, you have a son about Jack’s age…”

“I’ll see what I can find,” Tyler says, and starts off.

They go through the murky shelter and out the back door. The expansive courtyard is carpeted with blankets, parents reclining with their children, and every face turns toward Jack and Lia. They dart their eyes shyly across the crowd as Nyla escorts them along the walk to an open-air wood beam structure tucked back in a grove of shade trees. They climb the steps, nervously aware that everyone is still watching them, and Nyla walks to the back of the structure and pulls shut a cloth curtain, behind which lay a row of tubs. In a short while, people start carrying buckets of hot water behind the partition and splashing it into the tubs, filling them to the brim with steaming water.

“Soap,” says Nyla, handing them a white bar. “Take as long as you need. Clean those cuts—what is
this
, did you get bit?”

“A lion,” says Lia.

Nyla nods, bewildered.

Jack and Lia step to either side of the cloth curtain and peel off the tatters of cloth stuck to their filthy bodies, then sink into the tubs. Their baths darken instantly with blood and dirt. Jack dips his whole head under water and works the slippery soap around in his hands. It smells of honeysuckle. Across the partition, Lia lets out a little groan as she massages her swollen knee.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m great,” she says. “Are you?”

“I’m better now.”

They soak until their fingers prune, hot water stinging their wounds, then rise and dry themselves. Disembodied hands reach through the curtain and hand over rough undergarments, pants, and shirts. When Jack is dressed, he slinks around the curtain and waits for Lia. A moment later she steps out, wearing a loose-fitting blouse and pants that bunch up around her ankles.

“That woman knows,”
she whispers. “She’s heard of Alexandria, I could see it in her face when you told her.”

Jack smiles. “We found it. This is the little star.”

“Jack? Lia? I’m Ellen,” says a kindly old woman.

“Hello…”

“News travels quick, here. You’ve got everyone talking.”

“What are they saying?”

“They want to know who you are…”

Jack isn’t entirely sure what to tell her. “We’re wanderers.”

The old woman gives them a sly nod. “Come on inside. Nyla wants to tend to you.”

The small concert has turned into background music and the audience is alive with chatter. Ellen walks them through the middle of the courtyard, back to the stone shelter they passed through earlier. Nyla sits by the fireplace with an array of bandages and liniments laid out, with two empty chairs facing her. Ellen puts a warm hand on each of their backs and guides them over.

“Which of you is banged up worse?” asks Nyla.

They point at each other.

“Okay, I’ll start with you,” she tells Lia, and swabs alcohol over her bite wounds.

Lia puckers her lips, waiting for the burning sensation to still itself.

“Not bad… you’ve got some infection. How about your knee? Can you bend it?”

“Yeah, but it hurts.”

Ellen kneels down beside her and starts working a strip of fabric round and round her knee, cinching it snug.

“How far away is it? This… temple,” asks Nyla as she works.

“It’s pretty far north.” Jack hisses as she pours alcohol over the three scab-encrusted stripes across his chest. “Took us… eleven days, I think. We had a horse for two.”

“You said… they have a
king?”

Lia nods gravely.

“And an army,” says Jack. “They stole Ethan’s map. They know how to find you.”

“Find us? Why do they want to find us?”

“You have something they want.” Jack meets her eye and a look of recognition passes between them. “That place…”