Alexandria (46 page)

“We are,” says Lia.

“How strong are they—this army?”

“Very strong.”

“They took your folks?”

Lia nods tightly.

“I’m sorry for you. It’s awful.”

Nyla shouts out a call from the fenced pasture and everyone quickens their pace with breakfast, shoving the last scraps into their mouths and hustling out the front door.

“Saddle up,” she yells. “If you’re riding with me, we’re leaving.”

Jack and Lia hurry over to meet her, looking like the rest of the settlers with their new apparel. Jack wears a jacket of well-milled cloth, crisp seams at the shoulders, a familiar cut. The only relics they carry of their former selves are the pendant around Lia’s neck and the long blade that Jack filched from the dead Halis, the machete forged at the Nezran metalworks.

“How you feeling?” asks Nyla.

“Sore.”

“Feel sick or dizzy?”

“No.”

“Come on over here, meet your ride.” She leads them to a dark mahogany horse with his head dipped in a bucket of grain. “Here, Jack, he’ll be good with you. Lia, yours is saddled right there. Take a just minute to get ready—we need to hurry up and get everyone out of here.”

“Where are they all going?” asks Lia.

“We’ve got a little hideout up in the hills. They’re going to try to make it there by sundown.”

Denit drifts over and kisses her on the cheek.

“All set?” he asks.

“Think so.” She darts her head around. “Are we forgetting anything?”

“We’re cleared out.”

“Then let’s get going.”

Flocks of settlers gather around the pasture carrying sacks full of their belongings. They load up a few horses with food and supplies, then line up their sorrowful caravan and begin their evacuation. Nyla and Denit jog over and pull their son close, hugging him tightly. When the round of anxious farewells is concluded, the fellow travelers trudge back to the pasture as their families set out on foot for the mountain hideaway. The remaining few, two dozen in all, enter the gate and slip stoically onto their saddles and ride in nervous circles, waiting for Nyla’s lead. She clips over on her black horse, a finely whittled bow angled across her back, and leads them through a narrow cleft that cuts away from the valley, leaving their oceanside haven behind.

They ride along the southern edge of the wetlands, passing an abundance of demolished cities and towns. Row after row of grassed over avenues, each looking the same as the last. The rising sun beats down and everywhere the palm trees sway with the breeze, making the vast decomposing basin look like some kind of forgotten paradise.

“I thought we were pretty well hidden,” says Nyla. “I guess you can never get too far away.”

“How long have you lived there?”

“Since I was about your age. This was always my favorite place growing up. My grandfather founded it, oh, seventy years ago, I think. He fell in love with the ocean.”

“I don’t blame him,” says Lia.

“Where did you grow up? Before… you know…”

“Out in the middle of a great big forest.”

“What was it like?”

“Simple,” Jack says warmly.

They follow a weaving concourse that snakes through the mountains ringed around the basin, and the signs of the old urban sprawl grow scarce. Their horses strain against the incline, driving higher and higher up the old pass. Jack rides next to Lia. They turn sideways on their saddles and look down into the basin, into the staggering enormity of it, trying to comprehend how they crossed it all on foot. The rank wetlands swelter in the sun, a muddle of concrete and vines and filthy water.

Their small caravan crests over a dry mountain road of hard dirt, cacti, and sagebrush. The desert lay below, flat and desolate, blurry through a veil of heat waves. They ride slow down the eastern slope then kick into a brisk trot when they reach the flatlands. The air dries out and the temperature rises considerably. Jack works his jacket off and they tie cloth bandanas around their heads and squint against the reflected sun.

“How far is your father’s house?” asks Jack.

Nyla surmises the horizon, as if the answer lay out there somewhere. “We’re looking at a three day ride or so. Usually takes me four, but if we push it…”

“Is that where Thomas grew up?”

“It is. I lived there when I was young, too.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s lovely. It’s lonely. It’s no place to raise a family. Not anymore.”

“Is that why you left?” asks Lia.

“I never really left,” she says. “I’ll always go back.”

“But what is it?” asks Jack. “Why is it so important?”

Nyla gives him a subtle nod and quickens her horse, riding ahead of the pack. Jack and Lia follow suit and keep pace, putting distance between themselves and the others.

“Not everyone here knows what we keep. I’m not sure how much my father wants them to know. I’m not sure how much he’ll want you to know. But I will say this—his work has saved a lot of lives. Countless. This isn’t the only outpost—there are others.”

“Started by your father?”

“And his father, and his father before him, and so on.”

“What about Ethan and Renning?”

“They were emissaries. They sought people in need.”

“We met Renning’s wife.”

“How is she taking it?”

“Bad.”

“I would too. He was a good man.”

“And Ethan? What was he like?”

“He was like family to me.” Nyla’s delicate face turns stony. “He was one of my father’s favorites. When they were younger him and Ethan used to ride out together, looking for new colonies or the means to start one. They set up new trade lines, strengthened the old ones.”

“Trade lines?”

“Mmm. Say you’ve got livestock, lots of sheep to make wool, but you don’t have much corn or wheat. Maybe there’s another settlement with corn, but needing wool to make clothes. They’d put one in touch with the other so they both got what they needed.”

“How come they never found us?” asks Jack.

“It looks like they did.”

“Before, though—our home in the forest. Did they ever look in the big forest?”

“They might have, a long time ago. How long did your people live there?”

“For a hundred years or more.”

“Nobody ever came into the forest except us,” says Lia. “That’s what made it so nice. At least until the Temple found us.”

They carry on, asking an endless barrage of questions, and the answers lead only to more questions. The monotony wears on them, riding with flummoxed minds and tired joints, and their mouths grow too dry to speak. Gusts of wind blow grit and hot air in their faces and they turn their focus solely toward the dusty trail ahead.

By late afternoon, they no longer see the scoured footprints of old cities in the sand. Signs that there was ever a civilization here at all have vanished entirely and the land looks much as it has for many thousands of years and longer—a vast ocean of sand reflecting the blue sky in silvertone.

The men from the outpost grow fidgety and restless as the day comes full circle, and in the varicolored dusk Nyla canters off to the side, peach light spread across her chalky face.

“Let’s stop here,” she says, and dismounts.

They unpack the horses and water them, then situate themselves on thin blankets spread out over the sun-warmed ground. Inquisitive hoots trill across the endless desert arena, accompanied by the brazen yipping of coyotes. They eat a few small bites and drink sparingly then lie down to sleep under the crisp, clear sky.

Jack lays his head on his pack and watches the landscape eclipse into darkness, thinking about where they go from here, if they ever stop running. His mind buzzes with thoughts of outposts and colonies, trade lines and uncharted territories. Lia stirs in her sleep and he watches the delicate curve of her eyelids, her eyes underneath flickering to and fro, deep in slumber, and he wonders what dreamworld she is lost within.

They advance throughout the entirety of the next two days and still do not arrive. Through the long, listless hours they learn the life story of every man along for the ride, and tell their own in turn. They set camp for a third night and Nyla tells them they are close.

Come morning, the horses are testy and worn-down. The weary band mounts up and pushes ahead, feeling dry and brittle and hungry.

At midday, in the deepest heat, they see a dark speck on the far off horizon, surrounded by stars of light like glittering gemstones—a river. Jack licks his cracked lips and stares at it, drawing closer with every hoof strike.

The thin tributary meanders through the sand, watering a small refuge of greenery that looks alien and misplaced in the desert wasteland. There are no temples, no golden spires, no graven monuments—only a few groves of palm trees and a couple of rickety wooden sheds. Situated in their midst is a large two-story house. A shaded porch wraps around the frontage, with a stone walkway leading up to several curved steps. When the riders draw near, kicking up dust, a weathered old man rises from his rocking chair and steps to the front of the porch and raises his hand in a high salute.

“I can’t stand to think of it,” says Ezbeth.

“It’s not all that bad.” Calyn lowers herself into a chair by the kitchen nook. “We feed them well. Sometimes I sneak them a little extra.” She gives a crafty wink. “Least they don’t have to work.”

“They’re locked up like animals, Calyn.”

“Well… I think that’s a bit harsh. And it’s only for a time. Till things get back to normal.”

Ezbeth leans back and wrings her hands. “I’m not sure I want things to go back to normal. I’m not sure what I want anymore.”

“You’re worried about your boy, that’s what’s got you.” Calyn takes her hand across the table. “Listen, he’s going to be just fine. He’s a good soldier.”

Ezbeth withdraws her hand and pinches her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “They’re my life, those children. I love them like my own.”

“So do we all.”

“Do you? Would you like to see
yours
locked up down there?”

“That’s a bit different, I think. My children were born here—” Calyn pushes her chair back and trundles off to the pantry. “I’ve got something I think’ll help,” she calls gaily, opening up the cupboard and pillaging through it. She draws out a rounded carafe and whirls around the island, grabs two mugs, and returns to the table. “Supposed to use this for cooking.” She winks and pours them each a full glass of violet-colored wine. “To better days…”

“To better days.” Ezbeth drinks in a daze and pushes the mug away.

“Just know that the King and his people are doing everything they can to keep us safe.”

Ezbeth chortles. “I think the power has gone to our young master’s head.”

“Nonsense. He’s an even kinder sort than his father.”

“He is
nothing
like his father. His father was a decent man, not a child killer.”

“Ezbeth!”

“He never would have allowed this.”

Calyn peers around at the scullery girls working away in the prep room, then leans in close to Ezbeth and whispers.

“I know you had your time with him—as have many women, I might remind you—but don’t forget how many died because of his weakness. Don’t forget that. Young Arana understands. He is
guided
. He is a special man. And whatever he says is the right way…
is the right way
. It’s just that simple.”

A look of concern touches Hargrove’s face as he watches his daughter’s horse slow to a trot and click up the walkway, followed by half of the men from the outpost. He scans the boy and girl riding near the back of the line with an eye not accustomed to welcoming strangers, then steps down off the porch and walks to meet them in the front yard.

“What is all this?” he drawls.

“Dad
… ” She drops down and throws her arms around him. “Something terrible has happened.”

“Nyla, what?”

“A cult. They got Renning and Ethan. They burn settlements and kill everyone but the children. These two got away.”

Hargrove’s face goes slack as he looks at the boy and girl, their ill-fitted clothing covering dusty bandages, their skin a mosaic of cuts and bruises. They peer down soberly from atop their horses.