Alexandria (9 page)

“Thank you, Isabel,” he says. She is swollen with child and Arana brushes a wisp of chestnut hair from her face and tenderly kisses her forehead. She smiles politely and bows to him.

Keslin stretches his arms out along the back of the padded bench, legs crossed effetely, simmering with content. “And Vallen is no loss at all. Killed by a child. Not really the mark of a bravery.”

“I saw the boy. What, twelve? Thirteen?”

“Around.”

“What is he like?” Arana asks, intrigued.

“Sent to the quarry. Don’t know much else.”

In the years since these ventures began, they have endured only five such casualties, and none inflicted by a child. Arana nods and looks off. Shuttles of wind set the branches swaying in the inland forest and the gentle rasping of leaves purrs across the Temple grounds, and he quietly pays homage to the everlasting forces of the Beyond that have coursed through him since birth.

Keslin flicks his sharp eyes at Arana and watches this odd reverie with mild curiosity. Two housemaids arrive and shift quietly between the furniture, gathering cups and servingware, and then slip out the way they came, unnoticed. Isabel dozes and snores lightly and Arana wakes her and steadies her to her feet and sends her inside. He takes her place when she’s gone, hitching a leg up and reclining back in the midday warmth.

“I think we should go back to the city.”

Keslin shakes his head briskly. “There’s nothing there. It’s dead.”

“We should look harder. I’ll go myself this time. I’ve always wanted to.”

“That’s not wise.”

“Why?”

“You could be hurt… or worse.”

Arana shakes his head dismissively. “No, I won’t.”

“We should push south.”

“He’s not from the south.”

“It doesn’t matter,” says Keslin. “We don’t know what’s down there—and we should.”

“I thought we were done with this business for a while.”

“We may never be.”

Arana narrows his eyes on Keslin. He disengages the subject and takes a long swallow of wine. “Tell me more about this settlement. What did they know?”

“Very little, I’m afraid. These people didn’t have much. Seeds. No new kinds, but we brought back a few sacks. No animals, they were hunters. Few metals, mostly just rusted scrap. No writings to speak of, only a few hides written in their own poor hand, a few gravestones. We burned it all.”

“And the weapon?”

“Not working, but well kept. Would you like to see it?”

Arana nods. Keslin leads him down the curved staircase, past his quarters to the balcony overlooking the vast foyer. They descend to ground level and steal away through a side door set back in the hallway and climb down more stairs to the antechamber outside the Temple’s keep. A musty compost smell emanates from the dank quarters, and Keslin and the King take up sconces to light the way. The stone walls are wet with fungus, and from the dark and foreboding corners of the keep comes the scurrying of rats and other unseen vermin. Trapdoors are set into the filthy floor, held tightly shut with thick wooden bars, low moans escaping from the subterranean cubicles beneath.

Keslin withdraws a flat-toothed key from his belt and springs open a fat and creaking lock, slinking the chain through a metal loop and dropping it to the floor with a rattling clank then rolling back the heavy wooden door.

“Wait here,”
he breathes.

He takes his sconce and moves around the perimeter of the secluded vault, igniting the torches that rest aslant in their mounts. Soft light blossoms throughout and illuminates a worktable cluttered with various dismantled assemblages, and at the forward end is the immense, oxidized machine gun recovered from Jack’s village.

“It’s tremendous,” says Arana, caressing the worn stock.

“The best we’ve found,” says Keslin, eyeing the piece with the same grave fixation.

Scattered about are many broken down actions, brushed clean of rust and arranged neatly in order of their removal for easy reconstruction. Several parts gleam freshly, prototypes recast in iron at their own metalworks, evidence of their attempts at reverse engineering these antique weapons.

“What I wouldn’t give,” Keslin laments, “to know what makes these beautiful machines work.”

“You’ll have to watch your tongue around Ezbeth,” says Calyn. “About yesterday, I’m talking. She’s a good woman, but she does have a temper.”

Lia juts her chin forward. “She’s mean.”

Calyn laughs. “You’ll have a hard time convincing me she’s mean. It’s called tough love.”

“Tough love sounds mean. And she doesn’t love me.”

“Yes, she does, you just don’t see it. She’s pulling for you, same as we all are.”

“Pulling for me to what?”

“To fit in, Lia. To be happy here.”

Lia stands next to the water trough, rinsing and scrubbing carrots. There is a mountain of vegetables next to her. “I’ll never be happy here.”

“Honey, don’t say things like that.”

“It’s true. I hate it here.” Lia throws the carrots down and tears up.

“Oh. I see.” Calyn goes and puts a warm arm around her. “Now listen, I’ve had a lot of girls come through here over the years. I’ve seen a lot of sadness, Lia, and all I can do is try to help. But I will say this,” she says, squaring Lia’s shoulders so she is looking straight at her, “some of the saddest girls end up being the most happy down the road. I’ve seen it happen time and again. I had a young girl named Elise come through my kitchen, and I’d never been so worried about any of them, before or since. She used to curl up in the corner right over there,” she nods to a dusty corner with sacks of grain stacked waist high, “and she used to just lay there and sob. If I went to try and touch her, she’d scoot back like I was aiming to bite her or something. Of course I meant her no such harm, but she didn’t know that. She was missing her old village, her old life, and I suppose that’s some of what’s bothering you. You’re stuck there up here,” she points delicately to Lia’s head, “and you’re having a hard time letting go. It took young Elise a very long time to let go, but in her own time she did. Sooner or later the crying will stop, and you’ll choose happiness. It’s such a simple choice, when you think about it.”

She gives Lia a tender kiss on the forehead then goes back to the island to roll out flatbread with a heavy pin. Her words wash over Lia and she can only faintly perceive the fractures in her psyche they are causing. She looks up at Calyn.

“But I miss my parents. I’ll never see them again. Because of you.”

“Not because of me, dear. I’m sure they meant well, and I’m sure they treated you nice, but that’s dangerous magic they played with, Lia. I’ve seen the hills alive with Fire. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. It’s a tragedy that you lost your parents, but it would be a far worse tragedy if their foolishness got you and all your friends burned to a crisp by calling on the dark spirits. We don’t like this—don’t think that. Don’t think we take pleasure in this. It hurts us even more than them, but it’s the right thing and it’s got to be done.”

“But they killed them—”

“Lia, please—”

“They waited until they were asleep and… and they killed them and burned them and—”

“Lia!
Stop it. I don’t need to know the workings of it. I’m sorry for what happened to you but it was for the best.”

Lia looks up with eyes full of painful need and Calyn turns and busies herself at the counter, working a ball of dough with rough, flustered fingers. Lia watches her shyly, wondering how she’s gone so cold all of a sudden. She climbs back on her little step stool and picks up a skinny, green-plumed carrot from the tepid bath and stares at it absently. “Where is Elise now?”

“She works down in the sewing shop. One of the head stitchers, and her work is good. She has her own family, four beautiful children. Would you like to meet her sometime?”

Lia nods
yes
.

“I’ll ask her when I see her next. I’ll bet she’d love to meet you. You’re such a sweet girl, Lia, it breaks my heart to see you sad like this.” She forages on the countertop and fetches out another sweet roll. “Don’t tell anyone I gave you this, I don’t want them getting jealous.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re adorable. You’re welcome, Lia. Now, finish rinsing these off so the girls can get chopping.”

Lia slogs her way through the pile of carrots and potatoes, working her small fingers over the surface and rubbing away the dirt. She works in a daze, robotically, and when the pile is spent she reaches up and turns the stopcock on the waterspout to give everything one last rinse. She collects them, cleaned and shining, in little baskets and carries them back to the prep room where more girls huddle over the center table, dicing and cutting. Haylen is there, clumsily chopping potato slices, her bony fingers growing numb.

“Here’s more.”

“Thanks,” says Haylen, and pushes a small basket toward Lia. “These are done.”

She takes the basket to the kitchen and Calyn hefts the heavy iron lid off the kettle.

“Dump them on in.”

Lia lifts the basket and tilts it over the edge, watching all the diced potatoes tumble into the boiling broth.
Maybe if I just be good
, she thinks,
this will all end
. She wonders, foolishly, if perhaps she did something wrong to deserve this. She goes back to the trough, where baskets of tomatoes sit lined up for her, and begins washing and rinsing. Those tiny hairline fractures in her mind become rough tears and she can feel herself cleaving in two. Part of her is here, in this kitchen, doing this work… and another part of her is somewhere else entirely.

Jack’s shoulder throbs with dull pain as he swings his pickhammer down, sending a burst of stone chips and shards flying into his face. He squeezes his eyes shut and wipes the sweat from his brow. He has hammered on this one line all day and most of yesterday. It chips away so slowly he would swear that it grows back at night when everyone is sleeping.

He has lost track of days, he only knows that one full moon cycle has passed. At their nightly raucous campfire dinners, when everyone is bursting with chatter, Jack sits off to the side and watches that lonely white disk wax and wane, it being the only thing of familiarity to look upon.

Braylon is gone on a trip back to the Temple. He is older and stronger and they are teaching him how to lash the great stones to the sledge and guide them over the rolling timber. Jack squints against the sun and sees Aiden two steps below him, wielding his pickhammer in similar fashion.

Under Jack’s shirt is a collage of blue and yellow bruises, mementos from Halis. The punishment is discreet, never in front of anyone else, and Halis is always careful to avoid hitting his face. He looks around and doesn’t see him anywhere.

“Whatcha stopping for, Jack?” barks Karus. “Those rocks don’t cut themselves!”

Jack turns back to the narrow groove that torments him and levies another bone-jarring hammer strike against his chisel. The hot sun bounces off the light stone of the huge quarry and makes it look almost glowing. It is otherwise barren and dusty, lunar and forlorn.

After his shift he will meet up with Aiden, but they have less and less to talk about as the days go on. Peaceful solitude is becoming more consoling than forced conversation anyhow, and he finds himself staring off dumbly at the horizon, trying unsuccessfully to push all thoughts from his mind.

When he sleeps he has the same recurring dream of his empty village. Usually his mother is there, shimmering, and he runs toward her. Sometimes she is gone and he simply walks alone through the burning village, immune to the scorching heat. He crosses that old stone promenade, a whirlwind of firestorm around him, looking for any traces of those he loves and finding none. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of these nocturnal visions and remembers them. Other times the end of the dream deteriorates into a kaleidoscope of abstraction and he awakens hours later with no recollection.