The Infernal Lands (The Aionach Saga Book 1) (44 page)

“That doesn’t sound the least bit appealing.”

“And the city south does? The Hull Tower does? I can easily
arrange to get you to either of those places, like I’ve already mentioned. Or
you can come with me and change the Aionach forever.”

Merrick gulped and rubbed at the pain in his throat. “Fine.
You win. I’ll go with you. There’s just one thing I want. I want to see Wax
before I go.”

“Why would I
ever
let you inside the barracks? It
would be the last time I ever saw you.”

“The barracks? No, Wax is in the Hull Tower.”

“I don’t think so. Unless it was his twin they carried here
on a stretcher this afternoon.”

“What? You saw him go inside?”

“They took him into the hospital. Looked like he was dead.
See everyone crowded around his window there?”

Toler was right; a larger crowd had gathered outside one of
the infirmary windows.

Merrick’s heart sank. “You have to let me go in there and
heal him.”

“Can you bring back the dead?” Toler asked.

“I honestly don’t know. But I won’t leave until I try.”

The shepherd looked around. “Listen, Merrick. I like you.
You’re tough, and you don’t take shit from people. You’re the kind of dway I
can respect. I understand why you don’t want to come with me. This is your
home. So let me explain why I can’t let you go in there, and maybe it’ll sit
better with you.

“People where I’m from say I’m a thrill-seeker. They say I
look for trouble instead of letting it find me, and to that I say, ‘
guilty
.’
I’ve always belonged in the dust. I’ve never felt as alive as I do when I’m out
there.

“One day not too long ago, I did the one thing I told myself
I would never do: I started to love somebody. Everything changes when you love
a girl, Merrick. You know that, don’t you? That girlfriend of yours… what’s her
name?”

“I don’t have one. Kaylene is just a friend.”

Toler gave him a knowing look. “Alright, whatever. I know how
that goes. So this girl made me want to give up everything—all the thrills, the
adventures, the cons. Being with her is a different kind of thrill. Know what I
mean? But when it came time to settle down, I couldn’t pull myself away from my
work. Part of it is that I work for her dad, but the real reason is that I love
what I do. I told her I’d only do the shepherd thing for a little longer; said
I’d find other work closer to home after the next route.

“That route turned into the next, and then the next. I was
never with her for more than a few days before I started getting the itch to be
back out there—fighting for my life, riding through the scrubs, seeing every
part of this world there is to be seen, and drinking myself stupid along the
way. Now I’m losing her because of that. About a month ago, I got the news that
some nomads broke into my boss’s house and almost killed Lenn. She was alive
last I heard, but I don’t know anymore.

“At first I started hating myself for being like my brother.
His wife left him a few years ago, and I watched him abandon my niece over and
over again to go look for her. He knows his wife left him, but he’s never been
able to admit it to himself. He got obsessed with finding her, to the point
where he cares more about the search itself than what he’d do if she ever
turned up. I started hating him because he was holding onto
an idea of what
he loved
, instead of loving the person right in front of his face. Turns
out I’ve been doing the same thing these past few months. I can’t give up being
a shepherd. I can’t handle life inside the rich man’s fortress, Merrick. I had
it all with Lenn, and I’m throwing it away.

“I think you
can
handle the fortress, and I think it
would be a waste if you didn’t. I know you have something that should be used to
help people. But Belmond isn’t the place for it. There are too many people here
who would ruin something that good. You’d be turning your back on everything
you were meant for. I think you should be someplace where you can do what you
were born to do. Now look at me and tell me you don’t want that. That you don’t
even at least want to try.”

“This isn’t about you wanting to save me,” Merrick said,
realizing it was true even as he spoke the words. “You’re losing the girl you
love; it’s her you want to save. You asked me before if I could bring back the
dead. You think if she’s dead, maybe I can bring her back.”

“I won’t deny I’m a desperate man, Merrick. Part of this is
selfish, yeah. You’ve gotta know the grief has been driving me insane. I feel
so helpless out here, so powerless, knowing she might be suffering and I’m not
there. I wasn’t even allowed to leave the caravan until we got to Belmond so
they could find a crew to replace mine. I finally just got the clearance
earlier today. I’m going home, and you’re coming along for the ride. The night
you crossed my path, I knew I had to bring you back with me when the time came.
I knew if you came to Unterberg, you could save her.”

Merrick decided the fates were cruel to give someone like him
the powers of a healer. He had slaughtered an infant in cold blood, and it had
broken his heart. But he couldn’t bring himself to sympathize with a person
like this shepherd. Toler was a bully. A snake. Merrick wouldn’t let himself be
drawn in by the shepherd’s attempts to gain his sympathy; nor would he let
Toler take him away from Belmond in a time of such great need.

He elbowed Toler in the face, but when he tried to dash away,
the other three shepherds were ready. They corralled him and forced him back
against the wall before he could run. They had the advantage of numbers, but
Merrick had his training. He was also heavier than they were, and for once in
his life he wasn’t complaining about it.

Merrick shoved the smallest shepherd with both hands. The man
stumbled backward and tripped as his foot fell off the curb. His body slammed
to the pavement and skidded to a halt. Merrick sank his shoulder into the ugly
one and plowed through him. The third drew a revolver. Merrick’s momentum was
carrying him toward the street and the barracks beyond, so he continued in that
direction as the shepherd began to fire after him. He heard the gun go off
once, twice, a third time. A comrade inside the fence doubled over.

Merrick was halfway across the street before he felt the
sting. It sent a shockwave through him, and he tumbled to the road in an
awkward heap. Then people started yelling, and machine guns were chugging to
life, and the shepherds were yanking each other up and fleeing down the alley
as bits of brick and concrete burst around them.

When Merrick looked up, his comrades were standing above him,
pointing their guns and shouting at him. He was too disoriented to understand
what they were saying, so he kept repeating himself and hoped one of them would
stop to listen.

“Corporal Merrick Bouchard. The Sentry Division,” he said
again and again, until the words became the only thing he knew.

CHAPTER 39

The Garden Grotto

All three of Sister Bastille’s pupils were gone; bound
for the city north, never to return. Her examination chambers were as dim and
empty as ever, with nothing but the dancing lanterns and the stale smell of
death to keep her company. Bastille wiped her hands clean and scraped the excised
organs into a pail, then slid the female corpse onto the gurney and returned it
to its cold locker. If Brother Soleil didn’t come down to help her cut up the
rest of the body later, she’d have to do it herself. Without an assistant like
Adeleine to help her, it was Soleil or nobody.

Bastille still wanted to examine the decomposing body in the
nook by the east tower, but she wouldn’t get a chance until the afternoon
sessions ended. Dinner would come soon after that, which left her only about an
hour in between. There was one other thing she could try, though, if she wanted
more time. She could find her way into the east tower using another labyrinth entrance.

The secret door inside the walk-in freezer was the only other
entrance she knew how to activate, and that was all the way on the other side
of the basilica. What was more, the kitchen and pantries would be crawling with
Sister Deniau’s staff by now, as they set about preparing the evening meal.

Bastille thought of the manhole cover she’d noticed while
walking with Sister Gallica in the conservatory. If she could make her way into
the gardens without raising suspicion, that manhole cover would be the perfect
place to enter the labyrinth. It was close to the east tower, and the dense
stalks, vines, and fruit trees shrouded it from view on every side.
That’s
what I’ll do
, she decided, though her head began to pound viciously at the
thought.

Counting down the minutes to when classes started was an
excruciating ordeal. She returned to her bedchamber to wait, set her daylight
dial on the windowsill, and watched its shadow inch along with painful
sluggishness. Bastille contented herself to stare out into the north yard,
which served as the basilica’s burial ground and an accessory to the Hall of
Ancients. From her bedchamber, she could see the section of parapet where
Fathers Ecclesio and LeCravet had the patrol. Both Cypriests were young, as
Cypriests went. Bastille had assisted Soleil during Father Ecclesio’s Nexus
Enhancement the year before. She had overseen the subsequent replacement of his
liver, stomach, and small intestine. Father Ecclesio had been sixty-one at the
time of his Enhancement, a mere babe compared to most of the other inheritors.

The first thing Bastille noticed about the Cypriests this
afternoon was that they weren’t making their rounds or standing vigil like they
normally did. Both Ecclesio and LeCravet were crouching behind the parapet,
still and silent, crossbows in their hands. They’d spotted someone and were
watching to see how close they would come to the walls.
A fresh corpse is
always a welcome gift
, Bastille wanted to tell them. She would’ve thanked
the Cypriests more often, if it had meant anything to them.

Once the afternoon sessions had started, Bastille waited an
extra twenty minutes. By the time she left her bedchamber and began making her
way toward the conservatory gardens, classes were in full swing. The hallways
took her past the spinnery, the sanctuary, and the cloister before spitting her
out through the double doors and into the cavernous conservatory, where Sister
Usara was engaging her pupils in a lecture on the finer points of composting
and fertilization techniques.

“Ah, and here’s just the person to elucidate,” Sister Usara said,
brightening. “Sister Bastille provides much of the necessary fodder we use to
nourish the plants we grow here in the gardens. This is an unexpected surprise.
Aren’t you teaching a class today, kind Sister?”

Bastille felt the iron key clunk against her sternum, heavy
as a brick. “You are mistaken. I have no classes today. Brother Mortial is
still missing. Sister Jeanette is recovering from her illness, and Sister
Adeleine has received a transfer to the spinnery.”

Sister Usara’s smile turned grave. “Dear me, where did you
come by that nasty nick on the head?”

“Just a silly accident. As you were saying, I do provide
fertilizer to the gardens through my work with the sacrificial rites. Actually,
I’ve just processed part of a body this very day, and I’ll be bringing the
remains by during my morning chores tomorrow. It’s a little-known fact that
over-fertilization can result in dangerous levels of nitrate in the soil, which
can then leach into our water supply. Limited as that supply is, and as much as
we rely on natural processes to purify our drinking water here in the basilica,
we must take great care to use appropriate amounts of nitrogen-rich fertilizer.
One of the ways we mitigate the need for fertilization is through the use of
leguminous plants, which provide a natural means of nitrogen fixation. This is
accomplished through the metabolic pathways of the bacteria that attach
themselves to the root nodules.”

Sister Bastille went on to explain this process to the class
at great length. Most of the acolytes and new priests seemed to pay attention
more out of respect than comprehension. Sister Usara looked on with a satisfied
smile, giving Bastille an approving nod every so often as she divulged with her
impromptu lecture.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going about my duties.
Thank you all for your kind attention,” Bastille said, bowing her head.

Usara gave rapid applause, and the class acted in kind.

Bastille rounded the garden border, sighing in relief when she
was out of sight. She ducked into the undergrowth and marched down the path,
where she came to the stream and the little bridge that spanned it. The
cast-iron manhole cover was still obscured beneath a thin layer of dirt, just
as it had been a few days ago. If the high priests did use the labyrinth as often
as was rumored, no one had used this entrance for quite some time.

She brushed the dirt away and tried to pry the manhole cover
from its circular frame. It was heavy, and she strained to lift it. After a few
tries, she managed to raise one side and slide it away from the opening. It
made a deep grinding sound as it moved, and sent the dirt particles jumping and
bouncing in the thick metal grooves.

The lettering around the edge of the manhole cover read
BELMOND CITY MUNICIPAL STORM SEWER. At the center of the manhole was a
three-pointed star with rays of light shining from a hole near the middle.
The
iron key
, she realized.
But why would a city storm drain be marked with
the same symbol as the labyrinth key?
There was something here she wasn’t
seeing; something that was lurking just outside her grasp.

She pushed the manhole cover aside far enough to peer down
into the opening. A metal ladder was bolted to the side of a smooth concrete
wall. Bastille had had the foresight to bring a candle and a striker, which she
produced and lit before starting down the ladder. It was difficult to balance
the candle while she climbed, but she managed to reach the bottom without
dropping it.

She found herself standing in a round concrete tunnel, just
as she had expected. But the water from the conservatory’s stream wasn’t running
through the tunnel. A corrugated metal halfpipe near the ceiling was catching
the stream of water inches below the drain and carrying it away through an
opening in the wall, leaving the tunnel itself dry and comfortable. Where a true
storm drain might’ve continued for miles, this one stopped short after a few
dozen feet, ending before a solid-looking door made of rusty iron.

The markings were on the door. A circular node and three
smaller square ones. An inset where Bastille’s iron key found a perfect fit,
and rings of moving parts that shifted when she rotated the key in place. There
was a hiss, followed by a loud click. Dust puffed around the doorjamb, bringing
the smell of something dank and pulpy to her nostrils. She opened the door.

Bastille was in shock when she saw what was on the other
side. This tunnel didn’t connect with the rest of the labyrinth. It wasn’t part
of the labyrinth at all. She was standing at the entrance to a vast room,
almost the size of the basilica’s sanctuary. The room was full of paper. Stacks
upon stacks of it, piled across the floor and on wooden pallets, blank and
white and unused. Most of it was damp and wrinkled from the subterranean moisture,
and blackish-green mold was growing up the sides like cavities on giant white
teeth.

A short set of concrete steps took her down to the floor,
where she inspected the closest stack. The paper was wet to the touch, and the
first sheet peeled away from the rest like the skin of an orange. It was
thicker than book paper and more durable than parchment, she noted as she held
it; like a canvas, woven together from many small strands. The light from her
candle shone through it, accentuating the texture.

At the back of the room, standing in a neat line, were four
monstrosities of ancient machinery. They reminded Bastille of the looms in the
spinnery, only they were fitted with rollers and spindles and feeders and guide
wheels that still gleamed past the rust that was forming along their edges.
Bastille went over and picked up a thin metal plate that was lying on the
ground beside one of the machines. A rectangle with a silvery sheen, shapes
raised and lowered across its surface to create a picture in reverse. She held
her candle closer and strained to read the backwards lettering, but the shapes
were strange and foreign to her.

There was a noise at the back of the room. Bastille looked up
and noticed a door she hadn’t seen before, in the wall behind one of the big
machines. There was a circular window at eye level, like a ship’s porthole or
the entrance to an industrial kitchen. Beyond the window, there was only
darkness.

Bastille approached the door. Standing before it, she began
to feel an odd presence, like black wings beating around her face with the force
of a desert cyclone. She raised her candle and peered inside.

There was a face.

Sallow, unblemished skin like chiseled gray ice, a long nose
on a face so slender it might’ve been carved from a block of stone, and the
most piercing black eyes Bastille had ever seen. Living eyes. Not some ancient
corpse or statue, preserved and dusty. Eyes that belonged to something alive.

Bastille hollered, stumbled backward, and covered her eyes like
a child who’s seen a scary picture. Her heartbeat surged in her chest, and her
head pounded like a mountain crumbling in on itself. She breathed fast, but
still felt like she was drowning. She cowered in the shadows behind one of the
moldy stacks of paper, and it was a long moment before she could think straight
again.

The image of the face flashed into her head. Something was
alive in there. A being so dreadful that it made Bastille want to scream again, just
knowing it existed. It had seemed to look into every hollow of her soul,
knowing her in an instant with terrible intimacy.

“You shouldn’t have come down here, kind Sister.”

The voice turned Bastille’s blood to ice. It was Sister
Gallica, she knew by the rough syllables and the wad of sputum she heard smack
the concrete floor. The sounds of water rushing down the corrugated halfpipe
outside the doorway heralded the high priest’s arrival.

Bastille turned and stared. “How did you…”

“How did I know you were down here? Only because I saw you
eyeing the manhole cover while we were walking in the gardens the other day. I
asked Sister Usara to notify me if she saw you in the conservatory at any time for
more than a few minutes during your morning chores… just in case. I didn’t know
for sure whether you would poke your nose where it didn’t belong, but I figured
you might. It would appear that you’ve somehow managed to get hold of a copy of
the Arcadian Star, despite not being one of the Esteemed. How might that have
happened?”

When Bastille tried to speak, her mouth was cotton-dry. “I
got it from… Brother Mortial. He gave me his key before he left the basilica
forever.”

Gallica wrinkled her mouth, as though testing to see whether
she could distort it further. “Really. That’s strange, because he would’ve
needed it where he’s going.”

“The city north?”

“Yes, the city north. And then, to places all across the
Inner East.”

“Why?”

Sister Gallica’s smile did nothing to make her more comely.
“My dear, kind Sister Bastille. You would’ve learned all of this when you
became one of the Esteemed. But since that promotion isn’t far off for you, I
suppose an early lesson couldn’t hurt. You’ve proven your loyalty to the Order,
and for that you’ll soon be rewarded. There’s something special about the Arcadian
Star you’ve come into possession of, you see. The Star isn’t just a key to our
labyrinth. It’s the key to the Aionach.”

Bastille was surprised to hear that she was close to becoming
one of the Esteemed. Given the situation, Gallica may only have been posturing
to lure Bastille into a sense of safety, so she stayed quiet and let the high
priest continue.

“The value of the Arcadian Stars is incomprehensible. Time
has shrouded the validity of their existence. They’ve become legend, known by
only a few and recognized as the truth by fewer still. In the ancient times, when
technology was at its peak and the Aionach was in the midst of its most
prosperous era, there was a man who had amassed great wealth in the building of
cities like the one we live in. In his elderly years, he was stricken with
mania, fearing to lose everything he’d accumulated, so he hid his entire
fortune in a series of secret repositories he called Catacombs. That is where
Brother Mortial has in mind to go. He wants to find the locations of the other
Catacombs and discover what treasures lie in wait. They say the man hid all
kinds of things in his Catacombs—something different in each one. Gold,
weapons, Nexus implants, power stations; all manner of technological marvels.
That brings us to the Order. The Order was established as protectorate of these
keys, to keep them out of the hands of those who would use them for ill.”