Alisiyad

by Sarah R. Suleski

  They climbed the many steps up through the burial halls. When they came to the door, Alisiya put out a white hand and stopped Currun. “Russell,” she said, “you must go out first.”

  “Alright,” nodded Russ, walking around her. He didn’t know why, but he felt he should do it. She placed her other hand on his arm briefly, and he felt the touch through to his bone.

  “Why?” Currun protested.

  “The guard is changing,” she said. “Go on.”

  Russ opened the door and walked out, still feeling fuzzy, though he couldn’t quite name the feeling or the reason. He noticed the fresh air, after being in the musty tomb, and looked up at the stars before scanning the garden. The guard was still sprawled out on the path, but the body didn’t seem to register as much more than a dark lump. Perhaps . . . he’d overreacted before . . . .

  He looked over his shoulder. The door was shut behind him. He walked down the path, swiveling his head to look at the bushes and shadows rising on either side. Where am I going?

  Keep walking. You’re doing fine.

  Well, okay . . . . Vague unease gnawed at him, but he kept walking. In a moment, he heard voices, and froze. He looked back again, but the tomb was lost in the bushes. He listened a moment; the voices came from straight ahead of him. Instinct told him to run.

  Wait.

  He waited, not knowing why. He saw light flickering down the path, and wanted to run, but he couldn’t run, so he waited. Two guards came walking down the path, and he felt naked and foolish. Then he realized that he was bait again.

  Shit. He tried to dart into the bushes, but it was too late. They yelled out, and as he ran into the dark he heard them pursue. He ran, not knowing what was shadow and what was bush, swerving away from nothing and stumbling into leaves. They could see him, with their lights, and he felt cornered, helpless. Their voices continued to call out, shouting orders, but louder to him was the thump of feet on ground and his heart in his ears. He had daggers, but against two guards? Forget about it. Where am I going? he wondered, but there was no answer this time.

  Up ahead he saw another path open up, and took it. A gate called to him, standing tall and welcoming in the moonlight. He sprinted toward it, then heard a single sound speak to him on the other side. A bark.

  “The dog kennels are down past the garden this way.”

  His limbs stopped working. He froze and stumbled, falling to the ground, seeing the darkness turn to grass blades just before he slammed into it. Panicking, he tried to scramble back to his feet, but they were on him. Guards, not dogs. Somehow even in his fear the thought rose in him with relief. They grabbed him from behind and pinned his arms back, forcing him back down on his knees. He struggled, trying to kick and thrash them away; to get to his knives.

  Sharp pain struck and filled the back of his head, and he fell.

  Chapter 22 ~ Take Me to the King

  Chains. He was in chains. Russ felt them before he knew anything else, before his throbbing head or cramped limbs, before the cold stones or the even colder air, before smelling the haziness of smoke or seeing the flickering bars of torchlight on the floor. His ankles and wrists were locked in irons, connected to chains bolted to the floor. He opened his eyes and lifted his head; his neck felt like it was chained to an anvil, and he dropped it back down. He saw nothing but blackness above him, but there were bars of light on the floor next to him, filtering through iron bars on the door in the wall across from him. He was lying on the floor, flat on his back.

  Locked me in, he thought, blinking rapidly. But the lock on the door was nothing, the door with its little ironclad window was nothing, the chains were everything. Oh god, he lifted his hands, hearing the links click together as the chains lifted with them. His hands felt impossibly heavy. I’ll never get out of these, he crossed his arms over his chest, feeling the cold metal weight down on his lungs. Don’t panic.

  He tried to breathe evenly, but couldn’t. The longer he was awake, the heavier the clamps felt, the less able to move he felt, the faster and shallower he felt himself breathing. He turned over on his right side, feeling the chains on his left side tense as they met their limit. Even as he realized that he was panicking, he yanked at the chains violently, twisting around and feeling his throat constrict as the iron bit into his skin. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see anything. He could only feel the chains, hear the chains, oh God they wouldn’t go away . . . .

  “You, stop that racket;” a human voice broke in on his frenzy. He froze. A shadow blocked out the bars of light.

  Russ swallowed. “Where am I?”

  “Be quiet,” snapped the man.

  “But I—”

  “Go to sleep.” He hit the door with a thump. “You’ll be seeing the King in the morning, when he’s awake, and the whole bloody palace is awake. Until then, the whole bloody place is asleep and you’re going to sleep if I have to—” he thumped the door again “—to make you! Good night.” The slats of light reappeared.

  “Wait,” Russ called, trying to sit up. “I can’t . . . these chains.”

  “You will sleep in the chains or I will wrap the chains around your neck.”

  Russ blinked at the flow of acerbic words, and fell silent. But the chains were still in the forefront of his mind. The only time he’d ever felt such helpless fear was when the dogs had been circling, ready to attack. He’d never thought of himself as claustrophobic before, but there was no other way that he could think of the feeling. He didn’t even want to think of it; he just wanted them to be off.

  Think about something else. He lay back down and tried to relax, just accept that if he moved this way or that way, the chains would rattle and tighten and pull on him. He lay with his palms up, trying not to clench his hands into fists, and stared at the ceiling. The floor was so cold it was starting to make him shiver. He figured he must be in a cell . . . in a dungeon, probably . . . somewhere in Leeton’s palace. Where were Alisiya and Currun? Did they get away, while he was running through the garden like an idiot? Don’t think about the chains. Can’t be thinking about the chains. Was that really the idea behind sending him out? Distract the guards so they could get away? It didn’t make sense. After what Alisiya had said to him, she couldn’t really have meant to just chuck him aside like . . . like meat for the wolves.

  At least, he thought, if they had gotten away because of his capture, Liseli would be woken up soon. That was the whole damn reason for coming to this place, anyway, so Liseli would wake up. So Alisiya would wake her up. So she said. He swallowed, shoving the creeping doubt away from his mind.

  The stones felt colder. He wished they’d at least given him a blanket or a mat. Or straw. Something. That was so stupid. To walk out there like that, and stand around waiting for the guards to see you. Idiot. But that’s what Alisiya had told him to do, and at the time he couldn’t think to refuse. Why would Alisiya volunteer to help Liseli if she were going to do this to him? He thought she had wanted to help them.

  What would Liseli think when she woke up and he was gone, captured, probably executed? Executed. They would find the dead guard, and think he’d done it, wouldn’t they . . . . What would Liseli think, when she knew he’d sacrificed himself, like this, for her? I wonder if she’ll miss me. He blinked rapidly for a moment, turned his head to wipe his eyes on his arm. The chain slithered across the floor with a cold chink chink chink. He took a deep breath. Stop that.

  Sleep. He wanted to sleep. He was just too tired to think about this anymore. Bone-weary, mind-numbingly, straight-through-to-the-soul tired. Of everything.

  He’d see Leeton in the morning, and that’d probably be the last thing he’d ever see, before heaven or hell or whatever was waiting for him. He didn’t want to sleep the rest his life away. But he didn’t want to spend his last hours thinking about his last hours, either; it was like the dogs all over again, only they would be circling for hours and hours until they struck. He didn’t want to die like this. He didn’t want to die at all, but esp
ecially not like this.

  He blinked again, but didn’t bother wiping his face on his sleeve this time. He didn’t want to hear the chains snicking across the floor. Tears turned cold on his face as they ran down into his collar. He was ashamed to be looking death in the face and sniveling like a coward, a coward and a baby and a helpless idiot chained to the floor. But it was all so wrong, dying like this; he couldn’t accept it. Take it like a man, a cruel voice in his head laughed, but he didn’t feel like a man. It was impossible to even feel very human in those chains.

  Please. He turned his gaze away from the empty black hole that was the ceiling somewhere, and stared at the slatted light. Four perfect bars of light on the floor, on the wall. Don’t do this to me. Not now. I want to live. I’ve never wanted to live like I want to live now . . . please I really, really want to live. Please don’t kill me now . . . .

  Chapter 22 ~ Take Me to the King, part 2

  Morning came without him knowing it. The light didn’t change, the darkness didn’t change. He’d slept on and off throughout the night, dreaming nightmares, waking to worse reality. Then, apparently, it was morning and the door opened, flooding his cell with yellow light.

  Two guards unchained him from the floor and heaved him to his feet. He could barely stand, every muscle feeling like he’d been beaten to a pulp. They walked him out, down a hall, to another room where they splashed water on his face — “cleaning him up,” they called it — and let him relieve himself over a trough along the wall. One last piss before dying, he thought ironically. Now that it came to it, he just felt numb. He only hoped that Liseli would miss him. Or at least remember him.

  The guards led him up a flight of stairs. They put smaller chains on him, shackles on his hands and feet that would still allow him to walk. He went without protest. It wasn’t like it would do any good.

  They brought him above ground, then, and he found himself walking down a corridor with empty cages on each side. The place smelled like . . . something . . . somewhere he’d been before. They walked a little further and came past cages that weren’t empty, and he remembered. He’d been to the dog pound once, when he was eleven, with a friend whose dog had been picked up by animal control for trotting down Main Street

  without a collar. The kennel. Oh God. Oh Fucking God. If these dogs trotted down the main street of Fayette, no one would notice whether or not they were wearing collars. Everyone would run screaming. He wanted to run screaming.

  Somehow he kept walking. Some of the dogs were still sleeping, some were scratching their ears, yawning, stretching, some eyed him groggily as he paraded by. Don’t panic. Just looking at them was like reliving every bite over again. But he kept walking silently between the guards. When he had been in that dog pound, so long ago, he’d stared at all the scruffy mutts and wished, more than he’d wished for anything besides his father coming back, that he could take one home. Now he stared straight ahead and tried not to think about the monsters that these people called “dogs.”

  They exited the building, walked past outdoor cages and a large empty yard scattered with bones. He gulped, wondering what kind of bones they were. Probably just dinner scraps, pig legs and cow hocks. Probably.

  They passed the garden without entering, continuing past the dog kennels to walk under a gateway that led to a courtyard. Women were out doing laundry in the morning sun, hanging clothes up to dry, and they paused to stare at him. He realized that he probably did look pretty shitty. Funny they all looked at him mistrustfully, disapprovingly, maybe even a little disgustedly, before quickly turning back to their work. No one seemed to pity the fact that he was being marched to his death.

  They entered the palace by a back entrance near the servant quarters. They kept on walking, stepping into larger, fancier halls with artwork and sculptures lining the way. Russ wasn’t in a mood to admire the decorations and high ceilings, but as he looked around he couldn’t help but compare it to Arlic’s house in Elharan. That had reminded him more of an old castle, gray and shadowy. Leeton’s palace was brighter, more open and modern seeming. Where Elharan had been dark, Varaneshe was light. Ironically so, he thought.

  He stumbled, and the guards gripped him tighter, steadying him and pushing him on. They turned him into a room and sat him down roughly on a wooden chair. He feared for a moment that he was about to be tortured. But it confused him. The simple chair was in stark contrast to the rest of the room. A massive desk with an ornate chair stood toward the back, reminding him of a judge’s seat in a courtroom. The walls were painted gold with dark blue curtains framing the windows that spread from floor to ceiling. A beautifully woven blue and gold rug was underneath him, and he thought vaguely that they probably wouldn’t want to get his blood on it. He looked at the desk again, and thought with a glimmer of hope that maybe he was going to get a trial. Then his heart sank again, as he took stock of himself, bound with chains, unshaven, haggard, smelling, dressed in rough travel clothes. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say for himself . . . . There didn’t seem to be any legitimate way to explain his presence, and there was that dead guard . . . .

  Two men entered the room near the back, by the desk. The first was dressed in a white blouse-like shirt and long dark blue pants. He wore an embroidered jacket over it; long like the style Arlic wore, blue but covered in a gold-threaded pattern like curling vines. The man’s hair was short curling black and he had light blue eyes that landed on Russ with a frown the moment he entered. He looked to be maybe late 30s, early 40s, but Russ had a feeling he wasn’t. Instead of sitting behind the desk he leaned against it, crossing his arms.

  The other man was less interesting. He wore a simple black robe and stood by the door.

  “So, this is him?” the first man asked, but then without pausing went on, “Has he been questioned?”

  “No,” said the second. “I haven’t had a chance. Would you rather we worked on him first?”

  He shook his head, much to Russ’s relief. “I’ll do it,” he said, a little more ominously. “What is your name?”

  Russ’s mind went blank. What was the name he was supposed to give? He couldn’t remember! Did it matter? Ayohdi, no that was Currun’s, his was—

  “Answer the King,” the man by the door said sharply, and one of the guards struck Russ on the back of his head.

  “Ah.” Russ winced, his eyes watering. The hell with it, he thought, sitting up straight. He met the King’s hard blue eyes and tried to look undaunted. “Russell John Markson. Junior,” he threw in, hoping it might sound good.

  King Leeton stared at him for a long moment. His eyes flickered, turning a darker shade of blue. Russ stared back, wondering at the sudden, inhuman shift. But that was the only change in Leeton’s expression; Russ couldn’t tell what was actually going on in the King’s head, and it was unnerving. He faltered, finding himself staring at the jacket, unable to stand the scrutiny of those eyes. “What was that?” Leeton asked slowly.

  Russ swallowed. “Russ,” he said. “My name is Russ.”

  “Where are you from?” the King snapped.

  Northern fishing villages, northern fishing villages . . . . “Oh, you haven’t heard of it,” he mumbled.

  “Answer the King!” the other man ordered again, and another hand smacked Russ’s head.

  “Stop it,” Leeton said irritably. He stepped forward and yanked Russ’s chin up. “Try me.”

  “Fayette.”

  “You’re an otherworlder,” Leeton said bluntly, releasing his face. “Fayette is a French name. But you speak English and have an English name. You must be either American or Canadian. Which is it?”

  Russ looked at him curiously. “How do you know all that?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” Leeton said, but held his hand up to the guards. Russ still ducked.

  “Alright, I’m from America. Wisconsin. It’s by the Great Lakes.”

  “I know where it is,” snapped Leeton. “How did you get here?”

  Russ clasp
ed his hands together, feeling the manacles bite into his wrists. “I walked.”

  “You walked. How did you walk from your world to this one?”

  “I’m not sure. It just happened,” Russ said, thinking of the strange feeling he’d gotten by the Mill, like standing on an edge, then the reaching and the light and the strange gray road . . . . But he kept silent about that. “I was back home one moment and here the next. Sort of.”

  “Oh so it was all that easy,” Leeton said with disgust. “So you just glided through a Gate without even knowing it was there. Don’t play stupid with me, I know a thing or two about Gates, Russell John Markson Junior.” He stopped, took a breath, calming himself. “What you claim is impossible. The Gates are shut. Deactivated.”

  “Broken,” Russ added quietly.

  “Broken. Why do you say that?” Leeton asked, leaning toward him. “Tell me.”

  “It felt like it was broken,” Russ said, realizing that explanation for the first time. “That’s why it hurt.”

  “It hurt; you didn’t say that.” Leeton crossed him arms and tapped his fingers against them impatiently.

  Russ shrugged one shoulder. “I saw a road,” he admitted, feeling the back of his head tingle. “Sort of. Only for a little bit, then a big light swallowed everything and I was here. In Alisiya. In the woods.”

  “A big light. Did this light speak to you?” Leeton pressed.

  “Ah . . . ah . . . yeah, actually,” Russ remembered in surprise. “Not with words though. Not like . . . that. I felt it.”

  “It felt you.” Leeton turned and paced away, stopping in thought. He raised a hand to stroke his clean-shaven face.

  “Ahem,” the man by the door cleared his throat. “My lord, this man was found in the garden last night, by the body of one of the guards. He murdered the man and I believe we should be focusing on why he—”

  Leeton waved his hand and shook his head, cutting the man off. “No, Prosporin; later. This is far more important, with all due respect to our man. Who—” he spared Russ with a glance “—leaves behind a bereaved wife and three small children. We will discuss what you were doing in my garden, killing my guards, later. Right now I want to know what you are doing in my world.”