Nicks struggled to push the man off, but he was strong, incredibly so, and in a moment his hands were wrapped, vice-like, around Nicks’s neck. “Wha—Came … to … help,” Nicks croaked.
The man squeezed tighter, his expression wild, his teeth bared back in a silent snarl. “Memory … sent … us,” Nicks managed and, as if the mention of her name was magic, Cameron recoiled, bounding off of Nicks as if he’d been burned.
“N-Nicks?” The man asked in a hoarse voice, “Is that you?”
Nicks coughed, rubbing at his burning throat as he slowly rose to his feet, “Just who in the shit else would it be?” He demanded. “Divines, man, you’ve got hands like a blacksmith’s tongs.”
Cameron studied him for a moment and, even as Nicks watched, the blazing green in his eyes relaxed to a dull sullen glow. “I’m … sorry, Nicks. I thought ….” He hesitated and waved it away, “never mind. I’m sorry.”
“Well, that’s a damned relief,” Nicks said, frowning, “Anyway, we thought they’d killed you for sure.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying.”
“Well, what happened? And just what in the Pit is wrong with your eyes? I ain’t never seen green eyes like that before. Shit, I damn near died of a heart attack before you started chokin’ me to death.”
The man frowned, “Green,” he said, as if to himself, “green eyes for green dreams.”
Nicks was just about to ask what in the fuck that meant when Cameron shook his head, “Never mind that, there’s no time. We have to go and now. Keep up if you can.”
“Well, now just hold on a damned minute now,” Nicks said, “Just where are we going? I mean damnit, man, let’s take a second to breathe, why don’t we? Those of us who can anyway,” he grumbled.
“No time,” the man said again, glancing up at the sun, “if you want to save your people, if you want to save Memory, we’ve got to go. Now.”
Before Nicks could object the man was off, sprinting down the path like some damned gazelle. Nicks spat a curse.
“I think you made him mad.”
Nicks turned to his companion, “And just what good were you, huh? Standing there like a damned mute while I got the damned life choked out of me.”
“He wasn’t gonna hurt you, Nicks,” the big man said, a wounded expression on his face. “Besides, he had green eyes.”
“Ah shit,” Nicks said, rubbing at his raw throat, “just come on will ya. And if I end up passing out from lack of oxygen it’ll serve you right to have to carry me all the way back.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“It’s a bad idea is all. You’re liable to get killed goin’ out tonight, what with the Harvesters so worked up.”
Memory frowned at Harmen before forcing a smile on her face and turning back to the little girl, “Why, that’s amazing, Clara. The Magister told me you were getting better at your writing, but I had no idea how much.”
The girl beamed at her, and Memory wiped some of the dirt from the child’s face—an inevitable side effect of their living conditions. “You keep this up for much longer and you’ll be teaching the Magister.”
The little girl giggled, covering her mouth with a small, delicate hand, “You’re silly. I won’t ever be as smart as Pelly. He’s old.”
Memory smiled at this then the girl broke into a coughing fit. It was a dry, rasping sound, out of place on one so young, and Memory felt her smile vanish. “How have you been feeling anyway, Clara?”
The girl nodded, “I’m fine ….” she shrugged, “My throat hurts some.”
As if speaking of it had reminded her, the girl rubbed a hand along her delicate throat. Memory frowned, studying the girl’s hand, and realized that it wasn’t just delicate at all but thin, too thin. Once again she had cause to regret the loss of the supplies from Isaak and Shem’s mission. “Well, I’ll make sure Myra comes by to take a look, how’s that?” She asked, struggling to keep the tears—close now, it seemed they were always close lately—out of her eyes. “I bet you she can do something about that cough.”
The little girl’s face twisted into a pout, “Do you have to? I like Myra, but I hate medicine. It tastes awful.”
“Memory, we need to talk about thi—”
She raised a hand, not bothering to turn around, and Harmen fell silent. “I know it does, sweety,” she said, running a hand through the girl’s hair, “but you have to take it so you’ll grow up big and strong, alright? And don’t forget pretty. Little princesses have to take their medicine, you know.”
The girl giggled again, “I’m not a princess.” Then she sobered and met Memory’s eyes, reluctantly nodding, “But okay. I’ll take the medicine even if it is yucky, if you think I should.”
If you think I should. Standing there, looking at the too-thin girl with her dirt-stained face and clothes, those words sounded like an accusation, but Memory forced herself to smile, “I do. Now, I’ve got to go for a bit but I’ll be back, alright? Maybe you can show me your doll again. What was his name, Barry?”
Clara giggled, “Mary, silly. Barry’s a boy’s name.”
Memory grinned, “I suppose you’re right. Well,” she said, “keep Mary company for me until I get back, okay?”
“I will.”
She rose and motioned for Harmen to follow. “I can appreciate that you think it’s a bad idea,” she said in a low voice as they made their way out of the part of the caverns that served as living quarters. “And maybe it is, but it doesn’t matter. It has to be done. I feel blind, Harmen. It’s as if things are getting away from me—I need to see him.”
He was silent for several minutes as they made their way through the caverns then, finally, he spoke. “You’re upset, Memory. I get it. After Isaak and Shem … well, I’m upset too. But that doesn’t mean you should go into the city—the Harvesters will be out in force after what that fool Cameron did. I told you it was a mistake to trust him. You didn’t listen to me then—listen to me now. Don’t go.”
She turned to him and saw something—was that fear?—in his expression. Sure, and why wouldn’t it be? She realized, now, how foolish she’d been to trust the Harvester, Harmen was right about that much of it. Cameron was likely dead and, if he wasn’t, how long before he told the Church everything he knew? The Church had men who were known for their ability to make a man talk. The thought of the Harvester dead left her feeling cold and helpless but wasn’t that the best alternative? For all she knew, the Church could be on their way here even now, ready to wipe out the rebellion once and for all and whose fault was it, really? Hers, no one else’s. She’d taken a gamble, and she’d lost. She’d risked everyone’s lives for nothing.
She couldn’t even blame the priest. He’d cautioned her that it might not work, had warned her to take it slow, to protect herself, but she’d convinced herself that the man would join them. She’d been a fool. And was she being one now? Was it, as Harmen said, a fool’s errand to go out into the city? For the first time, she found that she didn’t trust herself.
When she set out to gather the rebellion, she’d told herself she was doing it for the good of the city and its people, but was that the truth? Or was the rebellion just a way of getting back at the men who’d taken her sister from her when she was only eight years old? A cold chill ran up her back. Was the rebellion, the rescuing of those chosen for the Drawing, was it all just a reflection of her hate for those in power? Were all of the deaths, even that of the Harvester—for, surely, he must be dead—products of a child’s hatred, nothing more?
No. She wouldn’t believe it, she couldn’t believe that Shem and Isaak had died for no reason. And that, of course, brought up another question. How had the Church known that they’d be there? And that wasn’t all. For the past few months, she’d felt as if the Church was always one step ahead of them, Harvesters tracking the Chosen down only moments before the rebellion took them in, not to mention the attempted assassination on Cameron and the successful one on his friend, Falen. Something was wrong, and she nee
ded to figure out what it was. She met the big man’s scowl, “I have to go, Harmen,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. She needed to speak to the priest, needed him to make her believe that all of the deaths meant something, that she wasn’t throwing away the lives of those around her for nothing.
Harmen grunted in displeasure, “Look, I know that you’re upset,” he held up a hand to forestall her, “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna try to get you to stay; it’s clear you’ve made your mind up. But do me this favor, at least. Let me come with you. Goin’ off on your own before was one thing, but with things the way they are, you need someone watchin’ your back.”
Memory considered that for a moment. It would be a comfort to have the big man along. But then, slowly, she shook her head. “I can’t, Harmen. Know that I would if I could but the … my friend, has risked everything to help us. The secret of who they are is not mine to give. I’m sorry.”
He opened his mouth, obviously preparing to yell at her for being foolish but, surprisingly, he stopped and nodded. “Alright, if that’s the way you think it has to be then alright. But promise me you’ll be back by tonight. I know that you want answers, but the people here came because of you. They need you.”
Memory took in the man’s pleading expression—one she’d never seen on his face before—and the sweat gathering on his forehead with surprise. She’d known Harmen to be nervous at times, sure, but he didn’t look nervous now—he looked terrified. “I will, Harmen. I promise,” she said, hating to see him so obviously frightened.
As soon as she’d spoken he let out a breath, nodding, “Alright. There’s that, at least.”
She put a hand on his shoulder, “It’s going to be okay, Harmen.”
He grunted, “If you say so.”
She smiled and stood on her tip toes to kiss him on the forehead, “We’re not finished yet.” Then she turned and started away.
“Remember, back before dark!” He shouted after her.
“Yes, father!” She yelled back, a smile on her face. Now that her mind had been made up, she felt better. She would see the priest and, somehow, everything would be alright.
Had she turned to look, she would have seen Harmen grinning, and, perhaps, if she had looked closely enough, she would have noticed something strange about that grin. It wasn’t an expression of humor at all, but one of hunger, of anticipation, and it was still well in place long after she’d gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
If the histories were true, the Great library of Carel had once been a place of splendor and learning, a sanctuary where scholars from all over the realm came to share ideas, to debate and present on topics ranging from the sciences to history, to arithmetic, philosophy, and more. It had been, according to the records, a place where the truths of the world were sought and laid bare by men and women who’d dedicated their lives to the task. A place that shaped the lives and times of all those living and those who would come after. But, then, like so many things, the library’s time had come and passed.
The towering white walls of marble were still impressive in scope, though their grandeur was marred by centuries of accumulated stains and dirt as well as the purposeful defacement of individuals who found it not enough to state their feelings but instead needed to paint them on the library’s once glorious walls. Seeing the place always put Memory in mind of an old prostitute trying, and failing, to hide her imperfections beneath heavy face paint, the flowered perfumes she rubbed on her skin doing nothing to mask the smell of sickness emanating from her.
The statue on top of the library—that of a gray-bearded, robed man who held a book in both hands—seemed to gaze out across the city. She supposed that, when it had been made, the depiction of Dionen, the Divinity of knowledge and truth, had been meant to be looking forward with optimistic expectation to a future that could only be glorious, but she always felt that the man’s expression—marred and pocked by years of wind and rain—seemed more bemused than hopeful. And she had the curious idea that the book the god held—one meant to symbolize all of the world’s knowledge and truth---was completely blank.
Other statues in the city, such as that of Parro, the Divine of War and Conflict, were regularly maintained but not that of Dionen. She supposed that such a thing said much about the people of her age—that war should be praised before knowledge—but if the people or the city or the Church were concerned, she had never seen a sign of it.
She looked out at the crowded street running in front of the library from the alley where she stood, anxiety making her stomach roil. Although the library itself got little traffic, the street that ran in front of it was one of the main thoroughfares of the city and dozens of merchants stood at their stands and carts, shouting and hawking their wares to the men and women making their way past. Forcing herself to be calm, she took a slow, deep breath and headed for the door. The priests of Dionen—what few were left—claimed that the quest for knowledge and truth was the most vital undertaking in a man or a woman’s life. They did not, however, claim it was easy.
She pushed her way inside, wincing as the large doors gave a loud creak. They swung shut behind her and the silence of a tomb descended. The only sound was that of her footsteps on the tiled floor as she made her way past a bored looking clerk at the front desk, each step ringing like thunder as it echoed through the massive chamber.
She found that she was sweating and wiped an arm across her forehead as she moved further into the library proper. The shelves here were three times the height of a man, and they stretched in every direction, their surfaces covered in tomes and scrolls covering nearly any topic imaginable. The hallways themselves were so long that she couldn’t see the end of them from this side, and it would have been an easy thing to become lost here had she not made the trip on several other occasions.
She didn’t see many people as she made her way through the alleys of books, a boy and a girl of no more than sixteen stealing kisses in one aisle starting guiltily as she walked by them, their quest for a very specific type of knowledge resuming the instant they realized she wasn’t a clerk of the library or—Divines forbid—one of their parents. Here and there clerks moved about the aisles reorganizing books or dusting shelves, the keepers of this ghost world of forgotten knowledge and neglected wisdom.
All the people Memory saw looked innocent enough, but she refused to take any chances, reminding herself of the very real danger she faced. She walked the long hallways at a leisurely pace, pausing now and then to glance at the shelves, sifting over the titles with a finger looking, she hoped, like nothing more than a bored house wife out for some light, diverting reading. From time to time, she stole glances behind her to assure herself that no one followed her or marked her movements.
After nearly an hour of seemingly purposeless browsing, she made her way to the back corner of the library where several small, soundproof rooms were spaced at intervals, shades drawn on the windows. Those that were unoccupied stood with their doors open. These rooms had been here since the library had been built, ostensibly, for the purpose of men and women meeting and sharing knowledge and debating points without any distractions. But times had changed, people had changed, and the quest for knowledge—if it still existed at all—did so without parades or fanfare, its few remaining champions tired and old and nearly as forgotten as the truths they studied.
Divines but what a mood you’re in, she thought, doing her best to shake off her melancholy. She would have time for it later, but now she needed to be focused. She spared one more glance behind then walked to one of the closed doors and knocked twice, paused, and knocked once more. A moment passed, then another, and the latch was thrown from the other side, the metallic rasp of it echoing in the silence of the library. Memory winced and stepped inside, latching the door behind her.
The old man stood propped on his crutch, several scrolls and books laid out on the room’s desk from where he’d apparently been studying them before she’d arrived. He smiled at her, his b
lue eyes sparkling with intelligence. If the quest for knowledge is still undertaken, she thought, then it is headed by men like this.
“Ah, my dear,” he said, “It’s good to see you.”
Despite all of her worries, all of her nagging fears, Memory found herself smiling in return. “It’s good to see you as well, sir.” She stepped forward and hugged him, careful not to upset his balance.
“Please,” he said, waving a hand at one of the chairs, “sit down.”
Memory did, and he hobbled to his own chair, sighing with relief as he sagged into it. For a time, neither of them spoke, sharing instead a comfortable silence, neither quite ready to intrude upon the happy moment of reunion with the dangers of the present.
Since she’d begun the rebellion, Memory rarely got to see the man who had been like a father to her since her own was murdered, along with her mother and sister. The familiar bitterness welled up in her and, before she could stop it, the memory rose out of her mind.
Her parents throwing their family’s meager belongings into chests, glancing at the door every few seconds, their faces pale and afraid. Memory herself at her sister’s bedside, her own hands shaking as she threw back the bloody sheets and rags the midwife had used, unable to keep the terror from her own voice. “Come on, Izzy,” she said, shooting her own look at the door, “we have to go now. Please—”
Isabelle smiled, her face glowing with contentment as she held her new baby girl to her chest. Isabelle was five years older than her, but never before had those years seemed as significant, as mysterious as they did now. It seemed to her that delivering her daughter had changed Isabelle, had made her more adult in some indefinable way and, looking at her, and at the tiny, sleeping baby she held, Memory thought that nothing leading up to this mattered.
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