Alexandria

by Kaden, John

  “Oh,” says Jack, twisting his face in confusion. “I haven’t even seen her in years.”

  “It’s all right, Jack, I know. You were together all the time back home, I just thought you should know.”

  “I… I don’t…”

  “She’ll be fine, don’t worry. I know how you feel.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah. I always… I kind of wanted to end up with Jeneth, doubt if you knew that.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t think she did either. But Eriem’s decent to her. She has a good life. I still don’t like him much,” he says, grinning. Jack grows quiet. Braylon stands and throws his pack over his shoulder. “Anyway, I thought you should hear it from me.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s okay. Hey, imagine if a girl from our little group became Queen of the whole Temple.”

  “Yeah,” says Jack. “That would be something.”

  Braylon claps him on the shoulder and lights off for the dormitory. Jack lies numbly back on his mattress and drapes his forearm across his face and a keening moan escapes his throat.

  In his sleep he makes a familiar voyage to the ghost village of his dreams. It has grown oblong and hopelessly distorted. Flames no longer dance around him—he is surrounded by cold wet ash, and at the far end of the warped promenade he sees a shimmering form, but it is not his mother. It is Lia. No fire rages between them, yet still she glimmers behind a wall of heat waves. He runs to her, but Jack knows this story. He will come tantalizingly close and never reach her. He sees as he draws near that she is a child still, the way he remembers her best. Black hair tied up with garlands of flowers and ivy draped over her tiny form. She shimmers and he runs to her, but it is useless. She retreats faster than he can advance. He looks down at his own body and sees that he is coal-blackened from head to toe, wearing a sash of murder weapons and wielding a razor sharp machete. He realizes with horror that she is running away from him—running for her life.

  In the pale, thin morning he awakens groggy and shaken and remembers none of it.

  Arana stands along the balustrade of the high terrace, sighting off at the distance through a short metal scope with Keslin at his side, looking like helmsmen at the prow of some strange vessel. A caravan of lean and rangy warriors twists between the collapsed rubble in the valley and pushes through the final ascension before emerging onto the Temple grounds, a train of prisoners twenty cages deep in tow.

  “A day early,” Keslin beams.

  Arana snaps the scope closed and hands it off to an attendant. They wind briskly down the stairs to the foyer where Ezbeth and Nisaq are collected with a crew of stewards, watching the caravan approach. They carry on through the vast entryway and down the grand staircase. Arana greets his followers as he passes the reflecting pool, the favorite son engaging his supplicants. Keslin marches off and takes a tally of heads and finds all men accounted for.

  The caravan curves around back of the Temple, accruing a gallery of onlookers, and gathers finally in the holding area behind the stage. They roll the door shut behind Arana and he commences working the room, going from one man to another.

  “Welcome back,” he tells Eriem. “You have a beautiful baby girl waiting at home. You make the Temple very proud.”

  He moves on to the next.

  In the cages, traumatized by the freshly discovered depths of human cruelty, sits a new batch of children waiting for their spirits to be broken and reshaped like so many wild horses.

  Lia sits on the edge of her bed, wearing her pretty gown, and weeps. She has paced through her options a dozen times looking for some opening, some flaw in the Temple’s security. Sentries patrol the corridors endlessly, and past them she would be met with locked doors and guarded exits. Even if she succeeded in reaching the outside she would be captured or killed before she fled the provinces, or eaten alive in the woods if she made it that far. It would be suicide, and if suicide were her poison there would be no reason to leave her bedchamber whatsoever. She could cut her veins here and now and be done with it.

  She stands and undresses, hanging her gown and accoutrements delicately back on their rack, then slips into her nightgown. She reflects on Jeneth and Phoebe and the rest of the girls that rely on her. In a daze, she blows out the candles and pulls back the covers and climbs into bed, far too early.

  Faraway cheers echo from the amphitheatre. Jack walks down the road with his training group, late on their way to the Temple to watch the parade. He would have preferred to stay behind and miss the whole endeavor, but the barracks and all the shops are locked and closed for the morning.

  He hangs off to the side when they reach the amphitheatre. The men with selection rights sit in the front row, tight, conceited smiles on their lips, and Nisaq calls them to the stage one at a time and gives each a glowing introduction and speaks of their accomplishments. Jack recognizes some of them as the men who burned his village and murdered everyone but the children. They smile and bow humbly as the audience cheers.

  Next, the women are paraded on stage in similar fashion, with Ezbeth singing the praises of each pure young woman. Jack doesn’t want to look but he cannot help himself. Lia is gorgeous, and so different from the child that he remembers. The men scan her body with want in their eyes, her delicate features, the tan hollow of her neckline. He looks away and walks.

  He crosses under the trellised archway and meanders along the garden path by the pool, nodding casually to the warriors stationed at the perimeter of the grounds. A low marine layer has settled in the valley and the rusted girdings of ancient buildings spike up through the gray haze.

  The morning ceremony draws to a close and the assembled crowd spills out of the amphitheatre and swarms the grounds, chattering blithely as they collect in the garden to watch the last of the parade. The procession of girls in their finery walks across the head of the reflecting pool toward the Temple entrance. Lia is in the middle, flashing a frozen smile around at the masses of onlookers. She turns her head in Jack’s direction and across the vast pool their eyes lock—the first time in years.

  Electricity shoots through his body. In this instant they are back in their cages and Jack sees her through the rough bars of the cages that once imprisoned them. The distance between them collapses in a spiraling tunnel and he flashes to that horrifying day, dirty and scared, pretty brown eyes wide with fear as she looked deeply across the ring of cages and he looked back, the orange campfire lighting their solemn faces. He holds her gaze now as then, and they cling to each other across the distance.

  Lia.

  They used to play together. They found a little golden tree together.

  She follows the girls in her coterie and turns to climb the grand staircase and their connection is broken. Jack watches her leave, his feet immobile on the ground, throngs of people coursing around him, a stone in running water. One bumps his shoulder.

  “Sorry,” Railek says, and walks off to steward the newcomers.

  Jack looks around. He looks at the Temple. He looks at the ocean and the ruins. He looks at the people, smiling happily, enjoying the gardens and the beautiful pool.

  The hair stands up on his arms.

  In the distance of hindsight, he will remember this as the exact moment when so many hopelessly muddled thoughts resolved themselves to astounding clarity.

  Lia will stand for selection in the bonding rights ceremony tomorrow night. She will be chosen. If she is chosen by Arana Nezra and bears him an unworthy child, she will be locked away. If she bears him a blue-eyed son, she will be his Queen. She will be chosen, by someone else if not the King, and the women who are chosen are expected to submit—if Lia contains any remnants of her former self then she will not submit, and the women who do not submit are taken by force.

  Jack will not allow this.

  Chapter Seven

  The Temple commoners stand around in various cliques as the festivities die down, holding forth about all manner of business, delaying their retur
n to work as long as possible. Jack walks a slow circle around the grounds. He pauses at the rear corner, near the abandoned girls’ lodge, and walks his eyes up the ascending tiers of the tapered structure and watches the chimney smoke puff out and float away on the breeze.

  “What are you doing, Jack?”

  He snaps his head around and sees a group of sledge workers dawdling around by the stage.

  “Just looking.”

  “It is beautiful. It’d better be.”

  “How’s the soldier’s life treating you? Karus said you’d probably be a hero by now.”

  “It’s treating me fine. Still training. I should probably be getting back there now.”

  “It’s not even lunch yet, what’s the hurry?”

  “Practice.”

  “Oh, clear the way, the young master needs his practice.” The men let out a wry laugh as he passes. “Good luck to you.”

  “Thanks,” Jack says, smiling as he strolls down the roadway toward the training camp. The fields are deserted and the barracks remain shuttered, only a couple of listless sentries stand watch.

  “How was the parade?” one asks as he approaches.

  “Same as the last one I saw. I’m going to the field early.”

  The sentry nods and Jack heads off toward his spoken destination. When he gets around the corner, out of sight, he changes course and angles in along the side of the building. The back wall behind the washroom has turned damp and rotted, in need of replacement. He stops and darts his eyes around, checking the fields and outbuildings for any strays that might be watching. Tensely satisfied, he reaches to his side and draws a knife from its sheath and kneels down by the rear corner, working the blade between the horizontal slats along the bottom. He shimmies it down the length of the gap, prying it out little by little, careful to not split the rotted board in half.

  He takes another quick look around, then sets his knife off to the side and grabs the board with both hands and pulls it free, laying it down flat on the grass. Prone on his side, he rolls into the washroom. It’s pitch-black as he walks through the barracks, hands outstretched and waving around before him to sense out obstacles. Soon he adjusts and the dim minuscule light sneaking between the clapboard cracks gives him just enough to see by. He takes up a heavy bundle of rope hung on the far wall and hears a creaking outside the door. He slips his arm through the coiled rope and hustles back into the washroom just as the locks are being fumbled with.

  On his hands and knees he peers through the slim horizontal opening he pried out for himself and looks around for any legs and feet walking about. If they catch him at this he’ll be questioned and imprisoned for sure. He rolls outside into the daylight and pulls the rope out after him, taking quick haste in pushing the fallen board back into some semblance of its rightful position, then tosses the rope up onto the roof of the barracks and quicksteps away.

  “Did you take a fall?” calls Feiyan.

  “Huh?”

  “How come you’re all dirty?”

  “Getting some rolls in before training.”

  “Oh. Taket’s back, we’re going out.”

  Jack falls in line and treads off for the day’s regimen, fetching a look behind as he goes to make sure the lower board holds its place.

  Lia can feel his eyes lingering on her through dinner. He carouses and laughs at the head of the banquet table, the center of attention, entertaining his followers with stories of adventure and conquest, and still she can feel those blue orbs tracing back to her time and again. She sits with her hands folded politely in her lap, staring absently across the table at the men sitting opposite, candelabras lighting their faces with rosy warmth. The entire Hall is draped in elegance, bouquets nestled between the serving platters and wreaths and laurel spangling the walls. Without turning her head she looks left and Arana narrows on her, tightening his thin smile. She shies away and looks down at her empty plate just as the steward comes by to snatch it.

  It feels like the last meal of my life, she thinks, for surely tomorrow her world will change irrevocably—she will be sequestered into domestication by some warrior, or else serve out her life as Arana’s broodmare.

  “Lia!” Lia jerks out of her reverie and faces Ezbeth, who looks on her expectantly. “It’s your turn.” Lia stares blankly. “To say a few words,” Ezbeth finishes, with pronounced irritation.

  “Oh, of course. I just… I came from a small place… with no hope… no promise,” she begins, smile fossilized on her pretty face, “until I was rescued and brought here, to this Temple. I have had the chance to learn duties, and to feel like I’m a part of something much bigger than myself. I’m very thankful for all of this, and I’m looking forward to the next part of my journey.”

  She has made her way down the length of the banquet table, addressing each man briefly in turn, until at last she faces Arana. She does not shy or look timidly away, but meets his piercing stare with her own, captivated by the repulsive satisfaction she sees in his eyes.

  “Wonderful story,” he says.

  Jack plunks down his bed, sore from the day, and reaches down underneath the wooden frame for his pack. He lays it out and rifles around until his hand grasps onto the pendant that Creston gave him. He pulls it out, mindful not to snag its leather necklace cord, and turns it over in his hands. The blended sun and moon. He rolls onto his side, kneading the pendant between his fingers, waiting for the other garrison to return from the range.

  Long about dusk they come traipsing in. It is their first day back since the previous week’s exploits and adrenaline is running high amongst them. Eriem walks with new confidence—his performance was a resounding success. They stow their gear and change in the washroom before most of them set out for the Temple, back to their cottages and dormitories.

  “Eriem,” calls Jack.

  “Hey,” he says, setting his things down. “Good to see you.”

  “How’s Jeneth and the baby?”

  “Good, thanks. Prettiest thing ever.”

  “I think she takes after Jeneth.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Listen, I have something I’d like to give to a friend. I wonder if you’d help me?”

  “Who? What is it?”

  “It’s just this.” He holds the necklace out. “I’d like Lia to have it. Will Jeneth see her tonight?”

  Eriem looks skeptically at the pendant. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “We grew up together. I just want her to know I wish her good things. Will you?”

  He thinks a moment. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Will she see her tonight?”

  “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

  “Thanks, Eriem. I owe you.”

  The map is buck hide, cured with rich tannins and stretched wide and tight across the wall of Arana’s chamber. Symbols in multicolored pigment are etched across its tawny surface, showing a primitive depiction of the coast and inland territories. Spiked chevrons illustrate the encountered mountain ranges, and slithering lines the rivers and streams. Arana and Keslin stand shoulder to shoulder as they study it, swaying a touch from too much wine.

  Black points show the villages and settlements, and X’s designate those that have been attacked and conquered, with tight scribbles listing the bounty and children acquired. Over the inland valley region, fresh ink is drying.

  burnd and cleered

  19 taken

  “I would go here.” Keslin taps a point, the script denoting a village of eighty. “Or here,” he says, sliding his index finger down along the coast. “Those are forest rats, and these live in ruins and dance naked. Neither have strong defenses.”

  Arana stares at the points. “Naked?”

  “On a hill by the southern coast. They’re a vulgar sort.”

  “Make a plan,” he says, taking his mug and lurching toward the fireplace. “Why do you have so little faith in me, Keslin?”

  “I have a lot of faith in you.”

  “You think
I’m insufficient,” says Arana, slurring his words.

  “I don’t follow…”

  “Why we go out and do these ventures… it’s because you think I’m not enough.”

  “Arana…”

  “To protect us. I’m not good enough.”

  Keslin narrows on him cleverly and scratches behind his ear like a mange-ridden mongrel. “That’s not true at all.”

  “I want to go looking again.”

  “We just went.”

  “We were close.”

  “We were not. We’ve spent years looking and it’s gotten us nothing.”

  “It’s out there.”

  “If it’s out there we’ll find it. But after this is dealt with.”

  “There must be another city… farther north than we’ve ever been.”

  “He could have lied,” says Keslin. “Maybe he didn’t want to be found.”

  “He wouldn’t have lied to my father.”

  “I just think it’s a stunning waste of time.”

  “You’re wrong. Think what we could do if we found their secrets.”

  “We could have the forest cleaned of filth in half the time if we put all our strength there. Instead we roam around, chasing whispers.”

  “I know it’s out there, Keslin.” He sets his mug down with a firm thunk. “You would never have talked to my father this way.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Keslin says. “Why don’t you use your powers to guide us? I’m sure we’ll find it in no time.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.” Keslin settles back, his face cryptic. “Even still, it’s not worth the risk. Better to scout what’s close and work our way out from there. If the great city is out there, we’re sure to find it someday.”