Ixeos: Book One of the Ixeos Trilogy (39 page)

Landon is the one who’d brought all the outsiders to the tunnels. No one knew where he came from or how he had transported them to another world in another dimension. No one had known Darian was his son, either, until after he was rescued. Landon didn’t share much.

“Marty says things are settling down around the planet. The Firsts had expected more attacks after the big day. Since nothing else happened, they seem confused.” Marty had cloned two cell phones, which let the computer station and the tunnels be in twice-daily contact.

“Can they feel confused? I thought they didn’t feel any emotion.” Neahle dropped the apple core into her empty cereal bowl.

It was Monkey’s turn to shrug. “I don’t know if that’s an emotion. They don’t know what to expect, I guess. It would have been logical to think we’d keep hammering them after that huge coordinated attack. When we didn’t, well, they don’t know what we’re up to.”

“We don’t know what we’re doing either,” Neahle said with a laugh.

“Hey, y’all,” a voice said. Neahle turned to see Hannah approaching with a cheese sandwich and a mug of hot tea. “What’s up?”

“Same old, same old,” Monkey said with disgust, throwing down his cloth napkin. “I’m going to take a walk. Hannah, you on newbie duty today?”

“Yeah, me and Riley.” Hannah took a seat and blew on her tea.

“I’ll go. At least I can stretch my legs.” He stalked off, leaving the dining area.

Hannah smiled. “He’s really desperate. Nobody’s come through the tunnels since y’all did. How long ago was that? Like nine months?”

“Almost a year,” Neahle said. “Is that a long time?”

“Well…” Hannah cocked her head as she thought back. She flicked her long, dark ponytail over her shoulder. “Yeah, I guess it is. We were so busy for awhile getting ready for the raid, I didn’t really think about it. Maybe that’s why Landon didn’t bring anyone new. We were in the middle of that huge op for months. It would have been hard to get a newbie up to speed with all that craziness going on.”

“But somebody still goes every day, right?” When the McClellands had entered the tunnel, there had been a torch on a sconce by the portal to provide light, and Hannah and Riley had found them within minutes of their arrival. She still shuddered to think about Abacus and Vasco wandering around the tunnels in the dark with no one to greet them or explain where they were.

“Yep, Abacus sends someone every single day. We keep the torch going and make sure no one gets lost. Of course, everyone always goes left into that dead end, and you can’t get lost down there.” They both laughed; Neahle had done the same thing.

“I’ve never been,” Neahle said, finishing her water. “You think I could go with Monkey?”

“I’m sure Riley would be happy to get out of it,” Hannah said. “Just run ask him. Abacus doesn’t care who goes, as long as someone does.”

“So what do you think we’re going to do next?” Monkey asked as they walked side by side down the long tunnel. He held a torch aloft, and Neahle kept her eyes on the ground as they walked through the boneyard of the former Cemetery of the Innocents. When the graveyard had run out of space in 1786, the bones had been dumped en masse into what was then a quarry. Years later unknown people had created patterned walls from the leg bones and skulls, hiding the rest of the bones behind the motifs.

“I already said I didn’t know!” Neahle said, punching him on the arm. “Jeez.”

The older man shook his head with a laugh. “Sorry, I’m just ready to do something. Anything!”

“You’re an adrenaline junkie,” Neahle teased.

Monkey thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, probably. But it felt so great to get Darian out of that prison and to know that the Firsts were taking it on all sides. Then Abacus got shot and so many people up top were killed.” He paused. “I know it’s too dangerous to leave right now; not just for us, but for the rebels. I just don’t like feeling helpless.”

“I want to go visit Rebel Seven,” Neahle said. “Maybe Abacus will approve a trip to Paris. I know Marty and Marissa would love something besides beans and rice.”

“At least they have vitamins so they don’t get sick,” Monkey said. “But yeah, that would be a good idea. Are you sure it’s all of Rebel Seven you want to visit?” He looked at her and grinned.

The leader of Rebel Seven was a young Frenchman named Gilles Moreau. While they hadn’t been able to spend much time together, there was a definite attraction there. Neahle hadn’t been able to see him since before the raid on the prison.

“Maybe,” she said, returning his smile. They walked on a few steps, then Neahle held up a hand. “Listen.”

There were sounds coming from up ahead, where a very pale glow could be made out. The pair looked at each other then started to jog.

“Hello?” Neahle called out as they ran. “Don’t be afraid!”

Monkey snorted and mumbled. “Yeah, that’ll happen. No one’s ever come here and not been scared out of their minds.”

“I’m trying to be nice!”

“Yeah, you probably have better people skills,” Monkey admitted.

They got to the place where they had both entered Ixeos and saw the empty iron sconce on the wall.

“That way,” Monkey pointed ahead down the tunnel. “They always go left.”

Nodding, Neahle took Monkey’s torch and fitted it into the holder. She leaned back against the wall and waited. In less than five minutes they saw the bobbing light from an upheld torch heading back towards them. It stopped thirty feet away; they could make out a dark shape standing uncertainly as the torch flickered.

“Hey,” Neahle called. “It’s okay. We won’t hurt you. And you can’t get out that way.”

“Who are you?” a girl’s voice called, wavering in her fright. Neahle felt sorry for her. She had had the comfort of her brother and cousin when she was standing in that exact same spot, and still she’d been terrified.

“I’m Neahle, and this is Monkey. We’re here to help you. Really. It’s all right.”

“Liar,” Monkey whispered.

“Sh!” Neahle whispered back. Calling out, she said, “What’s your name?”

The silhouetted figure started moving forward slowly. “Sydney,” she said. “Where am I?”

“That’s kind of complicated,” Neahle said, standing still and waiting.

“I don’t understand,” Sydney said. “I was out in the back pasture, and I saw some ducks go into the drain pipe for the pond. That pipe got blocked during the last storm, and I didn’t want the ducks to get trapped, so I went in after them…”

“Yeah. We know those ducks,” Neahle said, smiling at the teenager who was now standing a few feet from her, still holding her torch aloft. Sydney was small, no more than five foot two, and slight; she was sun baked with freckles, hazel eyes, and long light brown hair streaked with blonde.

“You do? But where did they go? And where am I? This isn’t Texas.”

Monkey snorted softly and Neahle elbowed him. “No, it’s not Texas. Actually, it’s Paris. France.”

Excerpt from Solomon’s Throne

Chapter One

Lisbon, Portugal

September 1683

“F
ORGIVE ME, FATHER, FOR I have sinned.”

The Jesuit had heard it a thousand times before, so many times, in fact, that he had a hard time focusing on the penitent in the booth. It hadn’t been the normal day or time for confession, but he had seen the old man stagger into the chapel, and had assumed he was drunk. The city had built up around the old stone church, and the ale house across the way often spilled out its patrons onto the sacred grounds. The Jesuit didn’t mind. What better place to sleep it off than the safety of St. Anthony’s. The streets of Lisbon, especially so near the wharf, could be rough even when one had his faculties fully intact.

He watched the man as he went about his daily tasks of sweeping and checking the many candles, and saw with relief that he had collapsed with his back against the chancel wall, long legs sprawled out in front of him, chin to chest. His knobbled hand clutched the hilt of a long dagger, and his face - what could be seen around the wild spray of whiskers and wiry gray hair - was scarred.

Soldier,
thought the Jesuit. He had seen many in his day, and heard many of their confessions. Many terrible things had been done in the name of God, and the men suffered long after their missions were complete.

Returning from the ash heap outside the rear door, the Jesuit saw that the man was gone. Surprised that he was able to get himself up, he put it out of his mind and continued trimming the tapers. In the silence a
thud
suddenly rang out. Looking around, he realized that he could see the man’s boots under the curtain of the confessional. He hurried over, and took his place behind the screen.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” came the gravely voice. “It has been thirty years since my last confession. I have killed many men. I have lied…” He broke off, coughing. “I’m sorry Father. I have lied to protect a secret, and I am now the last one to know it. But I made an oath that the knowledge would not be lost, and now time has run away with me.”

The Jesuit heard the man shift position in the small booth, and then saw a leather pouch pushed under the dividing wall to his side of the confessional.

“Father, I am entrusting this to you. There are men who would kill you for it. They have chased me and… and caused me great hurt. But they have never beaten me! I have never told my secret, until now. Now, you must carry it. You must protect it. This letter… This letter would change the world. We can’t let that happen…We can’t…”

The man fell into a fit of coughing, and, peering through the screen between them, the Jesuit realized that blood was spewing from his mouth and cascading down his chin.

“My son! Let me help you!” The Jesuit made to open his curtain to go to the man’s aid, when the soldier rose up and roughly wiped his chin with his sleeve.

“No! Father, listen to me! I am dying. I make my final confession to you, and ask my God to forgive me. But you must listen! You must keep this letter from them, at all costs. And you must find the Throne of Solomon. I have led them away - oh Father, I have led them a merry chase!” The man laughed weakly. “But you must find it, and protect it. No one else knows… I am the last.” The man slumped back, and the urgency drained away as he began to fight for breath.

“I am the last. It is in Goa. They will find it if you don’t go… Father, you must go.”

Frantically the Jesuit tore back the curtains and knelt down next to the man. His skin was gray, and his lips were turning blue. Blood ran freely down his chin and onto his tattered green cloak, turning it black in a widening stain. The man gripped the Jesuit’s hand fiercely, and spat out one final word, “Run!”

The Jesuit performed last rites on the man, and then asked a novitiate to help him carry the body to their living quarters. The man had definitely been a soldier. His body had more scars than healthy skin, but he had been tall and strong, even in old age. The cause of the blood became apparent as the novitiate stripped the body: he had a ragged stab wound in his chest. There was no smell of ale or wine about the man, and although his clothing was old and worn, it was of good quality. He had a leather purse full of silver cruzados. His dagger was of fine make and design, and he had an ornate silver eating knife in an inner pocket. In another pocket was a small leather-bound book, full of scribbled drawings and strange phrases.

“Father Eduardo…” The novitiate nervously interrupted the Jesuit’s perusal of the body.

“Yes, Paulo, I’m sorry. It’s not every day we have a man die in confession, now is it?”

“No Father. What would you like me to do now? Do we know who he was, or if he has any family in Lisbon?”

The Jesuit thought for a moment. “He said he was alone. That he was ‘the last.’ I think we shall bury him in the cemetery at Jeronimos Monastery, and add his remaining effects to our fund for the poor. He was a soldier… We shall give him a soldier’s burial.”

Astonished, Paulo nevertheless nodded his head in obedience. There were kings buried at the monastery. Vasco da Gama was buried there. Who was an unknown soldier compared to these men?

“Please wash the body carefully, and have Liza clean the poor man’s clothes. We will redress him in those, and bury him with his weapons. I will go to the monastery now to arrange the burial, but I will conduct the mass here.” Once again the novitiate nodded, and turned to his task.

Father Eduardo Borges Santos, the Jesuit, rushed back to the empty chapel and picked up the leather pouch the man had left on the floor of the confessional. Hiding it within his robes, he left the building.

Chapter Two

Port of Lisbon

March 1684

T
HE JESUIT HUDDLED BEHIND THE foremast of the merchant ship Sao Miguel, avoiding both the wind and the strange men he seemed to see everywhere in Lisbon since the death of the mysterious soldier the year before. He was wrapped up in a rough wool cassock, with a cape pulled closely around his head and ears. He had been told that the wind would die down by evening, which was several hours away. In exchange for being allowed on board a day early, he had been barred from the shared quarters he would occupy during the voyage. The captain had intimated that the crew would feel uncomfortable spending their last night at home in the company of a Jesuit, although was careful not to spell out the implied debauchery that would take place.

He had found a crate, which smelled strongly of chicken dung, and had stowed his belongings under it. He planned to sleep next to the crate, out of the cold as much as possible, rising with the dawn and the tide to see the ship leave his beloved city. He looked out over the tiled rooftops of the Seven Hills and tried to make sense out of the last few months. How was it possible that one man, a stranger, had so dismantled his life?