Ruin (The Ruin Saga Book 1) (36 page)

The atrium gave way to a long corridor. Of all the mahogany doors lining either side—of which there were at least two dozen—only one lay open. He left the staircase behind, his mind turning back to years past.

He’d been raised in this house, schooled by Alexander himself, trained to be the one he said they all needed. The saviour of mankind. How many would have given anything for that chance?

Countless.

And how many times, sitting at his desk in Alexander’s study, had he wished to be somewhere else—anywhere else?

Again: countless.

He passed into that same study now, and shivered as a flood of memories leapt forward from the back of his mind. It occupied more than two thirds of the ground floor. He paused in the doorway and stared inside. He’d seen it every day in his youth, year after year. But he’d never grown used to it. It always sent a lump forming in his throat.

Destiny aside, this place took his breath away.

Nearest to him was a forest of spindly stands, their polished steel frames glittering. Upon them were more musical instruments than he could have possibly named. Each shone with fresh polish, set with loving care upon handcrafted bespoke cradles.

Beyond them stood an enormous bookcase, easily fifty feet long and fifteen high. It was stuffed several layers deep with books that teetered on the shelves, the collective wisdom of the ages: from Shakespeare to Steinbeck; Calculus to Haematology; Ancient Egyptian mythology to Lycanthropy.

On the opposite wall, every inch had been filled by the frames of a hundred painted canvases, great sunsets, harbours, hills, mountains, and figures walking the streets of forgotten Old World cities.

Here and there were glass trestle tables, covered with trinkets and souvenirs from all over the country. A pitted brass Sextant, a tall golden globe, the ceramic body of a white rabbit, the long ears broken and the paint long faded. Others were covered with writings and figures, tiny statues of Greek and Egyptian gods, pieces of jewellery, Chinese and Arabic scrolls, pendants and pocket watches.

Yet this was only the cap of a mile-high peak. Beneath the manor—amidst a vast web of catacombs that had once been wine cellars, pumping stations, sewers and air-raid bunkers—were miles of Old World treasures.

Only Alexander and Sarah had the keys to that place. Even Norman had only glimpsed its innards a few times. In fact, most of the city folk didn’t even know it existed.

Within, libraries that dwarfed even the mountains in Sarah’s warehouse were filled to capacity with leather-bound first editions, ancient manuscripts rescued from hallowed shelves, pocket paperbacks, and picture books. All meticulously treated, seal-wrapped, tagged and logged. Great stores of vinyl records, CDs, cassette tapes and DVDs diverged from a kilometre-long hall of canvas masterpieces, drawn from all the land’s galleries.

Alexander and his ilk had been collecting mankind’s discarded trinkets for a long time.

The farthest depths of the study were dotted with leather furniture, arranged in a parabola around a central fireplace. The grate was aglow, with the aid of disparate gas lamps casting the room in a rich, warm light.

Finally, upon the fireplace, was an arrangement of packages. Despite being rotted and old, they retained their bright colouration: oranges and purples, covered with cheery patterns. Some were wrapped in bright bows, and had cards taped to their sides.

All was still, waiting for the absent master to return. Uncertain, Norman idled near the trestle tables and looked around at the rescued remnants of endless dead. As hard as he might have tried to in some way emulate this temple, he would never know what he was trying to reproduce. He had never seen the Old World, never heard its din. These relics, while breathtaking, could never truly overcome that kind of estrangement.

In some ways, the Old World was truly dead, and would forever remain so.

“You look terrible,” said Alexander’s disembodied voice, echoing off the walls.

Norman started, and turned to the door. “I feel terrible,” he agreed.

Alexander’s eyes narrowed as he advanced into the room. He looked grizzled, his face peaky and drawn, his robes tussled and creased. He clearly hadn’t slept for some time. Yet still he smiled, and gestured to the leather chairs by the grate. “You should have Heather take another look at you. Make sure you’re really all there.” He tapped a finger to his temple.

Norman shrugged, easing himself into the seat opposite him. They both took a moment to lounge, staring into the crackling fire before Alexander continued, “Surely you won’t begrudge me for worrying. You’re too important to go unchecked.”

“I hate that.” Norman looked down at his hands. “I’m no more important than anyone else.”

“You’re the only one who can carry on our work after we’re gone, Norman. It’s your—”

“Destiny. Yeah, I know.”

He’d heard those words a million times, but never before had they seemed so absurd, so irrelevant. Never before had he felt so lost.

Alexander’s brow twitched. “You should rest up—where Heather can keep an eye on you.”

Norman sighed. “I can’t sit in there. Not with him.”

“Charlie?”

Norman nodded.

Alex clicked his tongue and stared into the fire for a while, motionless. “You've come to ask me something?” he said eventually.

Norman paused for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. He thought of asking why anybody would ever attack them, why Jason—and those he claimed to represent—would want them gone, or why Lucian, a man he had thought he’d known as well as Alexander himself, was on the verge of strangling a wounded slave boy.

But the look in Alexander’s eye—distracted, distant—made him hesitate. Perhaps this wasn’t the time. He suspected that if he asked now, he might do more harm than good.

Judging by how Lucian had reacted when he’d asked—
Our past isn’t all roses, Norman
—maybe it wasn’t a good idea to start pulling skeletons out of cupboards. Right now, he wasn’t sure he’d like what he might find.

He began to speak slowly, glancing at the door as he did so. “I'm worried about Lucian.”

Alex didn’t respond for a while, his eyes still on the fire. He raised a hand to his chin, rubbing at the stubble on his neck absentmindedly—Norman was surprised to see the two-day growth. Alexander had been clean-shaven every day in living memory. “I have every confidence in him,” he said after a long silence.

Norman splayed his arms. “I’d like to say that I do too, but after what I just saw, I can’t say that I do.”

A bizarre twinkle scintillated in the deep-blue halo around Alexander’s pupils. “He was always the first to jump, always the first to respond, always the first to lash out…never thinking before doing. But it was never vicious, it was never…cruel.”

Norman averted his eyes. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

Alex rubbed his temple. “For all his ill temperaments, his intentions are what make Lucian who he is. For all of the years that I’ve known him, he’s never done anything to harm any friend of his.”

“Maybe not,” Norman said, leaning forwards. “But if he continues like this, he’s going to get us in trouble. He’s going to kill that boy anytime now.”

Alexander nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose.”

Norman flailed. “What? That’s it?”

“He’s gone too far for us to restrain him through reason.”

“Maybe we could restrain him physically? Knock him out or lock him up until this blows over?”

Alexander gave him an odd look. “I doubt that will help. Anyway, I’m almost certain that this situation will not simply blow over anytime soon. Having him around is vital for morale.”

Norman looked over towards the door again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “If he gets worse…,” he said. “If he gets out of control, what do we do?”

Alexander sighed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose we’ll have to simply hope that he doesn’t. We can’t afford for him to. With the hunger, the attacks, this news of the radio, and the funeral, the city needs him. Needs us all.”

Norman swallowed.

The funeral. It was now only two hours away. Already, the ruckus of returning field hands had given way to respectful silence outside.

If they could get through the burial without incident, a weight would be lifted from their shoulders. Perhaps things would step down a gear.

But could Lucian wait that long?

Alexander threw yet another feather at Lucian's feet. “What in God’s name is wrong with you?” he spat.

Lucian had once again retreated to his post upon the crest of the hill above the city. He barely moved as Alex set to pacing around him, his features unmoving. After a while he leant forwards and picked up the feather, turning it over. His face grew even grimmer. “Where did you get this?” he murmured.

“My doorstep, again,” Alex said. He fiddled with the book in his hands—green and battered, adorned by an intricate golden title. “And this, too.”

He hadn’t seen it for years. Not since…

But there it had been, lying atop the feather, upon his doorstep. Waiting for him, looking just as it had when he’d first picked it from his bedroom clutter all those years ago.

Yet Norman apparently hadn’t seen it when he’d left. That meant that it must have been placed there only moments before he’d found it.

He shivered.

Lucian was quiet for a while. The wind whistled around them. When he spoke, his voice was low and broken. “Why is He doing this?”

Alex swallowed. “I don’t know.”

“Just to torture us? See us dance?”

“I don’t know.”

“Remind us of what we’ve done?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do we do about it?”

“I don’t know!”

Norman had left for home minutes before Alexander had raced for the hillside, but he was still visible in the city below, ambling down the street. Alex watched until he had passed out of sight before rounding on Lucian. “You’re getting out of control,” he said. “You could ruin everything.”

“Ruin what?”

“Everything. All of it. People need somebody to look up to.”

“Like you?”

“Like you. People look to you. You have to control yourself.”

Lucian looked up sharply. His eyes were grave. “You don’t want them to look to me, you want them to look to Norman.”

Alex frowned. “It’s his job to lead them. Maybe not now, or tomorrow, but someday.”

“You made it his job.”

Alex bent closer, dropping his voice. “He just came to me, worried about you, fretting over you harassing that boy!” he hissed. “He’s got enough to worry about without you making it worse for him. If he starts doubting what we’re doing then everything we’ve ever done, all we’ve sacrificed—it’ll all have been for nothing.”

Lucian snarled, “That boy never wanted any of this.”

Alex stopped. “What?”

“Oh, come on: you've forced this on him since he was a child. Just like you did the first time.”

“I’ve never forced him to do anything.”

“You force everybody to do everything. You’ve already destroyed one life, and now you’re doing it all over again with Norman,” Lucian yelled, rising to his feet. “Even now, here you are, grilling me like it’s the Inquisition!”

“I just want to know what’s gotten into you.”

Lucian waved the feather before Alexander’s eyes. “
This
is what’s gotten into me.” He pointed to the book. “And
that!
This has nothing to do with starvation or survival. This is all happening because of what we’ve done.”

Alex said nothing.

“We have to tell them.”

Alex felt his jaw tighten. “We’re not telling them anything.”

“They have a right to know.”

“If anybody finds out then they’ll leave, and we’ll be back to where we started. We’ll lose society, civilisation, everything. If they go then they’ll just become more of what’s already out there.”

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep lying.”

A silence swept over them, interrupted only by the howl of the wind and the rustle of distant leaf litter.

“We have to,” Alex said finally. “It’s our destiny.”

The soil was dark and the grass a dappled blue under the overcast evening sky. Stray rays of light streamed from the distant streetlights. A light wind ran through the graveyard, rustling the trouser cuffs of those gathered amongst the thousands of weathered headstones.