Page 24 of Ashes of Gold
THE ACCESS POINT TOthe section of the Web where my Ghizoni people are stowed away is between a boarded-up consignment store and what used to be a magical malady shop. Its tin roof is folded like a strong wind took it half off. Kai drags open the door to the hole in the ground, and rungs plummet into darkness. My heart thumps in my chest at the prospect of seeing everyone, how they’re doing. Little Titube and her mother, Bati with his knobby walking stick. Those that made it, are they okay? Do I even deserve to ask? Will they even want to see me?
I tug at the end of my shirt. Bri sticks to my side as we descend. Sunlight fades the deeper we go, my pulse ticking faster with each rung. We continue the descent in silence. The door above us slides closed and Jhamal moves next to me, his arm grazing mine.
The ladder deposits us in an underground passageway much like a basement. The walls are close, so close we can only walk two side by side at a time. Stone walls surround us, blue light streaming from fissures in the ceiling. The space is cozy with winding corridors in several directions. I swallow. It’s small down here, tight. I suppose the tunnels could lead somewhere grand, robust, like their home in Yiyo. But something tells me when Kai said numbers were cut by half, she did not exaggerate.
“You ready?” he asks, as if he can hear the whisper of my fears. I set my jaw, hoping it masks the angst trying to drown me. But he stares as if he can see right through me. He reaches for my hand, but I shake my head.
“I’m good, really. I want to find Bati.”
He huffs out a breath, sensing the push. But he only nods and walks a few steps ahead.
We take the first corridor on the right. This part of the Web is different from the dirt tunnels where we escaped. The floors are more paved and along the walls are actual rooms. Where the Web had stone archways, this has makeshift doors, which are panels of wood perched in front of room openings. We traipse down the long hallway around bins and piles of stained armor.
Bri’s at my back, sticking close, arms linked around herself. “Do we even know if Bati…” Her words trail off. She’s right. I don’t know if he survived. But I can’t think that way. I have to hope he is.
The hall opens up to a big room with towering beamed ceilings full of people. Water drips through the tiny fissures, making puddles on the ground. Orbs dot the walls and long tables run the perimeter of the space. The light in here is brighter and a mix of earthy spices and something musty swirl in my nose.
Nostalgia blossoms in my chest at the memory of the first time I sat with my people. How we ate and talked and laughed. How I was scared and knew no one, but all they wanted to do was see East Row win.
Seats scrape the floor as people rise when we enter. But many remain seated… intentionally. The warmth dissolves and my cheeks flash hot. I peer harder at the expressions on the people’s faces.Lines etched in brows, dry, cracked hands, heavy shoulders, a nod to heavier hearts. What am I going to say to them? What could I say to make any of this better? We walk several more steps in silence.
Five… four… three… two… one.
I push out a breath.
Maybe it’s not what I say… maybe it’s what I do?
The Yakanna are steps ahead of me, greeted with hugs and shoulder squeezes. Jhamal is swallowed in embraces. I stand there shuffling on my feet as eyes flick my way. For a moment I wish I was standing next to him, his hand wrapped around mine. But I made this bed, I gotta lie in it alone.
The room is full, but the crowd is a fraction of what I remember. There could be no more than a hundred, maybe two here? Yiyo was home to thousands before. Maybe there’s another big room elsewhere? Maybe some are sleeping still? Maybe—
“This is everyone?” I suspect I know the answer before I ask, but desperation makes the words spill from my lips anyway.
Kai doesn’t respond, just meets my eyes, and that’s answer enough. I feel sick. I glare at my hands and I swear I see red. So many… so many lost. My fingers grab at my throat. I force out a breath and blink, but all I see is smoke and Yiyo on the backs of my eyelids. I stagger, gripping a table that we pass, and stares snap to me.
“Rue?” Jhamal says.
“I’mfine,” I lie, as horrible as that feels. How do I lie to the one person who’s been there for me through all of this? It feels so wrong. But I can’t be broken to him forever. I can’t stand the way he jumps when I move or groan. I need him to see the person Iwaswhen Ilook in his eyes, not this shell of a person I am now, struggling to put one foot in front of the other.
Maybe if he sees it… I’ll see it too.
“Please, don’t worry about me.” I’m the least of who they should be worried about. He tsks, muttering his disagreement.
Chatter hovers over the room like fog and I scan for Bati, or some familiar face, anyone I know. A place to set my eyes and calm the panic taking flight in me.
We move between the tables and I swallow more courage, forcing myself to stand a little taller. I spot a crowd of men in long robes, twine tied at their waists and rings in their braided hair. They’re huddled on the opposite end of the room over a table. One or two look my way, but quickly turn back around.
“Bati might be over there,” I tell Jhamal, and he squeezes my arm in sympathy before being pulled away into a conversation with someone I don’t recognize. The guy he is talking with is rocking a Harden-style beard and fur sits on his shoulders. He wears armor like Jhamal used to, in the same pattern. A stack of golden rings adorn one ear and a chunky ring with a bear’s claw hugs his knuckle. He and Jhamal grip arms in some unusual form of handshake and pull into a hug.
“Come on, Bri.”
Bati wasn’t on the battlefield. If anyone has the details on what I’ve missed, he would. Bri and I move through the bodies of people and their cloak of whispers. Walking back in here is like walking through a nightmare. How do I tell them we need to get up and fight when their numbers are cut at least in half because of what I’ve done? How do I tell them anything? Who am I?The ChosenOne,my conscious whispers. Yes, but not chosen to lead… chosen to fight.
Bowls of fire sit on the tables. Closer now, I scan the huddled group for white locs and a stocky frame. I spot the back of a man with a round face, holding on to a knobby stick.
“Excuse me,” I say, squeezing between the edge of the huddle for a glimpse of his face.
Deep brown eyes I don’t recognize greet me. “Hello, how are you, dear?” It’s not Bati.
