Read Alexandria for Free Online Page B

where to sit, and you will sit there quietly. You will not speak unless you are spoken to. Do you understand this?”
    “Yes," they say in unison.
    A radiant smile spreads across Nisaq’s hard face. “Good. This way.”
    The boys line up and follow him down the hallway, tensely aware that one of their brethren is missing. They spoke not a word since Braylon was ripped from the chamber, but the sick relief was palpable—relief that it was Braylon facing this unknown punishment and not themselves. Secretly, and not without guilt, some of them think he brought it upon himself anyway. The warriors spread out along the line and usher the boys through the winding Temple corridors to the amphitheatre, where they will finally meet the favorite son of this noble-blooded dynasty—King Arana Nezra the Second.
     

     
    “Girls, it’s time,” chirps Ezbeth. She steps through the lodge, giving the children a last minute once-over. Their faces are puffy, but presentable. “Line up for me, just like you did before.”
    The girls stand as if possessed and form an arrow straight line down the middle of the lodge and march outside. Streamers of gold and purple crisscross the sky as the evening sun sets over the ocean. The air is alive with frenetic excitement, the amphitheatre nearly full, row after row of toothy grins and glittering eyes stretching high up the side of the hill, and the gathered forms stomp their feet and cheer as the frightened children exit the lodge.
    The certainty of impending doom sets upon each young girl, convinced that they will be painfully sacrificed, their throats slashed like their parents to satisfy the twisted pleasures of the bloodthirsty audience. Their feet want to resist but they are incapable. In dreamlike limbo their zombii walk carries them toward the stage, lambs to the slaughter, counting down the last moments of their mortal lives.
    Nisaq walks toward them from the opposite direction, a train of cleaned and groomed boys following along. He meets Ezbeth in the middle and they instruct the children to sit, front row seats for the horrorshow, boys and girls separated by a center aisle. The crowd erupts.
    Directly behind the benches, in lines of supreme precision, stand the warriors. Their ranks extend from one side of the stage to the other, and many rows deep, a legion of shaved and red-striped heads. Rigid, warlike postures give them a statuesque appearance, as though they are cut and sculpted from the very sandstone upon which they stand.
    Beyond the last tier, situated almost at the crest of the hill, encircled by a ring of lush pines, rests the King’s Gallery.
    Arana rises.
    His multitude of followers stir in their seats as he descends the central aisle, each step spurring them further until the sound of thunderous stomping echoes off the hillsides. He has traded his simple attire for more stately wear, leather-trimmed and embroidered. His hands are unroughened. His face clings to boyhood. Deafening cheers compete with the roar of stomping feet as the young sovereign proceeds through the gridwork of warriors and steps upon the stage and faces them, blue eyes sparkling, a wide, white smile opening across his face.
    “Tonight,” he begins, “we celebrate the proud return of our Temple Sons.”
    The crowd rises to its feet and cries out.
    “And their precious bounty…” He fans his hands out and gestures to the horrified children. This elicits another berserk outpouring and Arana moves to quiet them. “Brave children, who have made a long and difficult journey to be here with us. Some of you made that same hard journey yourselves.”
    Whistles and calls ripple across the amphitheatre.
    “These children will no longer endure the unspeakable suffering of the old ways.” Here he settles his piercing eyes directly on the children, down the row, looking intently through each of them. They are at once repulsed and mesmerized by his bizarre gaze. “I envy you the most. Your journey is only