Sigler, Scott - The Generations 01 - Alive by Sigler Scott

Author:Sigler, Scott [Sigler, Scott]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2015-07-14T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-FIVE

The mound of dirt is about as long as I am, about as wide as I am, because Latu was about the same size I am. It could have been me in there. Still could—we’re trapped in this building, or dungeon or whatever it is, forever stuck in this place of death. There might very well be a shallow grave in my future, too.

Her grave is under the shade of a fruit tree, which is nice. I think Latu would have liked to lie in the shade.

Someone wove a circle-star out of thin branches and laid it on the dirt. It’s very pretty.

“Who made that?”

“Bello,” Aramovsky says. “She and Ingolfsson spent hours on it. These trees all have soft branches. They don’t make very effective weapons, apparently, because they bend easily. But that means they’re good for making symbols.”

We stare at the mound for a while. I’d say something, but what good will words do? Spingate said, The dead don’t care what you say, but maybe the words you speak at a graveside aren’t for the dead at all. Maybe those words are for the living.

Aramovsky sighs. “Such a loss. At least we were able to bury her. Will we be going back for Yong’s body, so we can give him a proper burial as well?”

The question makes me instantly angry.

“Of course not. We can’t go back now.”

“As you say. You are the leader, after all.”

He makes it sound like leaving Yong’s body behind was my choice, when we had no choice at all. Not only does Aramovsky say one thing and mean another, he asks questions when he already knows the answers.

I stare down at Latu’s grave. Dirt, flesh, bone, and a little marker made of soft branches. This is all that is left of her.

“You told me to come look at the price of failure,” I say. “Then you said it wasn’t my failure. Do you mean that Latu failed?”

I see his eyes flick to my spear. I realize how threatening my tone sounds. I didn’t mean to sound like that, but I hope he heard it—if he intends to talk bad about my friend, he should choose his words carefully.

“The failure is all of ours,” he says. “We have failed to give praise and thanks to the gods.” He gestures to the grave. “This is the price of that failure.”

I don’t understand what he’s saying. Gods? Maybe he’s confused.

“Pigs killed Latu,” I say.

He nods slowly. “Yes, it was the pigs. And who do you think sent the pigs?”

I start to answer him, then stop. Gods, another word of power, like Grownups, rescue and tribe. It pushes at the mud masking my memory. Gods means something more powerful than teachers or even parents.

Aramovsky is being strange, but there is some truth to what he said. I’m sure gods aren’t involved, but Latu’s “killers” aren’t here by accident. Someone put us in this dungeon, which means someone put the pigs here as well.

“I see this idea troubles you,” Aramovsky says.

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