The Red Tower (The Five Towers Book 2)

by J. B. Simmons

  The group falls quiet. We avoid eye contact. At least Apple was honest.

  “Marcus,” I say. “How about you?”

  He tells his story more meekly than I had heard it before. Maybe it’s because of the link around his neck, or maybe because of Apple’s warning. He explains that he was a Roman gladiator who spent his time battling in the Colosseum. He survived fights against lions and bears. He lost an eye. Scars covered his body like ornaments. His fame grew so much that he fought against the emperor’s own champion, and he won. “I spilled a lot of blood,” he says at the end.

  None of us ask questions, not yet. There’s a shared understanding between us. We all know how hard it is to remember, and to talk about it.

  The next up is Boleyn.

  “This can be short,” she says. “What I remember is that a mirror before me reflects twin flames of candles, flickering on either side of my face, casting a glow of red. My silk dress is dark and shimmers with every movement, making me think of blood. It is like the dress I wear now.” Boleyn looks to me, her expression cryptic. “The story from that point is a bit like yours.”

  “That’s it?” Apple asks, glancing from Boleyn to me. “How is it like his story?”

  Boleyn does not answer.

  “Tell them.” Marcus leans back in his chair with his arms crossed. He has paired with Boleyn. He must know more about her.

  “You tell them nothing of your forbidden love, and you expect me to share more about mine?” Boleyn asks Marcus. “Do you want me to make you speak?”

  “No need for that,” Marcus says bluntly. “I’ll tell them.” He pauses as if collecting his thoughts. “This might sound hard to believe, but I fell in love with the daughter of the Roman Emperor. And she loved me, too. It was impossible for the Emperor to approve this, so we kept it hidden. She helped me sneak in and out of the palace. Until we got caught. I dropped instantly from the Emperor’s champion to his lowest slave. In my last memory I’m standing in the Colosseum, wearing a worn tunic and chains around my ankles. No armor. No weapon. There’s sand under my feet. Thousands cheer. The noise is deafening. My love sits by her father’s side, forced to watch as a gate opens and lions emerge. Hungry lions. At least ten of them. I haven’t seen how it ended, but you can guess as well as I can.”

  My head shakes in disbelief. They fed Marcus to the lions. Because of love. No wonder he’s been so quiet and distant. It sounds like he didn’t even do anything wrong.

  “You left out one part,” Boleyn says, eyeing Marcus.

  “What?” he asks.

  “That you feel so guilty and numb and bitter. You think you never should have fallen for the Emperor’s daughter. You think you never should have loved!” Boleyn slaps the table fiercely. “That’s where you’re wrong. Love wasn’t the problem. The world was, with its rulers and laws and violence.”

  “That’s what you like to believe,” Marcus replies, his voice hard as iron. “Order exists for a reason. I broke it, and I rightly suffered the consequences.”

  “Rightly! For love? You see?” Boleyn looks around the group, her face full of emotion. “This is what’s inside him. Truly, he’s being honest. I suppose we’ll all be a little more honest now, shall we?”

  No one answers.

  “Very well,” Boleyn continues, “listen to this whole bloody mess and tell me how I’ll ever get over it. Remember the mirror I told you about? Well, a man comes into the reflection. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. Only he’s not just any man. He is the king, and he is married to the queen I serve. He asks me to call him Henry. He tells me I look ravishing. From there we do not hold back. How could I? Can you imagine how a commoner’s status might rise? I played the fiddle of passion like a master. The king appeared in the mirror again and again. I bore two of his children. He told me he loved me. Maybe I even loved him. Maybe I thought he would marry me. He divorced the queen and...and...” Boleyn bites her lip. Her hard, sarcastic tone has gone soft.

  “I know what happened!” Hank says, sitting on the edge of his seat and leaning forward. “He was King Henry VIII. You became the Queen of England! You are Anne Boleyn!”

  “So we all wish,” Boleyn says, with bitter sarcasm. “There were two candles flickering in the mirror.”

  “You were Mary,” Zelle offers in wonder. “Mary Boleyn?”

  “Yes. King Henry married my sister, Anne, instead of me. Anne became queen, but not for long. Anne was as treacherous as Henry, but he had all the power. She did not bear him a son. The last thing I remember is the day he had her killed.” Boleyn glares at Marcus. “There, I’ve told them, and you again. Are you pleased?”

  “Delighted,” Marcus says in a deadpan voice. “We rightly suffered.”

  Our group falls quiet. Boleyn’s story seems too twisted for real life. My glimpses into the past have not taught me enough to know who King Henry VIII was, but I know the King of England was a big deal. Boleyn’s sister was the queen, and the king’s mistress. It’s hard to wrap my head around. She remembers so much. She has so much passion. No wonder she wields such power.

  Hank breaks the silence. “Our pasts are similar,” he says. “All of us. We took something that was good and we let it consume us. We couldn’t control it.”

  “You may be right,” Boleyn agrees. “Like Rahab says, let passion burn... What’s your story, Hank?”

  Hank tells the group his tale, covering nearly everything he’d told me the day before on the training ground, about his cider and his friend’s wife. He does not smile. He leaves out only a few details. Again no one asks questions.

  Zelle is the last to speak. “I lived around the same time as Cipher,” she says, “but across the Atlantic, in the greatest city in the world.”

  “Rome?” Marcus asks.

  “Paris,” Zelle responds. “Rome was a tourist attraction by my time. Your Colosseum was in shambles.”

  Marcus grins for the first time all night. “Serves it right.”

  “I’m like all of you,” Zelle says to us. “I had issues with passion, but not with another person.” She pauses and takes a long drink from her chalice.

  “Go on,” Hank says. “Tell them.”

  Zelle nods. “You heard how Hank made cider? That homemade stuff caused problems. In modern Paris we had a far better drink. It was red and luscious and alive. It was respected, even dignified. So of course I desired it. I worked long, long days. I managed businesses around the world. I earned a fortune. And I spent it on the finest food and wine. Mostly wine. I knew the best French vintners, personally. I ordered case after case. My townhome on the Seine had a cellar. I went there every night I was home. If I was traveling, I went to the bar. Wherever I was, I would open a bottle and forget about the business. I would forget that I was alone. At first it was a glass. Then a whole bottle. Then two. The mornings were awful. Fuzzy, spinning, sickly, hollow. Cigarettes were breakfast and lunch. But by the time the sun started to fall, I would feel the urge rising from my depths. I wanted it all over again. Sometimes my stomach couldn’t even hold enough. I’d throw up just to keep going. I have no idea how it all ended. It doesn’t seem to matter. I was in a red whirlpool sucking me down, down, down. I had no way out.”

  She takes a deep breath and looks to Hank. Whatever passes between them makes Hank smile tenderly. “You did good,” he says.

  Zelle places her hand over his. “We’ve learned from each other. The mistakes begin small. We love the first taste. Then we want another taste, and another. I have been in here long enough to be wiped more times than I can count, and every time I have to learn it again: it is the little decisions, the first no’s or yes’s, that set our course fatefully toward the fire...”

  Her words drift off. Hank finishes for her: “Where passion burned.”

  27

  WE LINE UP in two columns behind the gate that will open to the Scouring. The boys wield weapons and collars. The girls wear dresses and rings. Rahab stands beside the twelve of us. Apple and
I lead one column. Axe and Melissa lead the other. Behind me are Marcus and Boleyn, then Hank and Zelle. A Roman gladiator, an English King’s mistress, an American from the frontier, and a cosmopolitan Parisian. It almost makes me laugh. Just put a neurosurgeon in charge and it’ll all work out.

  “Remember,” Rahab says. “Do whatever it takes to capture. But do not, under any circumstances, get in each other’s way.” She stares at Axe, then at me. “If either of you even attempts to stop the other group from capturing someone, you will be wiped.”

  “My team’s going right,” Axe says, turning to me. Strapped to his back, unsurprisingly, is an axe. “You better keep your distance. No stealing our leftovers.”

  I grip my staff tightly as I meet his stare. “We’ll go left.”

  “Very well,” Rahab says. “The terms of your wager will be honored.” She steps to the side. “To victory!”

  The iron gate begins to lift. It moves achingly slow, chain clinking as it draws up the massive barrier. We can see through the gaps in the gate. The team from Green emerges from their door to the right. Then Yellow, Blue, and Black around the wall.

  We’ll go left... I’d said it in defiance, but now I wish I hadn’t. That’s the way to the Black Tower. The last color I want to battle. Unless my Mom happens to be with them. It’s possible. Kiyo came to the Scouring soon after she was captured. But could we stand against Black? It’s risky. My whole team’s at stake. Emma’s freedom’s at stake. The Red Tower is at stake.

  Axe leads his group along the wall to the right. This gives us a new option. We don’t have to go straight to Black. Going left now includes going to the middle.

  I catch Hank’s eyes. “To Blue?”

  He smiles and taps the butt of his spear to the ground. “We know where they’re weak. But respect the mind.”

  It’s our rallying cry from Blue. Respect the mind. That’s not going to work here. Rahab says, Let passion burn. But is that right? Does it fit the pasts of Boleyn, Zelle, and Apple? Apple said that each girl’s power over the flames comes partly from her capacity for passion. So maybe we are supposed to let passion burn, as the fuel to the fire. If only we can harness it.

  I try the words with our group, softly. “Let passion burn.”

  The others nod. Even Apple seems pleased. “Let passion burn,” she echoes, along with the rest of the group.

  It’s not a shout or a battle cry. It’s more like a dirge for our pasts and all that led to this battle. “Let passion burn. Let passion burn.”

  We charge toward the middle of the Scouring. No one gets in our way. The Black phalanx of twelve moves toward us, but slowly. We’re the first to reach the milk-white stones forming the small circle in the center. I lead us to the left of the circle, keeping well to the side of it. The last thing we need is to be transported into a memory. We round the circle and sprint at Blue. Black does not change its path. They keep moving toward the center, as if uninterested in us. Maybe they’re targeting Green or Yellow.

  The first sounds of fighting come from Axe’s team. They are far away now, still at the wall and colliding against Green.

  Blue’s twelve are close.

  I reach for the air. The sensation is sweeter than ever. The air flows like electricity through my mind. But...the thread is snatched away. The collar feels hot around my neck.

  Apple has taken control. She never hinted at this. She’s smiling.

  I’m furious. This is my power.

  “Take him first!” shouts a blue-robed boy, pointing at me. He has long, curly hair and four stripes at the sleeves. It’s Pierre, Fourth Class. He’s the one who joined me in the Hunting in Green’s forest. We were like rivals. He never liked me.

  Now he’s at the center of Blue’s team. There are twelve of them, and six of us. They’ve stretched out to form a concave line, like an open net welcoming our Red team in.

  Water and air surrounding fire. Is this a mistake?

  Pierre moves forward. The Blue line collapses around us. Apple weaves together my power and hers to form a wall to our left. It is neither fire nor air. It is like thick, purple energy, blocking half of the Blue team.

  Hank and Marcus charge to the right. Hank reaches Blue first and barrels into them with a swipe of his spear. Three are knocked to the ground. Marcus takes one down with the sword.

  It’s not fair, I think. They don’t have weapons. But they have the mind. It makes it all the more frustrating that Apple controls my power. I stand with my staff raised before the three Red girls, ready to defend.

  Boleyn loops fire around a boy from Blue. Zelle hurls a melon-sized fireball, but a rush of wind douses it. The wind blows harder. Marcus’s sword flies out of his hand and blows a hundred feet, to the Scouring wall. Apple pulls on more of my power and stretches the wall farther, all the way from the white circle in the center to the Blue gate. It cuts off eight from Blue’s team, leaving four on our side. Boleyn and Zelle wrap belts of fire around them. They can’t run.

  Hank and Marcus herd the four captives back toward Red. We move quickly, but I realize Apple has stopped moving.

  “I can’t hold it any longer,” she says to me.

  “Let me. Please.”

  She nods and the power passes through the link. She’s right. The wall is immense. Holding this much fire and wind together—while the Blue team blasts air at it—requires complete concentration. I can hardly see what’s around us. I focus on the weaves, threading them back together wherever Blue pulls them apart.

  Apple takes my hand and pulls me after the others.

  The four captives struggle along with us, slowing us down. As we make our way around the white circle again, the loudest sounds of fighting come from between the Green and Yellow gates.

  I continue weaving, moving the wall with us to block any attacks from Blue.

  We’re halfway back to the Red Tower when something slams into my side, sending me sprawling on the hard stones. I manage to lift up. The force comes again. It’s air, from Blue. They’ve found some way past the wall, and the blows knocked away my power. I reach for the air. But it’s gone. Black smoke smothers the invisible threads.

  Black.

  I trace the power to its source. A girl dressed head-to-toe in black has locked eyes on me. She’s only twenty feet away, standing at the front of her team. Her eyes are the only part of her I can see. She almost looks familiar. It could be Monica, the same powerful girl who fought against me during the last Scouring with Blue.

  “There!” I shout, pointing at her.

  Marcus seems to understand. He was in Black before. He charges at her fearlessly, just like he charged at Jafari. But this time he has no sword. He leaps and crashes his elbow down on the girl’s shoulder. She falls. The others from Black surround Marcus.

  I grab the air and throw back the force that holds me down. Crouching, I pull on Apple’s power and mine, as much as I can hold. A ring of air forms around Marcus. He grabs it like it’s a lifesaver. In a breath I lift and drag Marcus away, over and above the Black figures surrounding him and back to us.

  He lands smoothly by my side. He smiles as he looks down at me, holding out a hand to help me stand. “Not bad, wind boy.”

  “Thanks,” I say, glancing to the girl in black, who’s still down. “You too.”

  He flashes a rare smile. “It’s what I do.”

  I form the wall again. We move toward the Red Tower. Other teams move around us. Marcus and Hank guard our sides. The girls keep the four Blue captives held tight in fiery chains.

  To the left, Axe and his group are coming. They have three captives. Two from Green, one from Yellow. Their pace is as slow as ours with captives. Too slow. The Black team rallies into formation in front of us. I don’t see the girl from before, but she could be hidden behind the square of shields. We have to get through them, or go wide around them.

  It’s a good strategy, I realize. Black was just waiting. They knew we couldn’t capture anyone unless we got back to our gate, and unless w
e got past them.

  They don’t charge us. They hold their ground, huge rectangular shields and spears raised. We can’t wait, because Blue is pressing from behind.

  Boleyn blasts a fireball at the boys from Black, followed by one from Zelle.

  Their shields hold. They don’t budge.

  Ahead, Khan and Seth from Axe’s group break into a sprint. They’re trying to go around the left edge of the Black team. It’s smart. We can divide their attention.

  I motion to my group. “Right side!”

  We veer to the right. As we try to round the edge, the Black team splits. Most of them go toward Axe’s group. Four of them come at us. They strike as fast as snakes. A spear catches Hank in the shoulder. He goes down, but I use the air to keep him moving. Boleyn and Zelle send a wave of flames along the ground. It ignites the Black team’s pants. They fall, rolling to put out the flames.

  We are close now. We’re only steps away from the gate. From victory. We have four captives. To the left, the other Red team is running beside us. There are five of them, along with two captives from Green. Someone is missing.

  Melissa rushes to me and grabs my arm. “They got Axe. Help!”

  Behind us, Axe is on his back, with a spear held to his throat by a boy in Black. He’s surrounded. Helping him might make us lose others. And...he’s Max. He kept Emma from me. He’s done nothing to deserve my help. His time as Alpha is done.

  “Cipher!” Melissa pulls at me. “You have to do something...”

  She trails off as she meets my eyes. She knows I’m going to leave him. She looks furious.

  “Red!” I shout. “Get inside now!”

  28

  AS THE GATE LOWERS, shutting off the Scouring outside, Melissa is in my face. She’s inches away, screaming, “You left him! You traitor! You—”