by Ted Dekker
“Where are we?”
“Approaching Mosseum,” he said. “Capital of the Elyonites.”
Slowly, my predicament came into some clarity. Talya had said I would be alone. In no scenario had I imagined I would find myself a captive with a shattered leg.
A young boy was running along the far ditch, jumping up and down, hooting and hollering at the warriors, who paid him no mind. His white tunic was clean and he wore a bandana, green to match his bright eyes.
“We’ve met,” the Scab said. “Twice. Do you remember?”
I looked at him again. “Jacob?”
He lowered his head. “At your service.”
“You were pursuing us. Intent on killing me.”
“Not true,” he said, lifting a finger. “I was to return you to your rightful place in Ba’al’s dungeons.”
“My rightful place is nowhere near the Horde.”
“And yet here you are. I suppose your rightful place is among the Elyonites? They certainly don’t think so. If not for me, you would be dead.”
“If not for you?”
“Indeed. I told them you were the 49th. So now we find ourselves here, on a delightful ride to their city. A beast, that would be me. A heretic, that would be you. And a mute, that would be him.”
The bald man in the corner turned his head and studied me for a moment before returning to stare through the bars.
“I can’t get a word out of him,” Jacob said, leaning back against the cage with legs folded, chewing on a piece of straw.
“Your men?” I asked him. “Surely you weren’t alone.”
Darkness settled over his face. “We were nearly a hundred. The Elyonite warriors, twenty. I alone survived. Maco . . .” He stopped.
Maco. While trapped under the cliff I’d heard him call one of his men that. By his reaction now, I could see they’d been close.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“He was to be a father this week. If I survive, I will see the child wants for nothing.”
I didn’t know what to do with his comment. How only twenty of the Elyonites had bested a hundred of his men, I couldn’t imagine. I’d seen Jacob snatch my blade from the air as if it were a toy.
What did that say about the Elyonite warriors? And what did the remorse written on Jacob’s face say about the Horde?
My leg was throbbing and I tried to ease the pain by shifting, but each movement only increased it.
Seeing my struggle, Jacob shifted and tapped his knee. “If you elevate it, the pain will ease.”
He was dressed in a thick dark shirt with an open neck and canvas pants tucked into leather boots that hugged his calves. I was dressed in only a long tunic, and my leg was bare. The thought of my skin touching his diseased flesh repulsed me, but his slacks were only cloth, right?
I slowly pushed myself up against the adjacent bars and let him take my exposed ankle, lift my leg, and rest my heel on his knee. The brief contact of his hand on my ankle felt like any human touch. Either way, Talya had said the Horde disease wasn’t contagious.
“Better?” he asked.
“Not really, no.”
He watched me curiously. “Give it some time.”
Two men drove the cart, laughing at something funny that didn’t concern us. Beyond our prison, houses rose among wide crop fields and orchards. Corn, wheat, apples, and several other fruit trees. There was no sign of a city, only these rural plots of land.
I was in a strange land without Samuel or Talya, on a mission that now seemed not only impossibly distant but absurd.
Behind the cart, elite warriors rode in aloof supremacy. Inside the cart, the son of Qurong and a silent bald man left me alone with my thoughts, which gave me neither guidance nor comfort. Alone . . . And now captive in both realities.
“What happened?” I asked after a long silence. “At the pass.”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question,” Jacob said, looking at my leg. “Your wound . . . It just materialized before my eyes.”
While I was dreaming. But I hardly understood how such manifestations could cross between realities, and I had no idea how to make him understand.
“I was shot in another world and it manifested here. But don’t ask me how because it won’t make sense.”
“Another world?”
“Like I said, it won’t make much sense.”
“Try me.”
I wasn’t even sure where to begin.
“First, tell me how you found us,” I said.
“Us? We found only you.”
“Then tell me that.”
After a moment, he told me his story, beginning with their pursuit leading up to the Great Divide. How our pace seemed to match theirs, slow or quick. My guide was toying with them. I told him that my guide was no guide, but a Mystic named Talya. And if Talya had wanted to, he could have single-handedly wiped them all out.
“And yet he left you when you needed him most.”
“No.”
“No?” Jacob scoffed. “He fled.”
“The man who toyed with you for seven days fled? The one who stilled the storm only last night? The one who sees no threat from any Horde, any Elyonite, any Albino, just up and fled at the first sight of danger? You don’t know Talya. He told me he was leaving.”
“You’re saying the storm that came and went so quickly was his doing?”
“Yes. He was teaching me to find peace rather than fear in the storm.”
“So he conjures a storm to teach the priestess a lesson. Quite a man, this Talya. What did he say of me?”
“Please don’t call me a priestess. He told me that you would pose no threat to me.”
His brow arched. “Is that so? My father ordered me to kill you if I couldn’t take you alive.”
“And yet you didn’t. Why?”
He thought for a moment before responding. “You’re the 49th,” he said.
But I saw more in his look than this simple confession. At the very least he was doubtful of his mission and curious about me.
“If Talya knew you would pose no threat to me, he also knew we would be together,” I said.
“You put too much faith in an old man.”
“Do I? Here we are. Together.”
His right brow arched.
“Did you know Samuel of Hunter was also in pursuit?” I asked.
“Samuel? The son of Thomas of Hunter?”
“He was with me at the oasis. Talya said he came after you.”
“I see.” He stared at the Elyonite warriors filed behind us. “If we had seen him, he would likely be dead.”
“Says the man in the cage.”
“That would be the doing of the other son,” he said. “Aaron, son of Mosseum, ruler of all Elyonites.”
“He took us?” I looked at the warriors behind us. “He knows who I am?”
“He does now. And is likely reporting the claim in their courts as we speak.”
Three sons of three powerful fathers. Jacob, Samuel, and now Aaron. And me. To what end?
“What else happened at the pass last night?” I asked.
Jacob cleared his throat and told me the rest, sparing no detail. He was right—I would have been killed if not for Jacob’s intervention. How could Talya have known it would play out just so? If I ever saw him again, I would have to ask.
“Your satchel,” Jacob said, pulling a small leather pouch from inside his cloak. “It was in the cart and I took the liberty of keeping it safe. It appears they took all but the paper and the fruit.”
I took the satchel. Talya’s, not mine.
“You looked inside?”
“I was looking for something to dress your wound with. I had to settle for a strip of my own undergarment.”
I set aside thoughts of his filthy clothing and untied the pouch. Inside I found a strange orange fruit and a sheet of very old paper that had been torn out of a book. Blank on both sides.
The hope that lit my mind was dim, but a spark n
onetheless. Talya would never have left these two items without specific intentions. Fruit . . . Not the rhambutan that prevented me from dreaming, but another kind that held another power. What, I didn’t yet know. And paper . . . The only thing I could think of was a page from his Book of History. To write on? But there was nothing to write with here.
“What is it?” Jacob asked.
I quickly cinched up the satchel. “It’s nothing.”
“Really? Because to me it looked like you’d just found a Roush. When a woman says nothing, she always means something. Usually something important to her.”
“You saw it. It’s nothing.”
“Fine. Nothing it is. Which means something that I know nothing about.”
“Fine, something then. A piece of fruit and a piece of paper. I like to eat and I like to write.” I handed the satchel back, and he hid it under his clothing for safekeeping. “Do you write?”
“Does Jacob write? Ask any woman in Qurongi City and she will tell you of the honey that flows from my pen.”
A poet. Jacob was nothing if not a contradiction. And yet no more of one than I was.
“It’s what your captors said about torture that I would pay attention to,” the man in the corner said without turning.
We both looked at him. Followed his stare. The cart had crested a small hill and was heading down a widening road into the valley below. There, in stark contrast to the rural fields we had passed, sprawled a great city.
I was immediately struck by two things. The first was its immensity, not just in size but in structure. A tall, thick wall marked its perimeter. The buildings were made of white stone, each capped with a red roof. Tall structures rose from the city center, the tallest of which was domed and topped with a towering spire. Gold.
The second was the city’s cleanliness and order. Every street, every building, every structure had been placed with precision, like a giant spoked wheel with the domed Thrall as its hub.
“Don’t let its beauty deceive you,” the old man said, turning to us. “They are butchers, eager to aid Elyon by sending all heretics and heathens to an early hell. And if they believe you are the fabled 49th, I fear worse than death for you.”
I looked at the man’s green eyes. An Albino, but what kind?
“And you are?”
“Cirrus. A heretic like you.”
My pulse surged. “You’re a Mystic?”
“Heavens no. No, I’m afraid I don’t see the material world in the same generous light that your kind do. I see the world for what it is: evil. At the very least, meaningless. We are Gnostics, the fifth kind, servants of Elyon, who made none of what you see. Our only hope is to live in peace until we escape this world. Which for us in this cart will be soon enough.”
I looked past him to the city. The farms had given way to a great open expanse of grasslands that pressed up against the city walls.
“What do you mean, the fifth kind?” I asked.
He eyed me curiously. “You’re a Mystic. Don’t you know?”
“Actually, I’ve—”
“She was poisoned by our high priest and has lost her memory,” Jacob said. “When you say ‘fifth kind,’ you mean races of human, no?”
“If you will. There are Horde, the diseased ones. There are Albinos, who have been cleansed in the red lakes. And there are Leedhan—Shataiki who have crossbred with Horde. Three races.”
Leedhan. My mind skipped to Vlad Smith and I wondered if he was half Shataiki.
“Three races,” Jacob said. “And yet you say there are five kinds.”
“Because among the Albino race there are three sects: Elyonite, Gnostic, and Mystic. I am of the Gnostics.”
“You’re forgetting the Circle,” I said.
“The who?” the Gnostic asked.
Jacob answered for me. “Albinos on the far side. A few thousand at most, led by Thomas of Hunter.”
“Never heard of them,” the Gnostic said.
And who are you, Rachelle? Inchristi. What is known that cannot be named? Me, I thought. I was Inchristi. But I didn’t really know it, or the Second Seal would be on my arm. In fact, I only had one seal. Until I had all five, Talya said, any of them were vulnerable. I carried this truth like a heavy weight.
Cirrus faced the city. “I’ve only met one Mystic, years ago now, and I was stunned by her power. Yet here I find another who has neither knowledge nor power. Only the mark on her arm.”
“Did you not hear me?” Jacob snapped. “She was poisoned by a foul beast who spreads fear and death.”
I marveled at Jacob’s defense of me. “The Elyonites,” I said to the old man, “they’re heretics to you. Why?”
Cirrus sighed. “What is a heretic, what is a heretic? Who is to know? The Elyonites have many factions who argue over nuances of ancient Scriptures, which they worship in the same way they worship the red lakes. They’ve settled on a short list of required beliefs that all must adopt or suffer damnation. Confession of these beliefs makes one an Elyonite, those who claim to be the only true followers of Justin. They are materialists, and they treat the world in the same way they believe Elyon treats them. They say only adherence to certain beliefs can appease Elyon’s wrath. Cross those beliefs at your own peril. Need I say more?”
“You know their ruler?” Jacob asked.
“Mosseum. He’s an old man, more concerned with maintaining his status than serving Elyon. He’s taken the liberty of naming the city after himself. It’s the first of seven cities, the largest, but not by much.” He paused. “Next you will ask me about their army, so I will tell you. The ones who escort us now are the Court Guard, elite fighters, a hundred thousand strong led by Aaron, a brilliant tactician as you so recently discovered. But the other four hundred thousand are nearly as proficient killers.”
He faced Jacob. “I don’t know the Horde, but unless you have an army many times the size of theirs, I would stick to your side of the Divide. The Elyonites have spared no expense in amassing an army to protect their beliefs.”
Jacob humphed but left it alone. We settled into silence as the cart approached the city.
The main arched gate loomed, and then we were through, into a city with cobblestone streets and manicured lawns—thick carpets of grass with brightly flowered beds. Carts rolled along the streets carrying grain and vegetables and bricks.
Swords and dark brown leathers identified the guards stationed at every corner. All turned to look as we passed, showing respect with their stillness and silence.
Their respect was for the Court Guard. The sight of us garnered spits. I would say no fewer than a hundred residents spat to the side as we passed through their city. I couldn’t be sure, but I assumed this was a reaction to Jacob, and I felt myself wanting to tell him not to take it personally.
Instead, I held my tongue, wondering if I was wrong. For all I knew, they were disgusted with me, the Mystic. I could only imagine their reactions if they knew I was also the 49th.
We passed shops and large fields with children playing organized games. Something like field hockey. They had green eyes, as did all Albinos. They wore clean tunics with earth-toned slacks. Sandals. Many wore silver chains with red pendants. Round like red pools, I thought, because Cirrus had told us they worshipped the red lakes.
My fear began to settle. In every way the Elyonites were just people who’d carved out an idyllic life under the rule of law. Surely they would do us no harm.
The city changed as we made our way to its center. Here the buildings were taller and extravagantly appointed with gold and silver trimming. Black flags with the solid red circle at the center swayed in a gentle breeze at every entrance.
The city hub was clearly off-limits to all but a particular class, all dressed in white or black. At the heart stood the massive circular building with a golden dome that I’d seen from the road. We were escorted to a wide wing on its right side.
One of the warriors rode up to the door, spoke briefly with a commander, then turne
d back and motioned to his men. The door to our cart was unlocked and thrown wide.
“You’d better be worth it,” the warrior said to Jacob. “If there’s no gold in this for me, I’ll find you and drown you myself.” He looked at me. “You first.” He reached in, grabbed my good leg, and dragged me out of the cart.
Pain screamed up my side and I felt the world start to fade. Jacob was scolding the man and somewhere someone was shouting, but my mind was in a dense fog.
I felt myself thrown over a shoulder. Felt the jostling as they carried me. Heard keys rattling, gates opening and closing. Felt mind-numbing pain when they dumped me on the ground.
“Barbarians!” Jacob shouted.
I cried out as he handled my leg. “Not that!”
“Not what? I have to straighten it!”
“Whatever you’re doing, not that.”
“Sorry, sorry. But I have to do something.”
They’d thrown us in a small cell, maybe four paces per side. The floor was made of stone, and the walls were fashioned with iron bars. There was no sign of the old Gnostic, but Jacob was bent over me, muttering curses.
I looked down and nearly threw up. Whatever had been holding my leg together earlier had clearly given way. My body began to tremble and I closed my eyes, desperate to find some relief.
“I have to—”
“Leave it!” I snapped. “Don’t touch me!”
He withdrew, then rushed to the barred door. “By Teeleh’s fangs, can we get a physician here!” His voice echoed down an empty corridor.
“Don’t say that,” I breathed, desperate for relief.
“We need a man of medicine! You can’t rot in here like this!”
“Don’t invoke Teeleh,” I said. “They won’t appreciate it.” But then I was moaning again, uncaring what he said.
When I opened my eyes, I saw that he was pacing, fists clenched. It had never occurred to me that one such as Jacob would care so much. Of course, he was tasked with returning me to Ba’al. But no . . . it was more.
“This Talya of yours,” he said. “What would he say to you now?”
“To look past the pain.”
“And can you do this?”
“No.”