The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

by Santos, Steven dos

  I turn away from him and press against the glass, focusing on the now-darkening sky. The snow’s picked up, pooling on the turrets and streets below like white caps breaking on a dark sea. “I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”

  “Each crime scene was within a ten-mile radius of your trainee outpost. Talk about a coincidence.”

  So that’s it. He’s called this meeting to taunt me before he has me arrested. My muscles clench.

  I turn to face him, resolved, calculating how much time I’d have to choke him to death before reinforcements arrived and killed me. “Coincidence isn’t proof of anything.”

  “You’re quite right. I’ve been conducting discrete investigations into each of the barracks you’ve been posted at to see if anything turns up. So far nothing has. Yet.”

  Now it’s my turn to smile. Good. Looks like my efforts to cover my tracks worked out after all.

  “You’re wasting your time. There’s nothing to find,” I say.

  “You can’t imagine how relieved I am, Lucky.”

  The com-link band wrapped around his wrist bleeps. He glances at it. “Ah! Couldn’t have timed it better.”

  My elation evaporates. “What do you mean?”

  “Regarding the incident in the Medical Records room on sub-level three, I asked to be notified as soon as the analysis of the video surveillance was complete. Before the results are sent on to the Prime Minister.”

  “What analysis?” My eyes narrow.

  “You claimed the med tech was already dying when you found him and that none of the data on the computer system was tampered with before you were forced to flee and return to your squad to evacuate. The facility’s video logs are automatically transmitted off-site in the event that the station’s integrity is compromised. I had the techs pull the feeds to verify your account. Assuming your version of events checks out, you have nothing to worry about and will be returned to active duty.” He sighs. “However, if it doesn’t … ” He lets the thought hang in the air like a blackened cloud.

  There’s no way out of this. He’s going to know I lied. I can’t stay here, not with so much hanging in the balance. Even if I have to kill him now and somehow break out, I need to get out of here.

  As his eyes scan the data on his tablet, I move in closer, ready to pounce, to dig my fingers in his throat, to make him pay for all the pain he’s caused, for murdering the person he used to be …

  “Interesting.” He looks up, his expression unreadable.

  I move in closer, just a foot away, my body tense and coiled, ready to spring …

  “It appears the data has been corrupted. Completely unrecoverable.” He flashes the message my way so I can read it for myself. “Looks like someone’s watching out for you after all.”

  He puts an arm around me, and I’m still in so much shock I don’t have the energy to pull away.

  “I’m glad there’s no proof against you, Lucky. I’ve kept my suspicions under wraps. Believe it or not, I don’t want to see you go down the wrong path. Because of this, I’ve decided to keep you close. It will ensure that you don’t fall under the scrutiny of others, such as Prime Minister Talon, who won’t have your best interests at heart. So I’ve added you to my personal staff, as an Ensign.”

  That breaks me out of my trance. I pull away. “What do you—”

  “Tonight you’ll be assigned your new quarters at the Citadel. Get a good night’s rest, because tomorrow you return to active duty.” He claps me on the back. “After the Ascension Ceremony, you’ll be reporting directly to me, and I’ll be able to keep a close eye on your every move.”

  six

  “Spark! Hold up!” Arrah calls after me from the alcoved entrance of the Citadel.

  But I’m too wired to stop. Ever since the conversation with Cassius last night, I’ve been desperate to get to the Priory. Cole’s running out of time, and the Ascension Ceremony is just a day away. Once I’m trapped under Cassius’s relentless scrutiny twenty-four/seven, I won’t have another window to make my move. He suspects too much.

  Ignoring Arrah, I forge on like a freight train, huffing and puffing clouds of frosty breath instead of smoke. I pull my parka tighter around me, but it’s not enough to shield me from the wailing wind’s razor teeth that nibble on my exposed skin. I never thought I’d miss the desert as much as I do at this moment.

  Arrah’s gloved fingers lock onto my arm and pull me to a stop. “Slow down. We’re on recon patrol not a relay race, remember?”

  My eyes search the horizon. Ghostly outlines of buildings and towers fade in and out in time with the howling breeze. The sky’s coated with grayish sludge—smog from the mines and the sewage and electrical plants mixed with swirling snow.

  “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover,” I grunt. “If this weather keeps up, it might whiteout soon. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to get caught outside if it does.”

  “I agree. And it could be worse. Leander, Dahlia, and Rod-Man are training on Worm interrogation.” Arrah shakes her head. “This is probably some kind of endurance test. But it’s not like we have a choice. We have our orders. Valerian was really clear: conduct a sweep of the area, make sure no one’s violating curfew, and report back in. Then we can take the rest of the day off.” Her eyes flit from her chronometer to the streets, as if she’s looking for something, then back to me.

  I shake my head, trying my best to appear casual. “If we freeze to death, we don’t pass and move on to the next tier.”

  She smiles and her eyes dart back to her chronometer. “Gotcha.” She reaches up and swats frost off my brow. “Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. You’ve barely said a word since we’ve been placed back on active duty. What’s going on?”

  If only I could tell her. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend. But there’s too much hanging in the balance. And there’s something about the way she’s been checking the time. What’s she waiting for? What’s her agenda? Trust is nothing more than a set-up that makes you weak. Sometimes it’s hard enough not betraying yourself.

  I rub my gloved hands together like I’m trying to start a fire. “Can we talk about this later, over a hot meal in the commissary, before frostbite sets in?”

  Arrah backs up and points a finger at me. “I’ll hold you to that.”

  I nod and check my chron. “We’ll meet back here in … let’s say … two hours and file our reports.”

  She gives me the thumbs-up. “You got it. First one back treats the other to a hot chocolate with whipped cream smuggled from the officer’s lounge.”

  “Right.”

  Then we move off in opposite directions.

  No sooner is she gone from sight than I duck into the mouth of the nearest alleyway, turn onto Liberty Boulevard, and make my way through the mazes of streets and sewers that cut through row upon row of dilapidated tenements. It’s hard to believe I used to share one of these boxlike dwellings with my parents and Cole. That was someone else’s life. Someone who no longer exists—like my parents, like Digory. Melted away and evaporated like one of these snowflakes.

  And finally I see it.

  The Priory.

  The stone relic presides at the top of a hill, looking like a charred skull against the stark white horizon. Windows of angled glass cut through the granite, burning with flickering light. The arched entrance oozes darkness down the sloping pathway to the base of the mound. Five spires claw at the sky. For a place that was built to repel sin, it seems like a natural magnet for it.

  And somewhere, swallowed up by this terrible place, Cole waits for me.

  The memory of the last time I was here cuts through my brain like slivers of hail. Dad had just died. Mom was left to take care of infant Cole and twelve-year-old me. She’d swallowed her pride and begged the Prior to help us give Dad a proper burial and provide a few m
eals until she could get back on her feet.

  I remember how Prior Delvecchio’s face frightened me, his toothy grin, the way he looked at Mom and licked his lips as if he were hungry. There was an electrical storm raging that night and each flash seemed to take an x-ray of his angular face, making it look more like a corpse. Cole wouldn’t stop crying despite how much my mother rocked him. When Delvecchio asked to speak with her in private, she handed him to me and he wrapped his tiny fist around my finger.

  My mother and Delvecchio disappeared behind a partition. All I could see were distorted shadows, accompanied by the awful sound of Delvecchio screeching at my mother to get down on her knees and pray for strength. Then the sound of ripping fabric, and my mother’s screams, followed by a slap. The next thing I knew, Mom came racing around the partition, one cheek red, blood dripping from her nose, her torn work overalls exposing a naked shoulder. Delvecchio followed, his eyes bulging and four claw marks across his face. My mother scooped Cole and me into her arms and as we ran out into the torrential rain, Delvecchio’s angry curses drowned out the storm. You stupid bitch. You could have had it all. Now you’ll rot like your husband.

  Dad never got his proper burial. His body was incinerated by the state and disposed of in a mass grave. Of course, Mom hadn’t wanted me to see, but I’d snuck away, hidden among the rank piles of garbage, my eyes glued to that wavering heap of tangled, twisted limbs, searching for my father’s face, too afraid to find it and hoping it was all a mistake.

  Less than a year after watching my father burn, and probably as a result of the extra shifts she pulled in the mines, breathing in all those toxins, after Delvecchio refused to help us, my mother was dead too.

  I wipe the icy slush from my burning eyes. The muscles in my legs strain with the effort of propelling myself up the mound of snow toward the Priory.

  Cresting the top of the hill, I pause and stare at the monstrosity squatting before me.

  It probably won’t be a good idea to march right through those wrought-iron gates. I’m sure the Anchorites are under strict orders not to let me see Cole. Fine. I’ve gotten through more heavily guarded places than this before.

  Although a monastic order that thrives on other people’s pain could prove to be far more dangerous.

  I skirt the abbey’s perimeter to a side entrance, then duck behind a cluster of brambles. The prickly branches skewer the falling snowflakes.

  Two hooded figures emerge from the door, clad in bright red robes that bleed against the stark snow. Between them they pull a wooden cart heaped with what looks like piles of garbage, including a cache of old robes. They proceed to dump the refuse in a bin and disappear back inside.

  My eyes dart to my chron. I still have time before I have to report in. No one will be missing me—yet.

  Checking my surroundings to make sure there’s no one else in sight, I scuttle over to the bin and open it. My nose wrinkles. But foraging through trash is something that’s been a part of my life so long, I barely notice as my hands dive in and pull out an Anchorite garment. A few stains, maybe a tear or two, but hopefully no one will notice before I find Cole and get him out of there.

  Slipping on the cassock and drawing the hood over my head, I approach the door and try it. Locked. No problem. Good thing it’s one of those ancient jobs, splintering wood and rusty keyhole. A minute later, after a few quick jabs with the pincers in my utility kit, I’m rewarded with a click.

  I pull the door open, cringing as it squeaks and creaks. I pause and hold my breath, listening for approaching footsteps. There aren’t any. I exhale a plume of frost and inch the door open a little more, just enough to squeeze my body through, and ease it closed behind me as quietly as possible.

  After the blinding brightness of the snowstorm, it takes me a few seconds to get my bearings.

  There’s no one around. All’s quiet except for a mournful cadence of far-off chanting that weaves through the shafts of light radiating from the stained-glass windows. Vaulted ceilings tower overhead. As my feet pad against the plush carpet, the flickering of sweating candelabras stretch my shadow down the long, wide corridor—past grand fireplaces with gilded mantels, elaborate hand-knit tapestries, and glass cases filled with jewel-encrusted diadems. The trinkets in this place alone could feed the entire population of the Parish indefinitely.

  I wind through spiraling stairs, searching, ducking into the occasional alcove for cover from hooded passersby. The Anchorites glide along on hover discs like bloody specters, exchanging wordless nods with one another before floating past me.

  The deeper I travel into the Priory’s bowels, the louder the chanting becomes. I finally find myself on a balcony that overlooks a gathering of the monks. I hide behind a pillar. They look like a mass of flames, all on their knees facing an altar of sparkling gold. Above the altar, a stained-glass mural depicts a flowing figure in white, arms outstretched.

  The Deity.

  Below this figure, tumbling into a pit, the mural shows two mythical beasts. One resembles the galloping caballus, except that it seems deformed somehow, smaller—with tinier hoofs, no flowing mane, longer ears, larger eyes, and a sparse tail except for the tuft at the end. The other beast is much larger, a grayish behemoth with large, flapping ears, sharp tusks, and a long curling snout.

  The stained glass comes to life as the holographic projectors embedded in the crystal panes are activated. The two animals bite and tear at each other, even as they fall into darkness. The glass turns black as night, then burns bright with an intense white light.

  “Behold,” says a hooded monk from the pulpit. “The Great Deity cast down his mightiest angels, whose lust for power and greed led to the Great War of Ashes that destroyed the Holy Land of Usofa. As punishment, they were transformed into the Beasts known as Asinus and Elephantidae, forever condemned to the eternal darkness. Because of their grievous sin, no one shall ever reap any rewards that set them higher than the rest. So spaketh the Deity.”

  “The Deity’s words shall bind us,” the gathered Anchorites chant in response.

  I shake my head. Nonsensical stories, used to frighten and control the ignorant.

  Darting between the stone columns, I pause at the landing of a spiral staircase just in time to hear a hovering sentry Anchorite whisper to his companion, “The child upstairs … ” before they glide past and disappear round a bend.

  It feels like a hammer is pounding nails into my heart as I dart up the steps. Two of the monks are standing sentinel beside the entrance to an open room that’s filled with beds. A dormitory. I pull the hood farther over my head and nod, striding inside as if I belong there.

  Unlike the rest of the Priory, the décor is sparse in here. Empty beds line the walls on either side. My eyes strain through the gloom as I cut between them, searching for some signs of life.

  I reach the last bed, which is likewise empty. He’s not here. I feel crushed, as if someone’s cast me down a dark pit with no hope of ever climbing my way out again.

  That’s when I hear the soft sound of sniffling. I look up.

  Cole is wedged into a corner of the room. He’s sitting on the floor, staring out the window at the snow-smothered landscape.

  Suddenly everything else—my training, the covert hits on Establishment targets, even the business with the virus—none of that seems as important.

  I close the gap between us, resisting the urge to startle him from behind with a huge hug. “Cole,” I whisper. “It’s me. I’m here.”

  He turns away from the flurries glancing off the window and fixes his gaze on me, rubbing his large coffee eyes as if he were awakening from a dream. “Lucky?”

  Then I scoop him up into my arms and squeeze him tight, whirling him around for good measure. “You’re getting heavy, buddy!”

  “What took you so long?” he whispers in my ear.

  “You know me. I’m always getting lo
st.”

  “But you still always find me.” He squeezes me back.

  “I missed you so much!”

  “Missed you more !”

  I set him on his feet and kneel in front of him, stroking his hair, examining his face, holding his hands. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

  He shrugs, something I don’t remember him doing much of. “I’m okay. They try to be scary, but it only works a little bit. So then I think of the stories you told me and it gets better.”

  He looks so grown up. Like a little man. I’m elated, but saddened at how much I’ve missed and how fast he’s had to mature in my absence.

  “Cole, we don’t have much time. I need to take you away from this place. Tomorrow, after the Ascension Ceremony, we’re leaving the Parish. Do they watch you every minute? The Ascension Ceremony will be done by noon, and the crowds will give us a diversion. Do you think you can sneak down and meet me by the side entrance at noon? That’s when the—”

  “I know! I know! That’s when the sun’s bright and both arrows are pointing at the one and the two and the clock gongs twelve times! I’m not a baby! I’m five!”

  I grin and ruffle his hair. “Of course.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a spare chronometer. “Sorry I missed your birthday. This is for you.”

  His eyes flare. “Oooh! What’s that?”

  “This will make it easier for you to remember. Just in case you don’t hear the gongs. When the display says One Two Zero Zero, I’ll be waiting right outside and I’ll take you with me.” I place the chronometer into his small palm. “But you have to hide this and make sure no one sees it.”

  He stuffs the chron into a slit on the side of his mattress. “I know how to hide things! Remember when we used to hide the story of the Lady under the floorboards back home?” His eyes are glistening with the memory now and he wipes them with his arm.