by Ted Dekker
“Perhaps. But our dark priest may be right, this is a war to be waged on a different front. And if he is right and he can summon this red dragon Teeleh to do his bidding, we will be rid of the thorn in our side once and for all.”
“And . . .” Cassak hesitated on the next obvious point.
“Go on, say it.”
“Teeleh forbid, but I must serve my king.” He dipped his head to Ba’al in respect. “But if, however unlikely, this dragon we serve does not devour this albino child, surely no one is suggesting that Qurong do as Thomas has demanded and drink their red poison.”
The mention of poison knifed through Qurong’s belly, and he wondered if the ailment in his gut over these past thirty days was the result of bad food. Or worse, real poison. Served to him by Ba’al. Or an Eramite spy.
“I have no intention of nearing, much less entering, one of their cursed red lakes,” he snapped. “But if Ba’al fails in his promise to summon the beast, I will have permission from him to throw him into poisonous waters.” He paused, eyes on the priest. “Won’t I?”
The three freshly opened wounds on the witch’s forehead glistened in the flame light. His thin lips morphed into a grin. The evil man was as much serpent as he was human.
“I’ve lived in Teeleh’s bosom. He will never allow any harm to come to me.”
Qurong nodded. “It’s a day’s march. We will leave in the morning. Bring the Throaters.”
7
THOMAS PULLED up his steed and looked out over the Beka Valley, a jagged, stone canyonland. His stallion snorted and sidestepped a blue scorpion that scurried across the sand.
He held the mount steady with a soft cluck of his tongue and lifted his eyes to the high place on the far side. The canyons rose to a plateau that swelled on top, making it look pregnant. With what? Thomas could only assume evil.
This was Ba’al Bek. The highest plateau in this part of the desert. A place claimed by the dark priest. A comet, or perhaps Elyon’s fist, looked to have landed at the center of the rise, creating a massive crater the breadth of Qurongi City.
Beside him, Mikil spat to one side. “I don’t like this, Thomas. This whole valley stinks of death.”
“Sulfur,” he said.
Jamous harrumphed on Thomas’s left. “Call it what you want. She’s right. It smells as if it’s rising from Teeleh’s hell.” He pulled out a kirkuk and bit into the fruit’s red flesh. A single bite could keep a man on the move for a day. They each carried a small supply of various fruits taken from the trees near the red pool. Some nourished; others had medicinal value. Without the fruit, the Circle would surely have been wiped out by the Horde long ago. It was their primary advantage, allowing them to heal on the fly and travel for days into the deep desert without any other source of food or water.
Lake fruit. Cherished by albinos, bitter to the Horde.
They had left the Gathering within an hour of Thomas’s ultimatum, and the moonless desert night welcomed them in perfect silence. There were no great cheers, none of the customary embraces or wishes for safe travel, no calls for Elyon’s blessing on the mission.
Thomas had taken his son Jake out into the desert for a half an hour and assured the boy of his undying love for them all. Whatever happened, Jake must never abandon his love for Elyon, Thomas urged. Never.
“Of course not, Father. Never.”
Swinging the child around in an embrace, Thomas had held back tears of gratitude, concerned they might be seen as a sign of fear. The children didn’t need more worry.
Then he’d joined Chelise, kissed her passionately, and deflected her insistence that she join them. He’d wiped away her tears, mounted his steed, and rode into the desert with his choice of company: his most seasoned warrior, Mikil, who had laid down her arms with the rest of them years ago; her husband, Jamous; and Samuel, his wayward son, who might be the death of them all.
“Your son should have joined us by now,” Mikil said, gazing to the southern desert. “He could be dead.”
“Or he’s run off,” Jamous said.
Thomas had written his challenge on paper, set his seal at the top, rolled it into a scroll, and demanded that Samuel deliver it to the Horde at Qurongi. He arranged to meet them at Hell’s Gate, this narrow pass into the Beka Valley. Then, together, they would continue to the high place and wait for Qurong’s response.
“It would take a battalion of Scabs to bring Samuel down,” Thomas said. “I think he can deliver a message to one guard on the outskirts of Qurongi. He’ll be here.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He wants this as much as I do.”
Mikil grunted. “Then you’ve both lost your senses.”
“If you hadn’t saved my neck a thousand times, I would put you under the sword for that.”
“And if you hadn’t saved mine as many, I would turn it back on you,” she said. Their well-intentioned barbs lightened the mood.
He looked at his most trusted commander, now in her thirties, still childless by choice and still every bit the warrior she’d been when killing Scabs had been an obsession. Her bronzed cheek was marked by a scar, barely visible past strands of dark hair.
“Besides,” she said, “we’ve given up our swords. Remember?” She winked at him.
He had to grin, however thinly. They were all warriors at heart. Given the chance to take up arms against an enemy, they would throw themselves into the task.
But the Horde was no longer their enemy.
The disease was their enemy.
As was Teeleh, who’d cursed mankind with the disease. The way to destroy the disease had nothing to do with the sword and everything to do with the heart. Only by loving the Horde could they hope to persuade any Scab to throw away their diseased life, drown in Elyon’s waters, and rise to live again.
“Trust me,” he said, facing the high place again, “if the sword could rid the world of Teeleh’s curse, I would take sides with Samuel. In his youth he’s lost sight of the path and grown impatient for the destination.”
“So now you’ll risk all of our necks to prove him wrong,” Jamous said.
“You think we’re risking our lives? So you doubt Elyon will save us? You’ve proven my point.”
“Nonsense. I’m only—”
“You doubt Elyon’s power to save us. If even my elders doubt, then I’m only doing my duty. We’ll see if your doubt is justified.”
“It’s not your duty to test the power of Elyon.”
“Not him,” Thomas said. “I test my own heart. And Samuel’s. And now yours and Mikil’s. Do you object?”
Jamous looked ahead, silent. He didn’t dare object.
But another voice broke the silence.
“I object, Father.” Samuel walked his horse from an outcropping of boulders on their left. He’d washed the red war paint off his face and drawn his hair back in a ponytail. His son had reached the pass before them.
“You mean well, but your methods don’t work,” Samuel said. “Ten years of running and hiding have proven it. So be my guest, prove whatever else you want.”
They were the first words spoken by Samuel since their departure, and Thomas wasn’t sure if they deserved a response. The time for talk had passed.
He clenched his jaw and turned away from his son.
“Oh, please, you don’t think I wouldn’t have actually killed my sister, do you?”
“You delivered the message?”
“Naturally. Without bloodshed, just for you.”
Samuel pulled up alongside him and stared out over the canyons.
“Don’t be such an idealist, Father. This isn’t one of your dreams. We aren’t in the histories, waging war with some virus. We’re in a desert and our enemy uses swords to gut our children. When this little game of yours is over, you’ll turn us all over to the Horde and some of us won’t go easily. Then we’ll have our war.”
“Shut your muzzle, boy,” Mikil snapped. “Show some respect. This isn’t over yet.”
“Gladly,” Samuel said, then mumbled, “I’m done talking anyway.”
The histories. How long had it been since Thomas had given any thought to that time when he’d dreamed of another place? It was rarely spoken about by those he confided in these days. At one time he believed that he’d actually come from the histories, where, yes, a virus wreaked havoc on all he held sacred.
The Raison Strain. It seemed so distant now. A dream of a dream. But Samuel had heard it all and forgotten nothing.
Thomas nudged his horse and pointed it into the pass. Samuel was right; they were done talking.
CHELISE PACED around the tent, hands on hips. Her son, Jake, raced by, wooden sword in hand, cutting down imaginary Shataiki as they attacked from all sides. Or was his enemy Horde, covered in scabs?
“Enough, Jake! For the last time, put that cursed stick of wood away before you do some real damage.”
The five-year-old stopped and looked up at her. His blond curls hung in his round, green eyes. She should take a blade to those locks before he resembled an overgrown tuft of desert wheat.
“Put it away, Jake,” Marie said, eyeing her brother. “You know what happens when you get carried away.”
Marie’s wounds were nearly healed. A day had passed since they’d applied the clear nectar from the green plums. Only the deepest cut across her belly, bared between her halter and her skirt, was still plainly visible. If Samuel had run her through with his sword, she might have perished. There was no rising from the dead, not even with a hundred fruits.
“You’re no example,” Chelise chided her.
“Please, Mother, we’re past that.”
“I still can’t believe you would subject us all to that display of brutality.”
“We’ve all been subjected to much worse.”
“He’s your brother, for the love of Elyon. And he”—she glanced at Jake, who was still looking up at them—“is your brother. What kind of foolish notions do you suppose I’ll have to pull out of his mind now? Did you think of that?”
“I defended the truth. If that comes at a cost, so be it.”
Yes, of course, the truth. Their whole family was going to burn on the funeral pyre in defense of the truth. However noble it might be, Chelise didn’t have to like it.
“Leave us, Jake. Find Johnny or Britton and find some mischief that has nothing to do with fighting.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Promise me.”
“Promise.”
He dropped the wooden sword, a gift from Samuel of all people. Jake skipped over the mats and slipped through the canvas flap as if it were made of air.
Most of their industry surrounded desert wheat, which, apart from beds of cactus, was one of the only plentiful food sources in the desert. There was the fruit, of course, but it could only be found near the red pools.
Like the Horde who’d occupied the desert before them, the albinos used the desert wheat for more than its grain. The stalks could be reduced to thread or woven into thick mats. With the help of dye from the rocks, a few Circle tents could turn a small corner of the desert into a colorful flower.
“Sit down, Mother. You’re making me crazy,” Marie said.
She sat in a rocking chair Thomas had fashioned out of wood, one of the few pieces of furniture they took with them when they fled the Horde. She could understand Samuel’s frustration; she could not understand his plan to resolve it.
“The other tribes are on their way?” Marie asked.
“Our runners are probably just reaching them. But they’ll be here in record time, you can count on that. I hope your father knows what he’s doing. It’s a dangerous thing to have so many in one place. He had no right to leave me behind.”
“He’s also Thomas,” Marie said. “Thomas of Hunter. Do you know how many narrow escapes he’s survived? How many armies he’s defeated? How many times he’s been right?”
Chelise stood, no longer willing to sit and rock. “And this time I think he’s wrong. He’s going to throw everything down on the line, and even if he wins this reckless game, Qurong will never follow through on his end. He’ll betray Thomas.”
Marie crossed the room and sat in the chair that Chelise had vacated. “Well, you should know.”
“That’s right.” She knew her father. He was as stubborn as a mule. Even more immovable than Thomas.
“That’s why you’re so upset, isn’t it?” Marie said. “This is more about Qurong than Thomas.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Of course this is about my father, but it isn’t a game. It’s just . . . it’s impossible!” Chelise could feel the heat in her face but felt powerless to stop it.
“I think that’s the point,” Marie said softly, staring at a bowl of fruit surrounded by a dozen blue pillows on the mat where they reclined to eat. “Impossible for us, impossible for Samuel. Impossible for all except one.”
She switched her gaze to Chelise. “What if he’s right? What if he wins this challenge against Qurong?”
“My father will never drown. Not like this.”
“Then how?”
Chelise turned away, fighting back tears of frustration. For a few moments neither of them spoke. The rocker creaked as Marie stood and stepped up behind her. Her hand rested on Chelise’s shoulder, the same hand that had mastered the sword and fended off Samuel just yesterday. But now it was gentle and steady.
“Then let’s go,” Marie said quietly. “Let’s go to your father, Qurong, leader of the Horde, and let’s save my father, Thomas of Hunter, leader of the Circle.”
“Elyon knows how I want to. How I need to. Saving my father is all I dream about, you know?” Her brow wrinkled in deep thought.
“If what you say is right, if Qurong will double-cross Father, then we have to go.”
“Thomas would disagree.”
“Of course. He would say that Elyon will protect him,” Marie said, removing her hand and stepping around Chelise. “But Samuel’s right: no one has actually seen Elyon in ten years.”
“Don’t tell me you fought your brother with doubt in your heart.”
“Honestly? I think I fought Samuel to fight off my own demons of doubt. Does that make me as wrong as he is? Assuming he is wrong?”
So, even Thomas’s daughter was harboring doubt. The situation was worse than she’d imagined. Thomas was right in casting this challenge. The Circle was fracturing. It was all breaking apart.
“You don’t approve of my honesty?” Marie said, noticing the change in her.
“Honesty? I don’t know what is honest anymore. All I know is that we have a problem, Thomas was right about that.” She stepped past Marie. “And I know that I fear for his life.”
“Where are you going?”
“To speak to the council. Or what’s left of it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re right. We have to go after him.”
8
JANAE SOAKED up Billy’s tales, knowing that every syllable he spoke was simple, unaltered fact. She had lived a lie, and this unlikely man from across the seas had found her and brought her the truth.
She listened as he recounted stories of the monastery in Paradise, Colorado, where he first found the Books of History as a boy. And she knew that she, like Billy, had to touch one of these books if it was the last thing she did before dying.
She heard him speak of the large worms in the endless tunnels beneath the monastery, and she fought off the desire to charter a jet on the spot, fly to Paradise, and see for herself if any of these worms still survived. They, like the books, had certainly been spawned by another world. Yet they were here, in this reality?
But what made her mouth dry was Billy’s claim that Thomas wasn’t the only one who’d crossed the bridge into this other reality or, for that matter, come back from the future.
Kara had gone. And returned.
Monique, her very own mother, had gone. And returned.
How? Using Thomas’s blood.
The idea, once it sank in, was too much to absorb in one sitting.
“You mean, when you fall asleep—”
“While in contact with Thomas’s blood,” Billy interrupted, making a show of cutting his finger with a fingernail. “More accurately, while your blood is in contact with Thomas’s blood.”
“And you just wake up in this other place?”
“It sounds crazy, but there’s plenty of proof. Me, for starters. The books—”
“Until you fall asleep there, in which case you wake up here,” Janae said, on her own track. “As if the whole thing was just a dream. Only it isn’t a dream at all.”
“Correct. That’s what I’ve pieced together so far.”
“And you know, with certainty, that this blood still exists?”
“How many times do you need me to say it, Janae? You think I’ve done all of this, come all this way, because I saw your picture in People magazine and decided I had to have you? As if I said to myself, ‘I know, I’ll make up stories about books that can transport you between realities and pretend to be able to read her thoughts, that’ll impress her’?”
Janae eyed him, captivated by the notion that he was reading her mind this very moment. She stood and brushed by him, smiling coyly. There was more about Billy that attracted her, and it wasn’t simply his promise of adventure. He brought out the animal in her. Maybe she should give it to him without pretending.
She reached back for his hand. “Walk with me.”
He did so willingly, and they meandered from the suite, still hand in hand.
“From now on this stays between us,” she said. “You’ll get nothing from my mother, you know that.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. She hasn’t mentioned a word of this to me, which can only mean she’s hidden the truth for good reasons.”
“Keeping to ourselves won’t get us what we need.”