“What’s that?” I said.
“My new weapon, one to supplement the stave.”
I noted how his eyes shifted down and to the corners when he spoke. “May I see it?”
From its sheath, he pulled out a blade the length of my forearm, of the kind used to shear sheep. He whirled it around, showing off its balance and heft, his eyes ablaze as he tossed the handle from hand to hand. I imagined him replaying in his mind past wrongs: his father’s teaching, my father’s death; Thomas returning for festival with his dreams ripped away; the abuse of the scholar and the prior; the murder of the arch vicar. The soft texture of love he displayed whenever we met after being apart had given way to anger. The muscles around his jaw twitched and his lips curled, exposing teeth, and his eyes grew cold—the scowl of a warrior.
He caught my concern, and his features hardened. “This is no game, Orah. You’ve seen what they can do.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. Nathaniel had become what the founders of the Temple had feared, no longer a crusader for the light but an angry man willing to kill. The man I loved, who always wanted nothing more than to change the world for the better, had succumbed to the darkness.
I drew back a step, and my heart wept.
***
For the next week, I attended endless meetings and pretended to be a sympathetic leader, wandering through the encampment and encouraging the troops. Yet whenever I found a spare moment, I sought solitude away from the people I led. A five-minute walk from the Bradford rectory, I’d discovered a refuge in the woods, a clearing not so different from the site of the NOT tree of my youth.
On this day, I crept along the narrow passage to the open space, and caught a figure hunched on my favorite rock with his head bowed as if praying.
A refugee from the vicars, perhaps, or another fleeing scholar—certainly not danger, for the cowardly deacons never traveled alone.
I spread the branches that blocked the entrance and stepped through.
A weary Jacob glanced up at me and smiled. “So much like you, Orah, to seek respite as I do from the preparations for battle.” He slid to one side and brushed the dried leaves from the surface of the rock. “Come sit with me. This place offers tranquility enough to share.”
I settled next to him, hands folded in my lap, and we both stayed silent.
After a minute, I stroked his arm with my fingertips until he turned to me.
His smile changed into a grimace.
I reached out to comfort him, but my hand hovered in the space between us, unable to bridge the gap. “I’m sorry you have to use those wonderful hands to fashion tools that might cause others harm. You didn’t follow me here for this.”
He shrugged. “It’s not your fault. It’s the way of the world.”
“I’m not sure I understand the way of the world anymore. Everything I once believed is changing around me.”
“How so?”
“I can’t say, but it seems to be everywhere. I feel it in the way the wind blows through the leaves, in the sounds echoing off the rectory walls when people talk, in the reflection of the sunlight off the water, in how time passes—it’s all changing. Each change in itself makes sense, but bit by bit, a vaster change is coming, like when the first drops of rainfall build into a stream, and then gush forth in an all-consuming flood.”
Jacob grasped my extended hand in both of his. “I feel it too, and perhaps it’s preordained. The earth mother spoke of the great circle, not only for each of our lives, but for the whole of humankind. We are creatures who want, she said. Some, like me, can find contentment in simple things, like crafting wood with my hands.”
“Thomas too,” I said with a half-smile. “All he ever wanted was to make music.”
“Others, like you and Nathaniel, are less content and long to change the way things are. When the two of you arrived on our shore, you brimmed with want. Why else would you risk crossing an ocean you once believed did not exist?”
“We wanted a better life for our people.”
“A worthwhile goal, but the earth mother taught us not all wanting is good. Wanting too much can lead to evil.”
“How can wanting too much be bad?”
“While still in the machine masters’ city, she studied history from before the cataclysm, the time your people call the darkness. She found that in every era, some believe one way and others the opposite, all with an equal passion. Over time, those of like mind cluster together, and their passion feeds on each other. Like the people of the earth and the machine masters in their mountain city.”
“Or the children of the light and the vicars.”
“Yes, exactly, but eventually passion becomes purpose, and purpose drives the need to convince others. We become like men shouting from opposite banks of a broad river during a storm. One cries out, the other reacts. The first shouts back as his compatriots cheer—but no one on the far side listens. The discord grows until each group marches into battle, bearing the banners of their faith, convinced in the righteousness of their cause. They give speeches and play music to demonize their enemy, until their humanity vanishes, and they become willing to kill.
“I’ve never been one to shout across a river. My wants are simple. If what I craft pleases others, I’m pleased as well. If it’s useful, even better. One of my happiest moments was making the spinning wheel and loom for you. Those devices provided benefit to my people, but best of all, they made your lovely smile glow. This time, I fear, will be different.”
“How so?” I said, afraid to hear the answer.
“This time the results of my craft may leave blood on my hands, and suck the joy from the world.”
Chapter 16 – Riverbend
I scrambled up on a waist-high rock at the side of the road to better view our troops, but even from that vantage point, the column had no end. The flow of followers stretched for more than a thousand paces, snaking its way toward Riverbend. Men of varying ages and builds plodded along, burdened with packs of provisions... and a hefty dose of foreboding. Each bore their weapon of choice, some with axes on their shoulders and others wielding hoes, or scythes, or any tool with a pointed end or sharpened edge that might be swung with force.
Thomas had assembled a band of players, more than a dozen who played his marching tune with flute and drum. With so many troops, Caleb had asked them to scatter, so the music would carry up and down the line, keeping spirits high.
Zachariah pranced among them, proudly tooting his flute, too innocent to realize what lay ahead.
For the past two weeks, we’d marched to their beat, until at last the landmarks on my map showed us nearing our destination. In anticipation of our arrival, those with special roles donned their new uniforms. The mass of troops kept the customary black tunics, once ordained by the Temple of Light, but Jacob and his armorers wore blue with yellow armbands bearing the insignia of a crossed axe and stave. This marked them as non-combatants who would stay behind the lines to keep the troops supplied and the blades sharpened.
Devorah headed the healers, dressed in bright red with a white star upon their chests, visible enough to locate in the fog of battle. Though only she and Kara could mend, the others had been trained with a mix of medicines gleaned from the traditions of my people and the wisdom of the earth mother. Behind them trailed the litter carriers, ready to evacuate the casualties from the battlefield.
Most prominent, at the center of the column where they might be best protected, marched the bearers of the cube. Since Kara had exposed the dreamers’ magic to our troops, Caleb had elevated their status. These guardians of the dreamers now wore the silken white robes once reserved for temple ritual, and added festival-like wreaths on their heads. They bore the black cube, the mending machines, and other devices on elaborate platforms, decorated each day with fresh flowers.
As word of our arrival reached Riverbend, a smattering of locals lined the road and cheered as we passed by. Caleb halted the troops before entering the
town, giving them a chance to rest and refresh near the cemetery where Nathaniel, Thomas, and I had rested years before.
I stared at the somber stones, praying we’d have no need to erect new ones, or worse, to have to clear land to make space for additional plots.
By the time we reached the main square, a crowd awaited us, and at its head, a young woman with a familiar face.
She stepped toward me and made a small curtsy. “Hello, Orah. Your arrival at Riverbend is both timely and welcome.”
I recognized the voice at once—Lizbeth, the shoemaker’s daughter, who had provided us the final clue to the keep. In our time apart, she’d grown taller than me, and had blossomed into a lovely woman, though a tinge of sadness marred her once innocent features, the result, I assumed, of her receiving a teaching at such a young age.
She held a bouquet of daisies, which she presented to the leaders of our troop, one at a time.
Nathaniel smiled down at her and accepted his with grace, greeting an old friend, but the flower appeared lost in Caleb’s calloused hand.
After a proper welcome ceremony, we reconvened with Lizbeth and the town elders around the banquet table at the local inn.
A round of drinks was served, and a gray-haired man offered a toast, thanking the light for our safe arrival and praising us for our bravery and support. Then he turned to Lizbeth. “With pride, we commend to you the last keeper, whose family guarded the secret of the keep across generations. To her, we grant the honor of relating our current situation.”
Lizbeth stood at the head of the table and gestured to the north. “The vicars have assembled their force on the field by the bend in the river. More come every day. We’ve built barricades and trenches to the east of town, and many of our neighbors from surrounding villages have gathered to help defend it. So far, the deacons have left us alone, but if they decided to move, they’d sweep us away. Now, thanks to you, they’ll think twice before marching.”
Caleb raised a hand. “Can you tell us more about their force—the number of fighters, where they’re situated, and how they’re organized? Time is not our friend. The more we know, the better we can plan our attack.”
She focused on him as he spoke, and then glanced out the window as if assessing the enemy encampment. “The deacons control who may cross the lines, and swear those who do to secrecy, but their stealthy curtain is not without holes. They’ve conscripted workers to do their labor and still demand their tithe, now not as gold but as food and supplies.” She signaled to an elder who waited at the back of the room, by the stairway to the inn’s bedchambers. “Please fetch Miss Junia.”
After the elder disappeared up the stairs, Lizbeth leaned in, pressed both hands flat on the tabletop, and lowered her voice. “The woman you’re about to meet is one of the town’s bakers. They let her into their camp to bring fresh bread daily. She’s offered to tell us all she’s seen, but understand that in doing so, she risks her life.”
Caleb tilted his head to one side and glared at Lizbeth across his nose. “How can we be sure she tells the truth?”
Lizbeth let out a long sigh. “Like many here, her husband of forty years was conscripted to remove the thistle and undergrowth, and to build the new road. He was old and in poor health, but they showed no mercy. He passed to the light two weeks ago, and Junia seethes with rage.”
Moments later, the elder returned with a woman in tow. Gray locks curled about her ears, and bulging veins laced her hands and neck, but she held her head high.
Lizbeth met her at the foot of the stairs and guided her to her own seat while she stood aside. She rested a reassuring hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Please meet Miss Junia, along with her late husband one of the finest bakers of the north river valley. The vicars chose her to gather bread from the others and deliver it to their camp.” She turned to the woman. “You are among friends who will keep your counsel secret. Please tell them all you’ve told me.”
Miss Junia’s eyes burned with a fierceness as she met the gaze of each of us around the table. Then she stiffened her back, raised her chin, and spoke with words crisp and clear.
“The vicars organize their men in a grid, two encampments wide, with one on either side of the road to allow provisions to move in between. As of yesterday, these groupings stretch twelve long, and each holds twenty men.”
“Are you sure?” Caleb said. “A miscalculation may be deadly to us all.”
Miss Junia reached into her tunic pocket and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper, which she faced outward and waved at us. On it were words printed using what I once believed to be temple magic. “Every day, they place an order for bread. Yesterday, they demanded a hundred and twenty loaves, five per unit, each to be shared among four men.”
I calculated in my head. Twenty-four camps of twenty deacons. Nearly five hundred men. A force less than half the size of ours, but likely better armed and trained.
Time to thank Miss Junia and commend her for her courage, but Caleb wasn’t finished. “Their weapons. What arms do they carry?”
She stared at the ceiling and thought a moment before replying. “Each bears an axe with a short handle, no longer than my arm, with a pointed pike at its top, and a long knife, its blade as long as the axe is wide. When I arrive in the morning, I see them training and hear their grunts as their masters berate them.”
Enough. I went to the old woman and embraced her. “Thank you so much. You’ve done a brave service for our cause.”
As Lizbeth helped her stand, she stopped and turned to me. “One more thing, Miss Orah. Every day, the order increases.”
“By how many?” I said.
She raised a knobby right hand with all the fingers extended.
“Five,” she said. “Five more loaves each day.”
No time to wait, as our advantage in numbers diminished by the hour.
***
We’d taken the past two days to rest our troops from their long march, and to lay out plans. This afternoon, the council voted.
Time to act.
That night, after dinner, I left Nathaniel, exhausted from his training, and wandered alone through the village, beyond the barrels and staves of the cooper’s workshop to the edge of town. There, under the ghostly sheen of a half moon, I found Caleb staring at the road ahead.
“No sleep tonight?” he said.
I shook my head. “And none for you as well?”
“I worry about the men. They mean well, but the people on this side of the ocean have become too gentle and kind. The vicars’ tales of the darkness and the threat of their teachings have made them meek. I fear for them.”
“Are you not afraid for yourself as well?”
“Me? No. When my wife died, a part of me died as well. You can’t fear death when so much of you has already died.”
He went silent, staring up at the moon.
I waited a moment, and then gave voice to a question I’d pondered since the dreamers first shared his story. “What was she like?”
“My Rachel? A wonderful woman, my dearest friend. A brilliant scientist with boundless energy. More than any of the others, she longed to push the limits of the unknown, and that daring was her undoing. I remember her smell, her touch—like she stood beside me today—but I struggle to recall her face. When they took her to the disintegration chamber, they wrapped her body in a shroud, but against convention, covered her face as well. They claimed no mind remained, but still she breathed, and no one dared gaze into those glassy eyes as they carried her away.
“Every day, I’m haunted by questions: What if they had given her more time? What if they had left her on life support? Might some future research have restored her mind? I’ll never know the right and wrong of it, whether they ended her life rashly or, in an act of mercy, granted her peace.”
“Is that why you’re so willing to fight and maybe die for someone else’s cause?”
He turned, and his eyes bore into me. “Not someone else’s. The injustice I found here af
fects us all. I fight this battle by choice.” He pointed to the east, where the Temple’s encampment lay. “Tomorrow, that’s where I choose to be, with my men and on the side of right. A man can’t choose where he’s born, but he can choose the place to die.”
Chapter 17 – Monsters and Men
Two hours before first light, I swung my feet to the floor and sat dazed at the edge of the bed, until the plan I’d agreed to for that day startled me awake. Such madness, to abandon the safety of the inn and rush off—not to some sheltering village, but to a battle where men would die.
The night before, everyone in our would-be army had sharpened their weapons and mustered their courage, and penned notes to their loved ones and made peace with the light. Now, after a quick breakfast, Caleb had assembled the bleary-eyed troops in the dimness of pre-dawn.
Before we marched, I scampered up and down the line one final time to check that all was well.
I caught Zachariah tucked away near the rear, grasping a thick branch in one hand and a rock in the other.
“What are you doing here?” I hissed.
His eyes shone moist in the faint light. Even at ten years old, he sensed the sorrow to come. “I want to go with you, to protect you from the bad men.”
I bent so low my eyes were level with his, and grasped him by the arms. “You swore to obey without question. Stay here with Thomas and the other players. Stay and don’t follow, no matter how long I’m gone, but if you hear a tumult coming from the east, flee as far and as fast as you can, and never look back.”
No need to give instruction to Kara or Devorah. They’d already set up the mending machine on the green to catch every second of the sun’s rays. Others among the healers prepared pallets of bandages and medicines alongside the litters, bustling about expressionless and steeling their minds for whatever might come.
The rest of the troop shuffled their feet as if marching in place, and blew into their hands, waiting in the cold before dawn for their orders. In the glow of torches lining the village, I caught glimpses of faces, some frightened but most excited, each gazing to their left and right to acknowledge the whispers of encouragement from their comrades. Some slid the pad of their thumb along the edge of their axe or blade, testing its sharpness.
The Light of Reason (The Seekers Book 3) Page 11