The Saffron Falcon (Transition Magic)
Page 1
The Saffron Falcon
A Transition Novel
by J. E. Hopkins
Other Novels by J. E. Hopkins
The Scarlet Crane, A Transition Novel
This book is a work of fiction. Names, events, locations, and characters are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 James E. Hopkins
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To Jamie.
Your love, support, and bedeviling questions made
The Saffron Falcon more fun to write and a better book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Heartfelt thanks to all who helped in the creation of The Saffron Falcon, for your invaluable reviews, critique, and unwavering support.
Special thanks to my mentor and good friend, author Shelley Singer.
Synopsis
Transition. When all children have the power to perform magic for one month as they enter puberty. But with a monstrous catch. The magic must be the child’s sincere desire and something never done before. Or they die.
The year is 2015. An archeologist working for the US Department of Transition Security unearths a second-century codex that eliminates Transition’s uniqueness requirement. Any child using the ancient verse would have unlimited power. The artifact is stolen, the theft concealed by a brutal bombing.
DTS agent John Benoit and his partner, Stony Hill—a fierce, pierced, purple-haired agent half his age—plunge into the case. Their quest is personal; their friend and leader was killed in the bomb blast.
Woven into The Saffron Falcon are the stories of three children in Transition:
Marie, the daughter of a Parisian baker during the height of the Black Death.
Dylan, a loving child who carries within him a devouring anger.
Lún, a boy of the Han dynasty who confronts castration and magic to protect his family.
Also ensnared in the ancient book’s web is the son of a Kalash tribal elder, in Transition and abandoned in Islamabad, who stumbles onto the secret of the codex. He flees the ISI, seeking to return to his mountain home.
John and Stony’s investigation leads them from the shattered quiet of Georgetown streets to the rugged foothills of the Himalayas, where evil and magic collide, the future of civilization at stake.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
198 CE
CHAPTER ONE
2015 CE
CHAPTER TWO • CHAPTER THREE • CHAPTER FOUR • CHAPTER FIVE • CHAPTER SIX
1349 CE
CHAPTER SEVEN
2015 CE
CHAPTER EIGHT • CHAPTER NINE
1349 CE
CHAPTER TEN
2015 CE
CHAPTER ELEVEN • CHAPTER TWELVE • CHAPTER THIRTEEN • CHAPTER FOURTEEN • CHAPTER FIFTEEN • CHAPTER SIXTEEN
2008 CE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
2015 CE
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN • CHAPTER NINETEEN • CHAPTER TWENTY
2008 CE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
2015 CE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO • CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE • CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR • CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE • CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX • CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
62 CE
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
2015 CE
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE • CHAPTER THIRTY • CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
62 CE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
2015 CE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE • CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR • CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE • CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX • CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN • CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT • CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE • CHAPTER FORTY • CHAPTER FORTY-ONE • CHAPTER FORTY-TWO • CHAPTER FORTY-THREE • CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR • CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE • CHAPTER FORTY-SIX • CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
198 CE
CHAPTER ONE
Borghi, Forlì-Cesena
Italia, The Roman Empire
“Faster!” Publius Cornelius Scipio Africanus barked and slashed his flay across the laboring slave’s back. Three iron-tipped thongs tore furrows half a foot long into the man’s skin. Blood welled, ran down his naked torso, and splashed onto the stone floor. The bondservant grunted, stumbled to his knees, quickly grabbed a brick from the crimson-spattered pile next to him, pushed upright, and returned to his work on the wall.
Scipio nodded in satisfaction. The task was almost complete.
He was a centurion, a legionnaire in the Imperial Roman Army, a leader of men, one who took them into battle. And a covert Christian who followed the teachings of the Nazarene. Two nights prior, in the nox aterrima—the darkest night—the head of his sect had brought him to the almost completed abbey and shown him this small recess. They’d huddled before the opening in the flickering torchlight.
The wizened, frail apostle addressed the centurion in a whisper, “You have been entrusted with a sacred mission. One that you must complete within two nights, before the monks inhabit this place of contemplation.” He handed Scipio a thin package concealed by cloth bindings. “This must be concealed, forgotten to time. Bring a slave who is skilled at wall-building to this place. Set this object in the platea and have him construct a wall identical to the surrounding bricks, one that will secure this chamber from even the sharpest eyes.”
“What of the slave?” Scipio asked.
The old man shrugged. “Do what you must to guard this secret. Fail in this grave honor and our world will end.”
“With respect, why not just destroy what is contained within? Why risk discovery?”
“It’s God’s will this came into existence, and He shall decide its fate.”
Scipio had slapped his chest in salute and accepted the burden. Now the slave was sliding the last brick into place and pointing the mortar lines carefully so that the barrier appeared identical to the walls on either side.
“You’ve done well,” the centurion said. “Clear away the remaining materia and scatter them outside the abbey. A woman awaits you to cleanse your wounds and lie with you.” The slave did as ordered, then led his master into the darkness.
They’d marched half the distance to their camp when Scipio drew his sword, grabbed it with both hands, swung back and then forward in a vicious strike, severing the slave’s head from his shoulders.
The centurion heard soft steps behind him and froze, chest heaving, recalling the priest’s words. Without turning, he kneeled, bowed his head, and began a whispered prayer.
“Lord, grant me peace everlasting in your holy—”
2015 CE
CHAPTER TWO
Topeka, Kansas
The United States
“If you do this, more Kansas kids will die. You’ll be killing them. You realize that, right?” DTS agent John Benoit growled, banging his cane on the floor to emphasize the word “die.”
The target of his question shifted in his chair as if to dodge the accusation, his face purpling with anger. Dwayne Right was the Kansas commissioner of education. John was meeting with him about the state’s declared intent to remove Transition education from their textbooks and classrooms. Kansas was one of a growing handful of states who’d made similar threats. John figured the issue would ultimately have to be resolved by federal legislation. Until then, the DTS confronted each case as it arose.
They sat in Right’s office a couple of blocks southeast of the domed capitol building and, in John’s opinion, at least a couple of decades in the past.
“Now, why in the world would you say something that stupid, Dr. Benoit? I don’t realize any such thing. I’ll say this again because you’re apparently havi
ng difficulty: Kansas parents want their kids taught about Transition at home.” The commissioner’s corpulent face flushed in spite of the frigid air blanketing his office.
Most of Benoit’s assignments were either talking to kids and parents about the dangers of magic or dousing brushfires like this one. This routine business served to conceal a darker, more critical role. John, his partner, and a handful of agents were secretly authorized by the president to protect the U.S. from magical threats. By any means necessary. With or without the support of other U.S. agencies. And with or without the approval of foreign governments.
John tapped a stubborn staccato with his cane. At seventy-one, he was as fit as a man twenty years younger. He didn’t need the cane with its brass dragon’s head and ruby eyes for support, but he enjoyed the misdirection. “Schools provide nearly universal coverage; parents won’t or can’t do that. But this is more than just an issue of reaching all kids.”
He pushed a single sheet of paper across Right’s desk.
The commissioner leaned forward, staring at the printed sheet as if it might leap off the desk and take a chunk out of his considerable neck. “What’s this?”
“A survey conducted by the DTS, completed just a few days ago. You’re getting an advance look.”
Right stared at the page. John watched his eyes dart around the top of his desk as if he wanted to avoid what he saw.
“The percentages are the number of adults who agree with the statements. This proves that parents are dangerously misinformed about Transition.”
Summary of Transition Beliefs
DTS-2143
FACT
Children in Transition have lavender eyes. (98%)
The ritual words for Transition magic on are the web. (95%)
Transition lasts a lunar month after it starts. (70%)
Magic must be unique and the child’s genuine wish to be successful. (65%)
Virtually all children who try magic die. (41%)
MYTH
Children in Transition frequently have sex. (43%)
It’s easy to make magic unique. (25%)
“I could show you similar results from a survey of eight-year-old kids. Teaching kids the facts is critical. They aren’t going to get it at home.”
Wright lifted his head and glared at John. “Horse hockey. We both know you can make surveys say anything you want. The good people of Kansas are well informed and don’t want the federal government intruding into their homes. If I were to argue otherwise to the governor or my board, I’d be out on the street. I’m sorry you wasted your time making this trip, but our meeting is over.”
“In that case,” John said, “I have one last thing for you.” He withdrew a letter from his portfolio, written on White House stationery and signed by the president, with a bold “Top Secret” watermark across the top. He slowly pushed it across the desk. “You’re formally notified that, under the authority granted by Executive Order 1024, the president is declaring the proper education of Kansas children with respect to Transition to be a matter of national security. If the legislation that’s currently under discussion becomes law, the president will sequester all federal funds that would otherwise flow to Kansas—education, highway, construction, the works. Furthermore, the federal government would cease doing business with any company that does business in Kansas. As you’ll see from the letter, you’re authorized to share this memo with your governor and the leaders of your legislature.”
“Bullshit, he can’t—”
“You may recall that late last year the Congress passed an amendment to the Homeland Security Act. The president would be acting under paragraph 10-210 of that amendment.”
Only a handful of people in government knew the backstory for that amendment. A little more than a year ago, the DTS—John and his partner—had uncovered a rogue Chinese program to use Transition magic for Sino-political supremacy. The program had been annihilated, but not before the Chinese had destroyed the nuclear aircraft carrier USS Enterprise. The leaders of a shaken U.S. government hammered out a rare bipartisan agreement to minimize risks from Transition magic. And while it might be a long shot that tens of thousands of uneducated Kansas kids messing with magic would somehow threaten the United States, the stakes were too high to permit Kansas to proceed along its current path. They could force creationism into the curriculum if they wanted, but they wouldn’t be allowed to withdraw Transition education.
“But—” Right protested.
John again interrupted. “To say it another way, off the record, but perhaps a bit more clearly. If you and your associates persist in being ignorant fools, your state government is toast. Burnt toast. Turn out the lights and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
He stood and turned to leave. “Have a good day.”
CHAPTER THREE
Islamabad
Islamic Republic of Pakistan
“Abdul Khan!”
Tareef jerked awake at sound of his father’s name being screamed in the early morning darkness. He sat up on the thin pallet where he’d been sleeping, curled against his father’s back. The wooden door to their tiny room crashed open and slammed against the wall as if a thunderstorm had invaded the ramshackle boarding house that sat at the end of a slum-infested street. Three men stormed inside, carrying electric torches that slashed the darkness.
Khan lurched awake, scrambled to his feet, and confronted the intruders. “What is this? Who are you?”
Tareef jumped up and hid behind his father, shivering in spite of the early morning heat, bewildered, heart pounding. The voice of the most revered elder of the Kalash tribes carried none of its usual calm strength.
He fears these men.
Tareef peered around his tall, gaunt shield and stared at the strangers. The dancing shadows from their lights revealed patches of green and brown on their clothing.
One of the men pressed forward, flicking his torch between his two targets like a weapon. The brilliant light was painful and blinding. “Abdul Khan?”
This was the voice that had wakened them, but lower now, an evil growl. The man, a head taller than his father, was a huge shadow behind the wall of light.
“You’re under arrest.”
Khan jerked back, bumping into Tareef and knocking him to the floor. “Arrest? Why? By whose authority?”
The shadow called over his shoulder to the two other men who were still standing by the open door. “Take him.”
“You’ll take me nowhere! I am a representative of the Kalash people. On official business. I’ll have you—”
Tareef looked up to see a shaft of light arc up and then down, jarring to a halt against his father’s head in a crunch of metal and bone. He screamed, “No! Leave him alone!” and scrambled to his father’s crumpled body.
The big man swept Tareef into a fierce grasp and tossed him into the back of the room. “Stay the fuck out of the way.”
The two men who’d been waiting by the door grabbed his father and dragged him from the room, followed by the man with the monstrous shadow. Their lights danced through the open door for a few moments, then disappeared.
• • • • •
Tareef pushed himself into a sitting position, blind from the suffocating darkness and aching from being tossed aside. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He wiped them away with his fist, angry, as if they marked him as still a child.
His father had come to Islamabad to ask the Pakistani government to protect his people from persecution by neighboring Muslim tribes in the high mountains of northwestern Pakistan. The Kalash had the light skin and eyes of their western Eurasian ancestors, and believed in many gods. They were easy targets for the zealots who constantly pressured them to convert to Islam. The old women of the tribe told of a time past when the Kalash filled their valley to overflowing. Now they were few, and even fewer kept to the old ways.
Professor Rahman. Maybe he can help.
Ashraf Rahman had sponsored their trip. He was a K
alash who’d left their valley as a youth, been educated in America, and returned to Pakistan as a professor of languages at the Institute of Asian Civilizations. The professor believed their tribe would be absorbed by the Muslim culture unless the government helped preserve them.
It had taken Tareef and his father two weeks of hiking and borrowed rides to reach the capital. And, even with Professor Rahman’s help, two weeks more before a meeting with the Ministry of National Heritage could be arranged. Just yesterday, the professor had collected them at the boarding house and had taken them to the Ministry for the long-awaited appointment.
Tareef was stunned by the size of the building. All the Kalash would fit within its walls. The endless hallways echoed with the footfalls of silent men in dark clothes who stared at the polished floor and scurried along as if they were chased by ghosts. The minister’s assistant pointed them to a hard wooden bench where they’d waited so long that Tareef’s stomach began to growl with hunger.
Finally, a man came to the bench, barked “Follow me,” and led them through a marble-lined maze of narrow passages and closed doors to window-lined office. A short, bald, and bent old man looked up from a pile of paper and waved them to chairs before his desk. He scowled at Professor Rahman and offered no greeting.
“Your presumption that Vice President Bashara would grant you a meeting because he’s on your Institute’s governing board was false. He’s a busy man and does not have time to deal with minor matters. You will stop annoying him. Do you understand?”
Rahman nodded, “Salaam Aleikum, Minister. I meant no—”
“I’ve read your petition. Utter nonsense.”
Tareef stared at the little man and tried not to laugh. The minister’s eyes were tiny slits that pressed against a huge curved nose. A beak. His desk and chair seem to swallow him. The piles of paper on his desk were so high that the he looked like a wrinkled kid peering around the stones of a wall.