White

by Ted Dekker

  Whatever reservation she struggled with was more than compensated for by her mother, who rushed over to the general and bent to one knee. She took his hand and kissed it.

  “My daughter is yours, my lord.”

  She stood as quickly and kissed her husband on the cheek. “You have made me a very happy woman.”

  Qurong chuckled.

  “Well,” her mother said, facing Chelise. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

  Chelise was still too stunned to speak.

  Her maidservant squeezed her elbow. “It is a most excellent choice,” Elison whispered.

  Her compassionate voice filled Chelise with courage. She lowered her head and knelt to one knee. “I am honored to accept this gift, great Qurong of the Horde. You have made me a very happy woman.”

  With those words her apprehension fled. An excitement she’d never known before flooded her veins. She was going to marry the mightiest man on the earth. She would be the envy of every woman who still possessed the fire to love. She was about to find new life.

  She heard him coming toward her. She opened her eyes but dared not lift her head. His muddy battle boots stopped three feet from her. Then one knee. He was kneeling!

  Woref ’s hand touched her chin and lifted her face gently. She stared into his gray eyes. A tremble swept through her bones. Was this terror or desire?

  Woref leaned forward and kissed her forehead. He spoke softly, but she couldn’t mistake the great emotion in his voice. “You are mine. Forever, you are mine,” he said. Then he stood.

  The courtyard had fallen completely silent. Now her mother sniffed. She’d never heard the sound from Patricia before.

  “When will they marry?” Mother asked.

  “In three days,” Qurong said. “On the same day that we drown Thomas of Hunter.”

  11

  Thomas had recognized her the moment she stepped into the court-yard. This was Chelise, the daughter of Qurong, whom he’d once met in the desert after the disease had taken him. He’d persuaded her that he was an assassin, and she’d treated him kindly before sending him on his way with a horse. He’d barely made it back to the lake to bathe. He would never forget the pain of that bathing.

  He would never forget the kindness of this woman who stared at him with flat gray eyes. She didn’t recognize him.

  Now he’d just learned that she was being given in marriage to the vilest Scab he’d yet met. Woref. He wasn’t sure if she wanted Woref or loathed him, but she’d reacted with enough passion to bring a lump to his throat.

  Both Chelise and her mother had used liberal amounts of the morst to cover their faces and smooth out the cracks in their skin. This wasn’t done for comfort alone, he thought. Not nearly so much would have sufficed. The powder they used actually covered their skin. In its own way, the Horde’s upper class seemed to be distancing itself from the disease. At least the royal women did.

  If not for Woref ’s armor and Qurong’s cloak, both which incorporated heavy use of polished bronze buttons, trims, and a winged serpent plate on their chests, both men would have been indistinguishable from any other Scab. They wore their hair long, in knotted dreadlocks, and cracked skin hung in small flakes off their cheeks and noses. They too used morst, but the lightly powdered variety that served the practical purpose of keeping the skin dry, if not smooth.

  Seeing the best of the Horde in such close proximity, Thomas was reminded why his people had such an aversion to Scabs. The disease that Justin had drowned to heal was disturbing in the least. Even looking at the disease for too long was frowned upon among some tribes.

  Yet Thomas couldn’t tear his eyes from Chelise, and at first he didn’t know why. Then he understood—he pitied her. This woman who had once treated him with such kindness wanted to be free from the disease, he was sure of it. Or was he simply imposing his will on hers?

  When Qurong had announced her marriage, Thomas found himself silently begging her to scream her objections. For a moment he thought she might. Then she’d fallen to her knee and expressed her pleasure, and Thomas’s heart had fallen like a rock.

  Was she so blind? He felt smothered by empathy.

  Qurong had just said something, but Thomas had missed it. The room was quiet. Chelise was looking at him again. Their eyes locked.

  Do you recognize me? He willed her to see. Elyon once sent you to save my life. I am the man who called himself an assassin in front of your tent.

  What had Qurong said that brought this silence?

  “Well, then, we have three days to prepare,” Qurong’s wife said. “Not exactly ample time to prepare a wedding, but considering the occasion, I would say that sooner is better than later.” She took her daughter’s arm and bowed to her husband and Woref. “My lords.” Then she led Chelise from the courtyard.

  Three days.

  Qurong spoke to Woref: “Take them to the dungeon. Apart from you, no one but Ciphus or myself is to speak to them.”

  Woref dipped his head. “Sir.”

  Qurong stepped up to Thomas and eyed him carefully. He lifted his hand and squeezed Thomas’s cheeks. “Three days. I’m tempted to finish you now, but I intend to make you speak first.” He released his cheeks and absently wiped his fingers on his tunic.

  “I will speak now,” Thomas said.

  Qurong glanced at Woref, then back, grinning. “So easily? I expected the mighty warrior to be more reticent.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  His candor seemed to put the leader off.

  “Tell me the locations of your tribes.”

  “They’ve moved. I don’t know where they are.”

  Qurong looked at Woref.

  “I’m afraid it’s true, sir. The tribes move when contact is made.”

  “You run like a pack of dogs,” Qurong said. “The great warriors have turned into frightened pups.”

  “The bravery of my people is greater than any man who wields a sword,” Thomas said. “We could kill your warriors easily enough, but this isn’t the way of Justin.”

  “Justin is dead, you fool!”

  “Is he? The Horde is dead.”

  “Do I look dead?” Qurong slapped him on the cheek. “Did a dead man just strike you?”

  Thomas didn’t respond. This man was going to drown him in three days—not enough time for Mikil to mount a rescue, not with her duty to protect the tribe first. He had his dreams. If there was any way to turn the tables here, it would come from his dreams.

  “Ciphus says you’ve lost your minds. I see now that he’s right. Take them to the dungeons.”

  He turned away. A guard grabbed Thomas’s arm and pulled him around.

  “And, Woref,” Qurong said, turning back. “Feed him the rhambutan.”

  He knew?

  “We don’t want these dreams Martyn spoke about interfering with our plans. If he refuses to eat, kill one of the other prisoners.”

  Woref led them from the castle back into the street. Thomas stared, still taken aback by the changes.

  He’d grown accustomed to the scent of sulfur during the long trip through the desert, but the stink had nearly overpowered him while they were still two miles from the Horde city. Thousands of trees had been cleared to make room for a city that looked more like a garbage pile than a place humans were expected to live. It reminded Thomas of images from the histories, slums in India, only made of mud rather than rusted tin shanties. Flies had infested the place, drawn by the stink.

  Thousands of Scabs had lined the road, giving the war party a wide berth. Some mocked in high-pitched tones; some stood with folded arms; all stared with bland eyes. There was no way to tell which ones had once been Forest People. Thomas didn’t recognize a single face.

  If Thomas wasn’t mistaken, Qurong had built his castle on the very spot that his own house had once been built. The wooden structures that had been homes for the Forest People still stood, but they had fallen into disrepair, and the yards had gone to waste.

  �
��Move!”

  They marched toward the lake. The homes once occupied by Ciphus and his council were now bordered by twin statues of the winged serpent. Teeleh.

  “The lake . . .”

  A guard struck William on the head, silencing him.

  They’d crested the shore. The red water was gone, replaced by murky liquid. Hundreds of Scabs were sponge bathing along the shore. So this was Ciphus’s Great Romance.

  Thomas walked against the rattling of his shackles, dumb with dis-belief. They’d heard rumors, of course, but to actually see the devastation to their once-sacred home came as a shock. The gazebos that surrounded the lake had been converted into guard towers. And on the opposite shore, a new temple.

  A Thrall!

  It looked nearly identical to the one that had once stood in the colored forest. The domed ceiling didn’t glow, and the steps were muddy from a steady flow of traffic, but it was a clear reconstruction of the Thrall that had stood at the center of the village before Tanis had crossed.

  “Take them to the deepest chamber,” Woref said. He spit to one side. “They speak to no one other than myself and the high priest. If they escape, I will personally see to the drowning of the entire temple guard.”

  He turned and left them without another glance.

  They were marched toward the amphitheater where they’d judged and sentenced Justin. But there was no amphitheater now. It had been filled in. No, not filled in, Thomas realized. Covered. They were being marched to an entrance that led into the dungeons where the amphitheater once stood.

  Thomas glanced at Cain and Stephen, who had helped with this construction before drowning in the red waters. They both stared ahead, eyes glazed.

  “Elyon’s strength,” Thomas said softly.

  The guards either didn’t hear him or didn’t mind him invoking the common greeting. They themselves now referred to Teeleh as Elyon, though they didn’t seem to notice the incongruity of the practice.

  The dungeons were dark and smelled of mildew. The albinos were herded down a long flight of stone steps, along a wet corridor, and pushed into a twenty-by-twenty cell with bronze bars. A single shaft of light, roughly a foot square, filtered through an air vent in the ceiling.

  The gate crashed shut. The guards ran a thick bolt into the wall, locked it down with a key, and left them.

  Something dripped nearby—a single drop every four or five seconds. Water, muddy or pure, would be a welcome taste now. A distant clang of the outer gate echoed down the stairs.

  Thomas sank to his haunches along one wall, and the others followed suit. They’d been on their feet since being wakened in the desert for the last leg of their march.

  For a long minute no one spoke. William broke the silence.

  “Well, we’ve done it now. This is our tomb.” There was no levity in his voice. No one bothered to challenge him.

  The outer door clanged again. Boots clomped down the stairs. They could hear any such approach, not that knowing when the executioner entered the dungeon would be any consolation.

  A new guard came into view and shoved a container through the bars. “Water,” he said. He pointed at Thomas. “Drink it.”

  Thomas glanced at the others then walked over and picked up the pitcher. He knew by the smell that they’d mixed rhambutan juice with the water, but he had no choice. It went down cool and sweet.

  Satisfied, the guard retreated without waiting for the others to drink. They drained the entire pitcher before the outer gate closed.

  Once again they sat in silence.

  “Any ideas?” Thomas asked.

  “We won’t dream now,” William said.

  “Right.”

  “Which means you can’t go to this other world of yours and retrieve any information that might help us out. Like you did when we made the black powder.”

  “That’s right. I’m stuck here. I could spend a month in this dungeon while only minutes or hours pass there.”

  “And what’s happening there?” he asked. William was starting to believe, Thomas saw.

  “I’m sleeping on an airplane after barely making a helicopter pickup south of Paris.”

  The explanation earned him a blank stare.

  “You know the daughter of Qurong,” Suzan said. “She was the one who gave you a horse once.”

  His mind was drawn back to Chelise. She was facing her own kind of execution without even knowing it. Why was this a concern of Suzan’s?

  “You’re thinking something?”

  “No. Only that she seemed to be taken with you.”

  William scoffed. “With his death, you mean. She’s a Scab!”

  “She’s also a woman,” Suzan said.

  “So is her mother. The old witch is worse than Qurong.”

  “Let her speak,” Thomas said. To Suzan: “She’s a woman; what of it?”

  “She might think differently than her father. Not about us, mind you. But she may be more reasoned than Qurong.”

  “Reasoned about what?” William asked. “She would just as soon see us dead as her father would.”

  “Reasoned about the Books of Histories.”

  Thomas blinked in the dim light. “The Books of Histories?”

  “The Horde still has them, right?”

  “As far as we know.”

  “And you have special knowledge concerning the histories.”

  “I don’t see—”

  “Didn’t you say that she was fascinated by the histories when you met her in the desert?”

  Thomas suddenly saw where she was going. He stood slowly.

  “If you could win an audience with her,” Suzan continued, “and persuade her that you can show her how to read the histories, she might have the influence to delay our execution. Or at least yours.”

  “But how would I win an audience with her?”

  “This is lunacy,” William said. “The Horde can’t even read the Books of History!”

  “We don’t know that they can’t be taught.” Thomas said. “Suzan may be on to something.”

  “And what would delaying our execution accomplish?” William objected.

  “Are you going to argue with everything?” Thomas demanded. “We aren’t exactly brimming with alternatives here. Give her a chance.”

  He turned back to Suzan. “On the other hand, he does have a point. I doubt a Scab can be taught to read the Books of Histories. They can’t decipher the truth in them.”

  “Did the blank Book work?” she asked.

  The Book had crossed over into the other reality. When it disappeared, Thomas had offered no explanation to his comrades. “Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact it did.”

  “Are there more blank Books?”

  He hadn’t considered the possibility. “I don’t know.”

  “You may not be able to get an audience with Chelise, but Ciphus will see you,” Suzan said. “Make him promises concerning the power of the blank Books.”

  “They don’t work in this reality.”

  “Promises, Thomas. Only promises.”

  Then Thomas saw the entire plan clearly. He spun to Cain. “How do I get the attention of a guard?”

  12

  Five fully armed Scabs led Thomas into the Thrall through a back entrance. The entire structure was built with the original Thrall in mind. Without the option of colored wood, Ciphus had used mud and then covered the mud with dyed thatch work—Horde handiwork. The large circular floor in the domed auditorium was green, again dyed thatch work instead of the glowing resin once shaped by the hands of innocent men. Hundreds of worshipers lay prostrate around the circumference, with only their heads and hands in the green circle.

  It was as if they were paying homage to this green lake.

  The primary departure from the original Thrall was the large statue of the winged serpent, which stood on top of the dome. A smaller replica hung from its crest inside.

  This was Teeleh’s Thrall.

  Thomas was pushed past the auditorium into a hal
l and then into a side office, where a single hooded man stood with his back to the door, staring out of a small window. The door closed behind Thomas.

  He stood in chains before a large wooden slab, a desk of sorts, bordered on each side with bronze statues of the winged serpent. Candles blazed from two large candlesticks, spewing their oily smoke to the ceiling.

  The man turned slowly. Thomas’s first thought was that Ciphus had become a ghost. The powder on his face was as white as the robe he wore, and his eyes only a shade darker.

  The high priest stared at him like a cat, emotionless, arms folded into draping sleeves that hid his hands.

  “Hello, Thomas.”

  Thomas dipped his head slightly. “Ciphus. It’s good to see you, old friend.”

  For a long time the high priest just looked at him, and Thomas refused to speak again. He would play and win this purposeful game.

  Ciphus stepped to a tall flask on his desk and gripped its narrow neck with his long white fingers. He was wearing the same powder as Chelise and her mother had worn, Thomas guessed. The cracked skin was still visible beneath, but not in the same scaly fashion that characterized the scabies.

  The priest poured a green liquid into a chalice. “Drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “You sure? It’s fruit juice.”

  “We have fruit, Ciphus. Have you tasted it?”

  “Your bitter seeds? Your preference for that should be the first indicator that you’ve lost your senses. The birds and the animals eat bitter seeds eagerly. So do you.” He took a sip of the fruit juice.

  “Do the seeds eaten by animals also heal them?” Thomas asked.

  “No. But animals don’t practice sorcery. Which is the one clear indication that you’re not truly animals either. So then, what are you, Thomas? You’re clearly no longer human; one look at your flesh is proof enough. And you’re not really an animal like they all say. Then what are you? Hmm? Other than enemies of Elyon?”

  “We are the followers of Justin, who is Elyon.”

  “Please, not in here,” Ciphus said with lips drawn. “We are in his temple; I will not have you utter such blasphemy here.” He set the glass down carefully. “You requested an audience. I assume that you intend to beg for your life. You defy me and my council when you have your sword, and now you beg at my feet when I have you in chains, is that it?”