Authors: Ted Dekker
T
he guardsman
escorted Rom to the mouth of the large, torchlit chamber. He hesitated with a visible shudder as they stepped inside.
“I know the way from here,” Rom said, his priest’s cowl pulled up over his head.
The man nodded, visibly relieved. “Don’t get lost, Father.”
Rom’s mind was solely on the keeper now. He had to hear the thing that he did not want to know, to hear it from the keeper himself.
Only the keeper would be able to tell Rom how far he was to go in seeing the boy into power—if, indeed, Feyn would have to die.
What if it would fall to him to kill her?
Sweat beaded his neck.
The sounds and smells of the dungeon clawed at his senses—the whir of the recycling air, the echo of moans, the odd cocktail of laboratory sterility and musty stone. Alchemy and death.
Pools of intermittent electric light glanced off stainless-steel counters, off varied burners and glassware, off the doors of conditioned chambers that looked like ovens along the wall.
Rom kept to the shadows, which meant passing too closely to the cages along the middle. The scent of neglected human flesh choked him. Sickened him.
He made his way to the far wall and then veered into the first tunnel he came to. Rowan had warned him clearly: “Be quick, word spreads swiftly in that world down there.”
He broke into a run. But this tunnel did not lead to the keeper’s cell. Instead, it ended in a steel door he had not seen last time. He mentally retraced his steps. With a glance back toward the larger chamber, he wondered if he’d gone too far. Wasn’t this a separate passage? The one housing the keeper must be back through the lab and farther down. Or was it through this door?
Rom unbolted the door, pulled. It swung open on soundless, heavy hinges. The antechamber inside was little more than a landing that descended in a broad staircase to another room. Dim, electric sconces were set into the wall.
Rom dragged back his hood, suddenly unable to breathe deeply enough. He closed his eyes and summoned the image of a young, dark-haired head, the small hands clasped around a sparrow, the fathomless eyes.
His breathing evened. The handle of the knife he had tucked into his waistband dug into his side. He pushed away from the wall and descended the steps, coming to a door at the bottom. He turned the handle and pushed.
The door opened into a broad room perhaps twenty paces long, filled with tables, refrigeration units, and humming computers. At the end of the room stood five tall vessels of water, each of them occupied by a male about his own age, floating in the fluid.
They were all naked. Thin tubes came out of their noses, their veins, their other orifices, connecting them to a series of machines. Now he could hear the faint whir of them, similar to the air recyclers in the larger outside chamber, and as he watched could even see the pulse of fluids through them.
He stepped inside, eerily drawn by the sight. The sound of the machines was an unnatural breath, the slow thrum of a heart at rest.
The eyes of the males were shut. Rom edged up to one of the tanks. He reached up and touched the glass. It was warm. Thick. He tapped the glass once, lightly.
The eyes of the man inside sprang open.
Rom leaped back, pulse pounding in his ears. No other signs of life, no movement in the man’s chest or nostrils—just those open eyes staring past him. Gray, glassy eyes, absent of life. This was not a man but a creature of Hades.
“Amazing, isn’t it?”
Rom spun around to the soft, low voice. A tall man—pale and finely attired—stood watching him. His hair was tied back at the nape. In this light, his skin seemed as delicate as an onion’s. Rom imagined that beneath the maze of dark veins, he could see the skeletal jaw, the hollow sockets of his eyes.
The man walked in, eyes on him. “So, you’re the one.”
Rom cleared his voice. “The one?”
“The artisan. Rom, is it?”
He felt the handle of the knife pressing against his ribs.
“Honestly, I don’t see the attraction.” A heavy ring glinted from the index finger of the man’s left hand. The ring of a Sovereign.
Rom stood rooted to the concrete floor. “Saric,” he said.
This man struck Avra.
“It’s
sire
. But we’re past that, I think.” Saric’s eyes lifted. “Do you like my warriors?”
Rom’s gaze stayed on the Sovereign.
“They’re in stasis, a state often spoken and written of but only recently perfected by the alchemists.” He walked to one of the vessels, stroked a long, thin finger down the front of the glass. “They’re like you and me, in a way. But different from us both. A new breed, so to speak, based on superior genetics. Strong. Alive. Feeling.” He sighed. “True monsters.”
“Monsters?”
Saric turned back. “There’s nothing a man won’t do when his ambition soars. When his lust is up. When he is in a rage. Give me ten men with emotion, and I’ll rule a world of dead. Give me a hundred…and I’ll crush them like so many roaches.”
“The irony is that you speak this as a dead man,” Rom said.
“You intend to kill me?” A slight quirk of the man’s lips.
“How can I kill what is already dead?”
“You drank the blood so you think you’re alive, is that it? But your blood has proved inferior.”
“Inferior?”
“The keepers’ blood is rife with weakness, love foremost among them. The only emotions allowed to progress into my new age are those that will bring the world under my control.”
Was it even possible Feyn could be related to this man? The Zealot War of Chaos had been waged by men like him. Maybe Megas had been right all along. In the face of a man like this, Legion seemed a godsend.
If so, true life might be the worst possible curse. What if Rom had it all backward, and the keepers were but a cult to usher in Chaos once again?
“We were sold a bad bill of goods, you and I,” Saric said.
“Were we?”
“We were taught that Chaos was wrong, when all along, those truly in power—Sirin, Megas, those that rule by truest fear—have used it to control us. We haven’t evolved.” He glanced at the man in the vessel in front of him. “We’ve become more mindless than they.”
“I don’t think creating monsters is what Sirin had in mind,” Rom said.
“Perhaps. But surely he didn’t mean for the world to be ruled by a boy.”
Rom tried to keep his voice even. “Boy?”
“Please. We’ve come too far for pretense. We both know that the only way a boy can come to power is for Feyn to die before she’s inaugurated. We both also know that I would never allow that.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
A smile nudged Saric’s mouth. “She said you were clever.”
“But not as wise as she,” Rom said. “Feyn won’t be so easily deceived.”
“Feyn? Oh, I agree. But I was speaking of someone else.”
Rom’s eyes darted over Saric’s shoulder as a woman emerged in the doorway. He hardly recognized her at first, her face was so swollen, apparently from crying.
“Neah?”
Saric lifted his hand and motioned her forward. She came closer, propelled by the guard who had ushered her in. She reached for the Sovereign’s hand.
Saric kissed the backs of her fingers. “You see, I have an order of my own. The boy will die. Your whore, Avra, will also die. And your friend Triphon.” His pale eyes rested on Rom. “If they aren’t dead already.”
Rom was moving toward the door, mind lost to Saric’s words, uncaring of what happened to him now. A single thought possessed his mind.
Avra
.
He took the stairs two at a time. Through the door and down the aisle of the cages, chased by cackles and screams.
Tears clouded his vision. A single sob cut through the shouts and cries. His own. The vellum, the blood, the boy—what did it matter compared with her? What was life if she was not in it?
Saric watched him go with an appreciative stillness. “Let him go. He’s no longer a threat to us.” He turned away from the captain who had brought Neah to him. “The warriors are gone?”
“An hour ago.”
“Send another rider to follow Rom. He’ll go after them. I want him as well.”
“Alive or dead?”
“Dead. Like the rest.”
T
he Order
forgot us. But that time is over now, isn’t it?” the boy’s mother said.
Avra and Triphon had found the estate and the boy, as Rom said they would. The last hour had been busy, a rush of packing saddlebags and preparing the horses. With Triphon and Jonathan in the barn, everything seemed quiet in the house.
“We have to assume that they know who he is,” Avra said, “and that they know he’s here. We can’t have much more time. I’m so sorry. Do you want a moment to yourself in the house?”
“No.” Lila sat still, looking around. “It’s just strange to imagine it without him.”
Avra took the woman’s hands in her own. “A whole Order of Keepers has lived and fought for the sake of your boy.”
Lila nodded. “I can see that you’re like him in some way. That, somehow, you feel more than I do, as you say. Like Rom—it’s how I knew to let him see Jonathan. But it frightens me.”
The ride to the estate had been a sober one. Triphon had been uncharacteristically quiet. Neah’s disappearance troubled them all, but Avra knew it had wounded Triphon most deeply.
Avra had kept to herself, unable to relax the knot in her stomach since leaving Rom. She had kissed him and watched him hurry down the cobblestone lane. The fleeting sight of him had struck a painful chord within her.
He’d said he would never leave her again, and yet there he was, running to the Citadel. Of course he had to go. Feyn had to know that Rom had found the boy. And so Avra had watched him go.
She forced her thoughts back to Jonathan. She would never forget his first words to her. “Hello, Avra. Where’s Rom?” He’d asked it as if Rom and he were old friends. To think that in this boy’s body lived the purest blood on earth—a living remnant from the Age of Chaos! But it was his earnestness and his sweetness that had won her. Now she understood why Rom was willing to go to any length to save this child.
“Somehow I knew that this day would come,” the boy’s mother was saying. “I’ve been gathering Jonathan’s things since Rom left here.”
“I’m so sorry.” It was the only thing Avra could think to say.
“The canyonlands north and east of here are treacherous. Take him to the ruins on the north side. They’re unknown to the Order. The nomads hold them sacred.”
“The nomads? The ones who shun Order?” She hadn’t been able to help the acceleration of her own heart. “So they’re real?”
“Yes. Contrary to what’s said, they’re good people. They took Jonathan to live with them for several months after we reported his passing. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again, but they returned with him as they said they would. They’ve been devoted to him his whole life, ready to hide him away if we ever needed it.” She looked down at her hands. “I suppose that day has come.”
So not only were the nomads real, but Jonathan had lived with them!
“Find the ruins,” Lila was saying, “but you have to look carefully or you’ll miss them. From the side or top of the plateau, they’re impossible to see. Because of that, they’re virtually unknown except to the nomads themselves.”
“We won’t miss them with you to guide us.”
“I won’t be going.”
“What? But you must!”
The boy’s mother spoke quickly. “If the guards come looking for him and find me gone, they’ll know that we’ve fled and are hiding something. If I’m here, I can simply deny that I have any child.”
“But they’ll know Jonathan lived here either way,” Avra protested.
“We began to destroy all traces of him the moment Rom left us. I’ll follow you when it’s safe. But for now, this is my path. And his lies with you.”
The thought of Lila staying filled Avra with misgiving. But Lila was right. Her flight would only confirm Jonathan’s existence.
“I’ll look after him as though he were my own,” Avra said.
Her heart broke for this mother who could not feel true love for her son. And her heart broke for Jonathan, who had given love without receiving it in return.
“Thank you,” Lila said.
Avra lifted her hand, kissed her knuckles, and hurried out of the room.
She stopped on the threshold of the barn. Inside, Triphon leveled a sword at an imaginary foe as the boy watched from his perch atop a hay bale, swinging his legs. Triphon had snatched up a sword and slashed at the air when Lila uncovered the stash of weapons. It was the first sign of his old self Avra had seen all day.
“Gifts of the nomads,” Lila had said, startling Avra. These gifts were forbidden to ordinary citizens. “I found them in my husband’s things after he died. I didn’t know what else to do with them, so I hid them in the barn.”
Triphon gestured the boy over. On one knee, he showed Jonathan how to grasp the weapon’s hilt, which wasn’t long and straight like those Avra had seen, but slightly curved.
“You see this? If you hold it like this, you can cut both ways by twisting your wrists.” He brought both their arms down in a slashing motion. “And because it’s curved, you can do it from horseback, and the sword doesn’t get stuck in…ah, in anyone when you make contact. Yes?”
The boy nodded.
“Now swing it,” Triphon cried. “Like this! Ha!”
The boy swung it. “Ha!” he cried.
Triphon whooped. “That’s it!”
He picked up another sword and exhibited several impressive moves. Avra had never seen Triphon with an actual weapon, yet the bullish man was practically graceful with it, as though it added a missing counterbalance to his bulk.
“Try it,” he said, handing the second sword to the boy.
Jonathan was small, and his leg wouldn’t allow him to move as smoothly as Triphon, but he went through the motions that he’d been shown with surprising ease.
“A natural!” Triphon said.
The boy laughed and swung again, with more gusto.
“There you go! When you grow up, you’ll be a warrior like me for sure.”
“And you’ll be with me,” the boy said.
“I will?”
The boy nodded. “I saw it in my dreams.”
“Really? You see your future in your dreams?”
“Only some things.”
“What else have you seen?”
Jonathan suddenly noticed Avra standing in the doorway. After holding her gaze for a too-silent moment, he leaned forward to whisper something too quiet for Avra to hear.
Triphon twisted back and looked at her. His smile was gone.
Why did that expression give her chills?
She pushed away from the door and went toward them, wondering what the boy had said. “I hate to interrupt such an important lesson. I can’t imagine what I’ve missed.”
They both watched her cross the barn.
“What is it?”
Triphon nodded, the strange look still in his eye. “We’re packed. Blankets, clothes, food for days, all on the horses.”
She gestured at the weapons. “And those?”
“They’re called swords.”
“I know that. It doesn’t mean I have to like them.” Her first sight of the stash had actually made her shudder.
“I’ll check the mounts.” Triphon handed his sword to Jonathan and left them alone.
The swords hanging from Jonathan’s hands were obviously too big for him. Without looking away from her, he dropped both and sat down on a hay bale.
“Does your leg bother you?” she asked.
“Sometimes. It gets tired.”
“But you’re a very strong boy for being only nine. I saw you swing the sword.”
His cheeks flushed and he smiled. “Triphon’s a great warrior.”
“Yes. Yes, he is, isn’t he?”
She sat down next to him.
His eyes went to her shoulder, where the weight of her cloak had pulled the neckline of her tunic askew. She had been less concerned the last few days with keeping it so diligently covered, going so far as to tell Triphon and Neah the story of the night Rom and his father had saved her.
“We’re the same, aren’t we?” he said. “They say we’re not right.”
She looked away, choking back a sudden rush of emotion, for his sake more than hers. He was so young—too young—to know the fear she had lived with all these years.
Maker, spare him
, she thought.
“Only because they don’t know that we have good hearts,” he said. He looked down at his feet, too short to reach the ground. “I told Triphon that you have a good heart. Everyone will see that.”
She knew then that she would do anything for him. A tear slipped down her cheek. She gently laid her hand on his bad leg.
“That’s kind of you, Jonathan. I think that’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you.”
He looked up at her and she saw that his eyes were riddled with emotion. “I’m afraid,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be!” She quickly put her arm around him and drew him against her side. “You’re a very special boy and that’s why we came to protect you. You saw how strong Triphon is! And Rom…”
Rom. Her heart.
“But of course, you already know Rom.”
“He’s my friend.”
“He’ll be here soon. I know all of this must be terrifying to you, but you’ll see, everything will work out. Right?”
“Yes,” he said in a small voice. And then: “Avra?”
“Yes, Jonathan?
“My dreams scare me.”
She could not imagine the weight borne by these thin shoulders. The keepers had protected their vision of his blood, but what about his heart? He was only a young boy!
“Then I will hold you whenever you dream bad dreams, Jonathan. I promise. We’ll be like two—”
A cry from outside the barn cut her short. Triphon spun into the doorway.
“They’re here! Hurry, they’re here! Get to the horses.”
“What’s happening?”
But she already knew.
Triphon scooped up the boy and their two swords and together they ran for the side door. The horses waited, three of them. Lila was running toward them from the side of the house.
“Hurry!” She took Jonathan from Triphon and dropped to one knee, so that she was eye-to-eye with her son. “I’ll meet you soon. Remember me, Jonathan! Remember your mother.” She kissed him, her hands shaking so hard she could barely hold his face between them.
Jonathan clasped her neck, tears streaming down his face. “I love you, Mother.”
“Don’t cry. Never fear—I’m right behind you.”
She lifted him onto one of the horses, picked up her skirts, and ran for the house.
Triphon mounted and grabbed hold of Jonathan’s lead as Avra clambered into her saddle behind them, aided by adrenaline. Within a few steps, it became clear that the boy was no stranger to riding horseback.
They galloped up the hill behind the line of cypress trees where they pulled up and looked back. The estate looked peaceful as a small cadre of mounted guards dismounted at the gate. A bird chirped. The wind rustled through the trees.
Peace
, the world seemed to whisper.
But the world was full of deception.
“We should leave a sword for Rom,” Jonathan said.
Avra spun at the sound of his name. The boy looked frightened, but there was a measure of certainty in his eyes. “Rom? Why?”
“I think he might need it.”
Triphon leaned over and shoved a sword partway into the earth. It wavered, hilt up.
“Let’s go!”
They wheeled their mounts and headed north at a hard gallop. Toward the canyonlands. To the ruins.