The Book of Things to Come (Hand of Adonai Series 1)

by Aaron Gansky

* * *

  After the meal, Eljah had a few monks escort the travelers to the guest quarters in the south building. Oliver’s quarters, though, were above the main chapel next to Eljah’s. So when he followed Eljah out of the dining room, he expected to turn left, but Eljah turned right.

  Slender silvery light split the dark night sky. In the space of an hour, the lesser sun would rise over the Dragon’s Back Mountains. Eyes heavy, he followed the taller monk with the understanding he had something in mind, something important, to talk about.

  Even with Ullwen bedding down in a different building, Eljah acted cautious as if someone watched them. Ullwen must not be the one Eljah didn’t trust. In the distance, Oliver’s eyes caught a faint silver shimmering in the trees, like light filtering through water. Chameleon Soldiers.

  Surely Ribillius trusted the monks. Why would Korodeth waste his resources spying on monks?

  The shimmering disappeared.

  The vanishing act unsettled Oliver. He leaned heavily on his prayer staff, thankful that the pain in his shoulder dissipated. The weapon gave him a small measure of comfort, but against an invisible opponent, it wouldn’t be much use.

  Eljah moved to the library. At this hour, few monks studied. These rose early to spend a few silent hours delving into the depths of ancient texts. Strangely, he still remembered the scheduling of the brothers. The albino monk sat at the middle table. He stood and acknowledged Eljah and Oliver with a slight bow. “Good morrow, Fathers.”

  “Good morrow, Brother Dillard,” Eljah said. Oliver made a note of the man’s name. To the other monks gathered in the library, Eljah said, “Please, Brothers. Continue your studies in your quarters.”

  They gathered their books and, wordlessly, shuffled out of the room. When the door closed behind them, Eljah grabbed Oliver’s prayer staff from his hands. Before Oliver reacted, Eljah swung it toward Dillard’s head.

  The albino monk ducked, but a sickening crack reverberated through the room. Dillard spun around, bent over, straightened again. A chair skittered across the floor, seemingly of its own accord.

  Dillard punched air. With a deft motion, he yanked the space in front of his fisted hand. As if by some trick of stage magic, a disembodied head appeared floating over Dillard’s grasp.

  Chameleon Soldier. Of course. “How did you know?” Oliver asked.

  Eljah said, “They’ve been here since shortly after you left. We anticipated they would watch us until your return, and perhaps even beyond. But we must move quickly.” He hurried to the east wall, which, like the others, was lined with shelving of harspus wood. Books, all bound in red and gold covers, filled the shelves. Several blue-bound books, however, sat scattered throughout the shelves from the lowest levels near their feet, to the upper levels near the extent of Eljah’s reach, and everywhere in between. The spines read History of the Cerulean Woods. Each had a volume number ranging from 1 to 12. Aside from the uniformity of the color of the books, the room reminded Oliver of Lauren’s. All those shelves, all those books. How she had time to read them all and do all of the writing for the game, and stay up with her homework, baffled Oliver.

  Eljah tilted volumes three, seven, and twelve. A sound, like a latch falling open, broke the otherwise still room.

  Dillard pulled the center table from the middle of the room and lifted a piece of the stone floor beneath it. The stone had to be at least a hundred pounds, but the muscular monk lifted it as if it were a baby. He set it down gently, grabbed on to the sides, and dropped down into the dark hole. His fingers disappeared silently.

  “Quickly,” Eljah said again. “Every moment counts. We only have a few hours.” He pulled a torch from the wall and followed Dillard into the black hole.

  Oliver’s blood pulsed in his forehead. Each beat of his heart made his head feel like it might burst into flames. None of this was in the script. He’d never designed a passageway like this, or the blue bound books for that matter. Chameleon Soldiers should never spy on monks. And monks would never attack, not without good cause.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, slowed his breathing, remembered how much he trusted Eljah and wondered if that trust had been misplaced. Still, he could not ignore the compulsion to follow him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They will come in a time of darkness, and their coming will herald disaster. Kings shall die. Cities will be ravaged. Abominations will again walk Alrujah. But the Hand of Adonai will restore order to His creation.

  —The Book of Things to Come

  BECAUSE THE MONASTERY DIDN’T often house female visitors, only the occasional traveler, Lauren and Erica had to share a tiny upstairs room in the south building. The moonlight through the two glassless windows provided the only light in the store room. The monks apparently used the lower floor to store gardening equipment. Hedge clippers hung suspended on the uneven stone wall. Racks of hoes and rakes, shovels and pick axes lined the walls. An innocent enough room, but Lauren knew the Monks of the Cerulean Order could use any of these as weapons with deadly efficiency, though they would never kill a man if they could avoid it. Fangands, however, and beresus and sasquatch, were a different story.

  Lauren followed Erica up the dark, irregular steps. Her legs shook and ached, like she’d just run the mile in PE. In truth, she’d probably run much further than that, then rode a few extra miles on the back of a stocky war horse. She wanted to collapse into a bed and sleep for three and a half weeks.

  A single bed had been pushed up against the windowless wall opposite the door. Stitched animal skins composed a simple mattress, more a sleeping bag than anything else, really.

  Eyeing the bed, Erica said, “Awkward.”

  Lauren wanted to curl up on it, no matter how uncomfortable it might be. Lying was better than standing. Even the rock floor looked good to her. But, no matter how much her bones ached, she couldn’t put the memory of what Erica had said to her as they rode away from the castle out of her mind. When push came to shove, and Lauren needed a friend, it’d been Erica who’d stepped up. Not Oliver or Aiden. How easy would it have been for Erica to ignore Lauren? Instead, she went out of her way to be kind, something Lauren had never done for her. “You can have the bed,” Lauren said.

  Sparky leaned against Erica’s leg, and she scratched behind his ear. “No way. You’re the princess. You take the bed. Unless you’re afraid there might be a pea under the mattress.”

  “Very funny.” Lauren closed the door and sat in the corner of the room. She leaned her head back against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest. Closing her eyes, Lauren said, “It’s my fault you’re here. The least I can do is let you have the bed.”

  Erica rolled her neck from side to side. She rubbed her shoulders and tugged at her gloves. “I don’t know whose fault it is. Not sure I really care, either. But I’m pretty sure it’s not yours. Anyway, I don’t mind the floor. Trust me. I’ve slept in worse conditions than this.”

  Lauren opened her eyes. “Really?”

  Erica was quiet for a minute. Moonlight poured in through the windows. She ran a gloved hand through the shimmering blue brilliance and stared at the shadow of her hand. “Did a lot of traveling a few years ago. Bad motels, you know?”

  Lauren laughed. “Right now, I’d probably take a rat-infested interstate dive over this.”

  Erica pulled the extra skins from the foot of the bed and tossed them to Lauren.

  She caught them. Wolf pelts, mainly, but one had belonged to a bear. Though thin, the skins worked well to keep her warm. She sat on one to keep the chill of the stone floor from creeping up her back. The bear skin she wrapped around herself, snug under her neck.

  How many winter nights had she spent at home, tucked under her down comforter, a good book and a dim reading lamp beside her bed. It was those novels, she thought, that caused her first to dream about Alrujah. It was Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings that prompted her to begin writing her dreams down.

  Alrujah had been clear in her dreams, had seemed real,
but not like this. Now, Lauren longed for those books, for her warm bed, and for the safety of dreams.

  Erica rolled a skin into a rustic pillow. She lay down on the bed, pulled a massive skin over herself, and closed her eyes.

  The skin she’d used as a blanket covered her completely, even wrapped around her a couple times and tucked under her feet. Oblivious to the implications—monsters big enough to make humans look like action figures roamed Alrujah—Erica pulled the pelt close to her chest. “Keep her warm, Sparky.”

  The dog obeyed, lying down beside Lauren. Its massive chest expanded with each breath, and the stench of dog breath soured Lauren’s stomach. But she’d take it if it meant a warmer night.

  What worried Lauren now was the pelt Erica used as a blanket. The predominantly gray and black pelt had six brown stripes running down it diagonally like a spiral staircase. Sasquatch skin. A year ago, in her journal, Lauren penned the description of the beast. Nine feet tall, strong as twenty men, hunt at sunsrise, hunt alone, resistant to physical attacks and magic.

  Hadn’t she wanted to live in Alrujah? Hadn’t she thought it would be preferable to being fat and unloved? Here, she was beautiful. Here, people loved her. Here, people listened to her.

  But here, she might be pounded into a purple pulp by scary strong beasts.

  * * *

  Oliver followed Eljah down the cold damp corridor. Eljah lit several torches, each spaced about thirty feet apart, along the rough hewn walls. Each illuminated about ten feet on either side, leaving periodic spaces of shadows.

  Dillard’s fist held the Chameleon Soldier by the light refracting chainmail. The man’s invisible feet scraped across the floor.

  “What is this place?” Oliver asked.

  “This is the study. We built it shortly after the Blood Monks raided us,” Eljah said. “This is where the work of Adonai is done.”

  Oliver had no desire to know the details of such work.

  Eventually, the walls spread out into a single rectangular room. Like the library above, shelves lined each wall. Unlike the library, however, these books were bound in hard white covers, not red or gold. A table and chair, fashioned from the black wood of the harspus tree, sat in the center of the room. One particularly large book rested open on the table.

  Dillard began stripping the armor off the soldier until he wore only his leather undershirt and pants. Dillard took the gold rope from around his waist and tied the soldier’s hands to the chair. He tied the knot with all the speed and skill of a sailor.

  Eljah already had his rope belt off, too. He knelt down and bound the soldier’s feet to the chair. “Your rope, Vicmorn. Quickly.”

  Oliver complied. Eljah used it to tie both his rope and Dillard’s rope together behind the chair. Completely bound, the soldier’s hands and feet began to turn red and swell. “How long are you going to keep him like that?”

  “Until he can answer our questions,” Dillard said.

  The soldier’s head lolled forward.

  “It doesn’t look like he’s going to wake up anytime soon.”

  “We have a matter of hours, son. Dillard, tell him.”

  The albino’s red eyes flickered in the torch light. He touched the book on the table. “This is The Book of the Ancients. You know it well. But there are other books of great value and importance in Alrujah. Books that can change the course of our world forever.”

  Oliver leaned heavily on his prayer staff. The way Dillard had said, “our world,” made it sound as if he knew Oliver came from a different one. Or, at least that other worlds existed.

  The soldier’s head started swelling where the staff had hit him. It looked like a second head.

  Dillard moved to the shelves and began pulling books out. He took three and set them on the table. “These are books of history, of language, and of communication. Contained here are the languages of the world—of the dwarves, the elves, the different dialects of the humans. They are powerful books, but they are nothing compared to the four books of power.”

  The soldier moaned and tried to pull his head up, but it fell forward again and nodded.

  Oliver looked at Eljah as if to question the sanity of the albino. Eljah simply nodded. “He has made the books of power his life’s study. His knowledge of these books is one reason he did not take the vow of silence. He has proven his trustworthiness several times over. In many cases, he knows more than I do.”

  “What are these books of power?”

  “Each of the four books contains vast power. The Book of the Ancients details the history of Alrujah. There is great knowledge and wisdom in it. Because of this, it is widely available throughout our world.”

  Again, he’d said, “our world.” Oliver swallowed past an apple-sized lump in his throat.

  “The Book of Sealed Magic is an ancient book, nearly as old as The Book of the Ancients. The spells contained within that book hold the power to rend our world. Shortly after the War of the Suns, King Solous hid the book so the powers would never again threaten Alrujah. Its story has been told and retold. It has become legend, and while nearly any Alrujahn can tell you of the book’s existence, none can tell you where it is.

  “But few know of The Book of Things to Come. Only one copy remains. The Monks of the Cerulean Order have been entrusted with the location of this book. Not even the Council of Yeval know where it is.

  “Contained within its pages are prophesies that chronicle the coming of the Hand of Adonai. It is very specific in what it reveals. If the Mage Lord, or any one of the Shedoahn Order were to find it, it could mean a dramatic shift in the balance of power, and evil would reign over Alrujah.”

  Oliver needed to sit down. Exhausted from the ride, from the battles, from the emotional turmoil of being yanked into another world, he wanted to sit and rest his legs. He hurt in places he didn’t know he had places. Absentmindedly, he took the prayer amulet in his hand and ran his thumb over it.

  The sudden barrage of rapid-fire information, some he knew and some he didn’t, baffled him. His brain didn’t work as quickly when his body hurt so much. He felt like Aiden, listening to Lauren prattle on about the proper way to begin a literary analysis essay. “Slow down, Dillard.”

  Eljah said, “There is no time to slow down.”

  Dillard spoke softly, a whisper of a promise, a sacred secret. “The Hand of Adonai has arrived. The book speaks of a monk, a caller, a mage, and a knight.”

  The soldier moaned. His eyes fluttered.

  Oliver knelt down. He put his prayer staff in front of him and bent over to touch his forehead to the cold stone floor.

  “There is more, my son,” Eljah said. He extended a hand to Oliver.

  “No. No more. I can’t … not now. I need to rest. I need to sleep. I need to wake up. I need something.”

  Eljah knelt next to him. He put a hand on his shoulder. “Dillard has studied the book his entire life. If we called him to, he could record every detail, produce a word-for-word copy.”

  Oliver shook his head. He’d not coded a Book of Things to Come. But he did know it. He remembered it. He remembered the location with perfect clarity. “Margwar,” he said.

  Dillard spoke. “You have learned much, and you do need rest. Go to your quarters. Sleep. We will wake you in one hour. You must go then. We must separate for the sake of safety.”

  Oliver rolled on his back. He put his hands on the top of his head and took slow deep breaths. Uneven rocks pressed into his back, along his spine, under his ribs, the base of his neck. “This isn’t real.”

  “It is,” Eljah said. He took a book from the table and gave it to him. “Have faith, son. Adonai will guide your steps. These books are your compass, Vicmorn.” He put his hand on his shoulder and stared intently at him. “It’s still hard to believe. Why is it we pray for a miracle and are surprised when Adonai answers?”

  Oliver sat up. “What miracle?”

  “You are the miracle. The answer to prayer. The Hand of Adonai is among us.”
/>
  “Read the books,” Dillard said. “They will answer your questions.”

  The white bound book Eljah handed him was titled The Language of Adonai. He opened it and instantly recognized the words. It was in English, for one, which surprised him, since the other books were all composed in Lauren’s fictional language. And it was typed, not like the handwritten copy with words like black animals slanting toward prey.

  It began with a title page: Deep Red User’s Manual

  Oliver’s stomach cramped.

  Chapter Fourteen

  But jealousy for Adonai’s favor wrought war among the races. Elves sought to assert themselves over the humans. But the heart of Adonai rested with King Solous, and the elves did not prevail against them.

  —The Book of the Ancients

  LAUREN WOKE UP TO the sound of sharp, fast knocking. “Get up, girls. We have to go.”

  Sleep crusted her eyelids. She rubbed them and blinked twice. She half-expected to open her eyes and be back in her room. The voice, she thought, must be her mother rushing them out the door for school. But her mother didn’t chase them out anymore, and besides, she’d never had a voice deep as the Grand Canyon.

  “Oliver?” she asked.

  “Oh come on,” Erica mumbled. “We just went to sleep. The suns are barely up.”

  “You’ve been out for at least an hour, maybe more. But we have to go. Get your things. I mean it.”

  Lauren stretched. “Why the rush?”

  “I’ll explain on the way. I have to get Aiden. I’ll meet you in front of the main chapel in five minutes.”

  Erica sat up and rubbed her neck. She arched her back and a report of quick cracks zipped through the room. She stood up, stretched her arms, yawned, and bent over to touch her toes.

  Lauren put her white fur-trimmed cloak back on and pulled the hood over her head. She wasn’t excited about heading back out into Alrujah yet. She wanted some breakfast first. In fact, staying in the monastery until they found a way home sounded pretty good.

  She wondered again about home. How much time had passed? Had any? The days in Alrujah only spanned fourteen hours. Yesterday moved faster than a normal day, but she was as exhausted at the end as she would have been if it had been a full twenty-four hour day. And it wasn’t like Alrujah had a clock on every wall.