by Ted Dekker
“Securing a man in the United States could be a challenge at a time like this.”
“You won’t have to. I am certain that he will come to us, if not to France, then to where we have the woman.”
A beat.
“There are 577 members in the Assembly,” the president said. “You have listed 97 who could be a problem. I think there may be more.”
They reviewed and on occasion adjusted the plans deep into the night. Objections were overcome, new arguments cast and dismissed, strategies fortified. A sense of purpose and perhaps a little destiny slowly overtook all of them with growing certainty.
After all, they had little choice.
The die had been cast.
France had always been destined to save the world, and in the end that’s exactly what they were doing. They were saving the world from its own demise.
They left the room six hours later.
Prime Minister Jean Boisverte left in a body bag.
12
THOMAS JERKED awake. He tumbled out of bed and searched the room. It was still dark outside. Rachelle slept on their bed. Two thoughts drummed through his mind, drowning out the simple reality of this room, this bed, these sheets, this bark floor under his bare feet.
First, the realities he was experiencing were unquestionably linked, perhaps in more ways than he ever could have guessed, and both of those realities were at risk.
Second, he knew what he must do now, immediately and at all costs. He must convince Rachelle to help him find Monique, and then he must find the Books of Histories.
But the image of his wife sleeping unexpectedly dampened his enthusiasm to solicit her help. So sweet and lost in sleep. Her hair fell across her face, and he was tempted to brush it free.
Her arm was smeared with blood. The sheet was red where her arm had rested.
His pulse surged. She was bleeding? Yes, a small cut on her upper arm—he hadn’t noticed it last evening in all the excitement of his return. She hadn’t mentioned it either. But was all this blood from such a small cut?
He glanced at his own forearm and remembered: He’d cut himself in the laboratory of Dr. Myles Bancroft. Yes, of course, he’d been sleeping here when that had happened, and he’d bled here, exactly as he feared he might.
His forearm had rubbed Rachelle’s arm. The blood was half his. Half hers.
The realization only fueled his urgency. If he couldn’t stop the virus, he would undoubtedly die. They might all die!
Then what? He hurried to the window and peered out. The air was quiet—an hour before sunrise. The thought of waking Rachelle to persuade her to forget everything she’d said about his dreams struck him as a futile task. She would be furious with him for dreaming again. And why would she think his cut was anything but an accident?
The wise man, on the other hand, might understand. Jeremiah.
Thomas pulled his tunic on quietly, strapped his boots to his feet, and slipped into the cool morning air.
Ciphus lived in the large house nearest the lake, a privilege he insisted on as keeper of the faith. He wasn’t pleased to be awakened so early, but as soon as he saw that it was Thomas, his mood improved.
“For a religious man, you drink far too much ale,” Thomas said.
The man grunted. “For a warrior, you don’t sleep enough.”
“And now you’re making no sense. Warriors aren’t meant to sleep their lives away. Where can I find Jeremiah of Southern?”
“The old man? In the guesthouse. It’s still night though.”
“Which guesthouse?”
“The one Anastasia oversees, I think.”
Thomas nodded. “Thank you, man. Get back to sleep.”
“Thomas—”
But he departed before the elder could voice any further objections.
It took him ten minutes to locate Jeremiah’s bedroom and wake him. The old man swung his legs to the floor and sat up in the waning moonlight.
“What is it? Who are you?”
“Shh, it’s me, old man. Thomas.”
“Thomas? Thomas of Hunter?”
“Yes. Keep your voice down; I don’t want to wake the others. These houses have thin walls.”
But the old man couldn’t hold back his enthusiasm. He stood and clasped Thomas’s arms. “Here, sit on my bed. I’ll get us a drink.”
“No, no. Sit back down, please. I have an urgent question.”
Thomas eased the old man down and sat next to him.
“How can I host such an honored guest without offering him a drink?”
“You have offered me a drink. But I didn’t come for your hospitality. And I am the one who should honor you.”
“Nonsense—”
“I came about the Books of Histories,” Thomas said.
Silence came over Jeremiah.
“I have heard that you may know some things about the Books of Histories. Where they might be and if they can be read. Do you?”
The old man hesitated. “The Books of Histories?” His voice sounded thin and strained.
“You must tell me what you know.”
“Why do you want to know about the Books?”
“Why shouldn’t I want to know?” Thomas asked.
“I didn’t say you shouldn’t. I only asked why.”
“Because I want to know what happened in the histories.”
“This is a sudden desire? Why not ten years ago?”
“It’s never occurred to me that they could be useful.”
“And did it ever occur to you that they are missing for a reason?”
“Please, Jeremiah.”
The old man hesitated again. “Yes. Well, I’ve never seen them. And I fear they have a power that isn’t meant for any man.”
Thomas clasped Jeremiah’s arm. “Where are they?”
“It is possible they are with the Horde.”
Thomas stood. Of course! Jeremiah had been with the Horde before bathing in the lake.
“You know this with certainty?”
“No. As I said, I’ve never seen them. But I have heard it said that the Books of Histories follow Qurong into battle.”
“Qurong has them? Can . . . can he read them?”
“I don’t think so, no. I’m not sure you could read them.”
“But surely someone can read them. You.”
“Me?” Jeremiah chuckled. “I don’t know. They may not even exist, for all we know. It was all hearsay, you know.”
“But you believe they do,” Thomas said.
The first rays of dawn glinted in Jeremiah’s eyes. “Yes.”
So the old man had known all along that they existed with the Horde, and yet he had never offered this information. Thomas understood: The Books of Histories had long ago been taken from Elyon’s people and committed to an oral history for some reason. If it made good sense so long ago, then surely it made good sense now. Hadn’t Tanis, as Rachelle so aptly pointed out, been led down the wrong path by his fascination with their knowledge? Perhaps Jeremiah was right. The Books of Histories were not meant for man.
Still, Thomas needed them.
“I’m going after them, Jeremiah. Believe me when I say that our very survival may depend on the Books.”
Jeremiah stood shakily. “That would mean going after Qurong!”
“Yes, and Qurong is with the army that we defeated in the Natalga Gap. They’re in the desert west of here, licking their wounds.” Thomas stepped quickly to the window. Daylight had begun to dim the moon.
“You’ve told me where the commander’s tent lies—in the center, always. Isn’t that right?” he asked, turning.
“Yes, where he is surrounded by his army. You’d have to be one of them to get anywhere near—”
The old man’s eyes went wide. He walked forward, face stricken. “Don’t do this! Why? Why would you risk the life of our greatest warrior for a few old books that may not exist?”
“Because if I don’t find them, I may die.” He looked away. “We
may all die.”
Rachelle sat at the table as if in a dream.
Knowing that it was in fact a dream.
Knowing just as well that it was no more a dream than the love she had for Thomas. Or didn’t have for Thomas. The thoughts confused her.
The dream was vivid as dreams went. She was working desperately over the table, seeking a solution to a terrible problem, hoping that the solution would present itself at any moment, sure that if it didn’t come, life as she knew it would end. Not just in this small room, mind you, but all over the world.
This was where the generalities ended and the specifics began.
The white table, for example. Smooth. White. Formica.
The box on the table. A computer. Powerful enough to crunch a million bits of information every thousandth of a second.
The mouse at her fingertips, gliding on a black foam pad. The equation on the monitor, the Raison Strain, a mutation of her own creation. The laboratory with its electron microscope and the other instruments to her right. This was all as familiar as her own name.
Monique de Raison.
No. Her real name was Rachelle, and she wasn’t really familiar with anything in this room, least of all the woman who bore the name Monique de Raison.
Or was she?
The monitor went black for a moment. In it she saw Monique’s reflection. Her reflection. Dark hair, dark eyes, high cheekbones, small lips.
It was almost as if she was Monique.
Monique de Raison, world-renowned geneticist, hidden away in a mountain named Cyclops on an Indonesian island by Valborg Svensson, who had released the Raison Strain in twenty-four cities around the world.
Whoever searched for her would probably never find her. Not even Thomas Hunter, the man who’d risked his life twice for her.
Monique had some feelings for Thomas, but not the same as Rachelle had for him.
She stared at the screen and dragged her pointer over the bottom corner of the model. One last time she lifted the sheet of paper covered with a hundred penciled calculations. Yes, this was it. It had to be. She set the page down and withdrew her hand.
Something bit her finger and she jerked her hand back. Paper cut. She ignored it and stared at the screen.
“Please, please,” she whispered. “Please be here.”
She clicked the mouse button. A formula popped into a small box on the monitor.
She let out a sob, a huge sigh of relief, and leaned back into her chair.
Her code was intact. The key was here and, by all appearances, unaffected by the mutation. So then, the virus she engineered to disable these genes might also work!
Another thought tempered her elation. When Svensson had what he wanted, he would kill her. For a brief moment she considered not telling Svensson how close she was. But she couldn’t hold back information that might save countless lives, regardless of who used that information.
Then again, she might not be close at all. He hadn’t told her everything. There was something—
“Mother. Mother, wake up.”
Rachelle bolted up in bed.
“Thomas?”
Her son stood in the doorway. “He’s not here. Did he go out on the patrols?”
Rachelle threw the covering off and stood. “No. No, he should be here.”
“Well, his armor’s gone. And his sword.”
She looked at the rack where his leathers and scabbard usually hung. It stood in the corner, empty like a skeleton. Maybe with all of the people arriving for the Gathering, he’d gone out to check on his patrols.
“I asked in the village,” Samuel said. “No one knows where he is.”
She pulled back and closed the canvas drape that acted as their door. She quickly traded her bed clothes for a soft fitted leather blouse laced with crossing ties in the back. In her closet hung over a dozen colorful dresses and skirts, primarily for the celebrations. She grabbed a tan leather skirt and cinched it tight with rolled rope ties. Six pairs of moccasins, some decorative, some very utilitarian, lay side by side under her dresses. She scooped up the first pair.
All of this she did without thought. Her mind was still in her dream. With each passing moment it seemed to dim, like a distant memory. Even so, parts of this memory screamed through her mind like a flight of startled macaws.
She’d entered Thomas’s dream world.
She’d been there, in a laboratory hidden in a mountain named Cyclops with—or was it as?—Monique, doing and understanding things that she had no knowledge of. And if Monique had found this key of hers, she might be killed before Thomas ever found her.
Her heart pounded. She had to tell Thomas!
Rachelle crossed to the table, snatched up the braided bronze bracelet Thomas had made for her, and slid it up her arm, above the elbow where—
She saw the blood on her arm, a dark red smear that had dried. Her cut? It must have been aggravated and broken open during the night.
The sheets were stained as well.
In her eagerness to find Thomas, she considered ignoring it for the moment. No, she couldn’t walk around with blood on her arm. She ran to the kitchen basin, lowered it under the reed, and released the gravity-drawn water by lifting a small lever that stopped the flow.
“Marie? Samuel?”
No response. They were out of the house.
The water stung her right index finger. She examined it. Another tiny cut.
Paper cut. This was from her dreams! Her mouth suddenly felt desert dry.
A thought crashed into her mind. Exactly how she was connected to Monique she didn’t know, but she was, and this cut proved it. Thomas had been emphatic: If he died in that world, he would also die in this one. Perhaps whatever happened to Monique could very well happen to her! If this Svensson killed her, for example, they both might die.
She had to reach Thomas before he dreamed again so that he could rescue her!
Rachelle ran into the road, looked both ways through several hundred pedestrians who loitered along the wide causeway, and then ran toward the lake. Ciphus would know. If not, then Mikil or William.
“Good morning, Rachelle!”
It was Cassandra, one of the elder’s wives. She wore a wreath of white flowers in her braided hair, and she’d applied the purple juice from mulberries above her eyes. The mood of the annual Gathering was spreading in spite of the unexpected Horde threats.
“Cassandra, have you seen Mikil?”
“She’s on patrol, I think. You don’t know? I thought Thomas went with them?”
Rachelle ran without further salutation. It was unlike Thomas to leave without telling her. Was there trouble?
She raced around the corner of Ciphus’s house and pulled up, panting. The elder was in a huddle with Alexander, two other elders, and an old man she immediately recognized as the one who’d come in from the desert. Jeremiah of Southern. The one who knew about the Books of Histories.
Their conversation stalled.
“He’s gone?” she demanded.
No one responded.
Rachelle leaped to the porch. “Where? He’s on patrol?”
“A patrol,” Ciphus said, shifting. “Yes, it’s a patrol. Yes, he’s gone—”
“Stop being so secretive,” she snapped. “It’s not a patrol or he would have told me.” She looked at Jeremiah. “He’s gone after them. Hasn’t he? You told him where he might find the Books and he’s gone after them. Tell me it isn’t so!”
Jeremiah dipped his head. “Yes. Forgive me. I tried to stop him, but he insisted.”
“Of course he insisted. Thomas always insists. Does that mean you had to tell him?” At the moment she was of a mind to knock these old men’s heads together.
“Where has he gone? I have to tell him something.”
Ciphus shoved his stool back and stood. “Please, Rachelle. Even if we knew where he was, you couldn’t go after him. They left early on fast horses. They’re halfway to the desert by now.”
“Whic
h desert?”
“Well . . . the big desert outside the forest. You cannot follow. I forbid it.”
“You’re in no position to forbid me from finding my husband.”
“You’re a mother with—”
“I have more skill than half of the warriors in our Guard, and you know it. I trained half of them in Marduk! Now you will either tell me where he’s gone or I will track him myself.”
“What is it, child?” Jeremiah asked gently. “What do you have for him?”
She hesitated, wondering how much Thomas had told the man.
“I have information that might save both of our lives,” she said.
Jeremiah glanced at Ciphus, who offered no direction. “He’s gone to the Natalga Gap with two of his lieutenants and seven warriors.”
“And what will he find there?”
“The leader of the Horde, in the desert beyond the Gap. But you mustn’t go, Rachelle. His decision to go after these books may lead to tragedy as it is.”
“Besides,” Alexander said, “we can’t afford to send more of our force on yet another crazed mission.”
“This has to do with these dreams of his?” Ciphus asked.
“They may not be dreams after all,” Rachelle said, and she was surprised to hear the words come from her mouth.
“You as well?”
She ignored the question. “I have information that I believe may save my husband’s life. If any of you would even consider holding me back, then his death will be on your hands.”
Her overstatement held them in silence.
“If you have any other information that would help me, please, now is not the time to be coy.”
“How dare you manipulate us!” Ciphus cried. “If there is any man who can survive this fool’s errand, it is Thomas. But we can’t have his woman chasing him into the desert four days before the Gathering!”
Rachelle stepped off the porch and turned her back on them. Now her determination to track Thomas down was motivated as much by these men’s insults as by her own realization that her husband had been right about his dreams.
“Rachelle.”
She turned and faced Jeremiah, who’d walked to the end of the porch.
“They will be due west of the Gap,” he said. “I beg you, child, don’t go.” He paused, then continued with resignation. “Take extra water. As much as your horse can carry. I know it will slow you down, but the disease will slow you down even more.”
