Circle Series 4-in-1

by Ted Dekker

  Thomas rested his head against the stone wall and lifted his hand in front of his face. If he used his imagination, he could see it. Or could he? Like his dreams, there but beyond normal sight. Like the Shataiki bats that lived in the trees. Like Justin. Without the proper illumination they were all out of sight. It didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  The door suddenly eased open. He scrambled to his feet.

  Two temple guards dressed in hooded black robes stood in the doorway, broad swords drawn. “Out. Step carefully.”

  He walked into the basement’s dim light. They marched him up the stairs and down a corridor that paralleled the main library where the scribes worked. He could see the royal garden through a row of windows. Other than the sound of birds chirping outside, the only sound was their feet on the wooden floor.

  One of the guards unlocked a door with a large key. “Wait inside.”

  Thomas entered the large storeroom where the Books of Histories were kept. The door closed. Locked.

  Four tall torches added to the light that streamed in through two skylights. They’d left him alone with the Books. He didn’t know how long he had, but he had an opportunity here. If he could only find a Book that recorded what had happened during the Great Deception. Any Book that discussed the Raison Strain.

  Thomas hurried to the nearest shelf and pulled out the first Book. The Histories as Recorded by Ezekiel.

  Ezekiel? The prophet Ezekiel?

  Heart hammering, Thomas opened the Book. If he wasn’t mistaken, this was the prophet Ezekiel. The sentences sounded biblical, at least as he recalled biblical from his dreams.

  He replaced the Book and tried another. This one was about someone named Artimus—a name that meant nothing to him. And if he was right, unrelated in any way to the Book of Ezekiel beside it. There was no order to the Books.

  There were thousands of Books! He ran for the ladder, pushed it to the far end, and climbed to the top shelf. There was only one way to do this—a methodical search, from top to bottom, Book by Book. And he would have to go by the titles alone. There were way too many Books to inspect each carefully.

  He pulled out the farthest to his right. Cyrus. No.

  Next.

  Alexander. No.

  Next. No.

  He quickened his pace, pulling out Books, scanning their covers, slamming them back in when they struck no chord. The sound of each volume hitting the back wall echoed with a soft thud. No. No. No.

  “Quite frantic, are we?”

  Thomas twisted on the ladder. The Book in his hands flew free, sailed through the air, and fell two stories to the wood floor. It landed near her feet with a loud bang.

  She didn’t move. Her round gray eyes studied him as if she couldn’t decide whether he was an amusement or a distraction. A faint smile formed on her mouth.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt the great warrior.”

  Thomas started to climb down. “I’m sorry. I was just looking for a Book.”

  “Oh? Which Book?”

  “I don’t know. One that I hoped would ring a bell.”

  “I’ve never heard of a Book ringing a bell.”

  He stepped off the ladder and faced her. “An expression we use in the histories.”

  “You mean in the Books of Histories. You said in the histories.”

  “Yes.”

  She picked up the fallen Book. “Did you find it?”

  “Find what?”

  “The Book.”

  “No.” He looked at the shelves. “And I’m not sure I can.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I hardly can tell one Book from another.”

  So here she was, his master. He was relieved it was her and not Ciphus or Qurong. This slender woman had a powerful tongue—she’d proven that much. But she was also genuinely interested in the Books for what they could teach her, not for how they might give her power. Her motives seemed pure. Or at least purer than the others. In some ways she reminded Thomas of Rachelle.

  She wore a green robe with a hood. Silk. Before taking the forests, the Horde had been limited to their coarse fabrics woven from thread rolled out of desert wheat stalks.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My dress. You were looking at it.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  She walked slowly around him. “And me?”

  His heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t dare tell her what he really thought, that her breath was foul and her skin sickly and her eyes dead. He had to win this woman’s favor for his plan to work. He had to dream. It was the only way he could see out of this.

  “I’m only an albino,” he said. “What does it matter what I think?”

  “True. But even an albino must have a heart. You’re given to strange beliefs and this cult of yours, but surely the great warrior whose name once struck terror in all of the Horde can still react to a woman.”

  If he didn’t know better, he would say that there was a hint of seduction in her voice.

  How would Elyon see her?

  He answered with as much conviction as he could muster. “You’re beautiful.”

  “Really? I would have thought you’d find me repelling. Does a fish find a bird attractive? I think you’re lying.”

  “Beauty is beauty, fish or fowl.”

  She stopped her pacing, ten feet from him. “I’m not asking if I’m beautiful. I’m asking if you find me beautiful.”

  He couldn’t stoop to this deception any longer. “Then to be perfectly honest, I see both beauty in you and some things that aren’t so beautiful.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as your skin. Your eyes. Your scent.”

  She looked at him for a few moments, expressionless. He’d wounded her. Pity stabbed his heart.

  “I’m sorry, I was only trying to—”

  “I was asking because I wanted to be sure that you found no attraction in me,” she said. “If you had found any beauty in me, I would have kept my distance.”

  She turned and walked toward the desk. “Naturally, you must keep your distance from me anyway. I find you as repelling as you find me.”

  “I didn’t say you repelled me. Only the disease does that.”

  This wasn’t a good start. “How long will we be together here?” he asked.

  “That depends on how long I can stand you.”

  “Then please, I beg your forgiveness. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You think an albino can offend me so easily?”

  “You don’t understand. I’m sure that beneath the disease you’re a stunning woman. Breathtaking. If I could see you as Elyon sees you . . .”

  She turned to him. “I bathe in Elyon’s lake nearly every day. He has nothing to do with this. I think it would be better if we change the subject. You’re here to teach me to read these Books. You’re my slave; keep it in mind.”

  “I am your most humble servant,” he said, dipping his head.

  Chelise walked gracefully to the bookshelf and ran her fingers along the spines of several Books. She pulled one out, looked at it, then put it back and went down the row. What did it matter which Book if she couldn’t read?

  “I used to spend hours looking through these Books when I was a child,” she said softly. “I was lost in a hope that I would eventually find one that I could read. A few words even. When I was older, a man once told me that some of them were written in English. If I could only find those, I would be happy.”

  “A man named Roland,” he said.

  Chelise turned. “How did you know?”

  “I knew Roland. He met you in the desert and you gave him a horse. You saved his life, he said.”

  “Roland, the assassin. Is he now an albino as well?”

  “Yes. Yes, he is.”

  Thomas followed her along the shelf, running his fingers along the Books. “And there is more. All of the Books are written in English.”

  She laughed. “Then you know less
than you think. How many of these Books have you actually read?”

  “I think it’s time for our lesson. Pick one.”

  She looked at him, then the Books.

  “Any of them. It doesn’t matter.”

  She pulled a thick black Book from the shelf and carefully ran her palm over its cover.

  “May I see it?” he asked, reaching out a hand.

  She walked to Thomas and gave him the Book. He could have walked to the desk; it certainly would have been natural to read such a big Book on the desk. But he had ulterior motives now.

  He opened the Book in both arms and scanned the page. A Book about some history in Africa. She started to turn for the desk.

  “Here, let me show you something,” he said.

  She looked at the Book.

  “Come here. Let me show you.” He let half the Book fall and drew his finger along the words on the half he held. She drew close to him, inches from his body.

  “Do you see this word?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  He adjusted his grip. “Can you help me with this?”

  She reached out and lifted the end that had fallen. Now they stood side by side, each holding one cover of the Book. Her shoulder touched his lightly. A strong waft of her perfume—the smell of roses—filled his nostrils. It didn’t cover the odor of her skin entirely, but her scent was surprisingly tolerable.

  “Put your finger on this word, as I’m doing.”

  She hesitated.

  “Please. It’s part of the way the Books are read.”

  Chelise put her finger below the first word on her side.

  The room suddenly darkened. Thomas glanced up and saw that a cloud had dimmed the sunlight. He lowered his eyes. Wavering orange flames from the torches lit the page. Chelise had her hand on it, waiting for him.

  By this light her hand was nearly flesh-toned. The disease was mostly covered by morst, and what he saw by the torch’s glow took him completely off guard.

  This was a woman’s hand. Delicate and gentle, resting lightly on the page with one finger extended as he’d requested. Her fingernails were painted red, neatly manicured.

  The sight immobilized him. Time stilled. A terrible empathy rose through his throat. This was how Justin saw her, without her disease.

  She removed her hand. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. I . . .” He looked into her eyes. He’d never been so close to any Scab before. Less than a foot separated her face from his. She was quite beautiful. Her eyes looked hazel and her cheeks blushed with a sweet rose color. It was a trick of the light—he knew that—but for a moment her disease was gone in his eyes.

  “I was just noticing what a good student you would make,” Thomas said.

  “How so?”

  “The tools of the trade. Gentle fingers. Clear eyes. Now if we can only work on your mind, you may read this Book yet.”

  The clouds passed over and the room brightened. Thomas returned his eyes to the page. “You see this word?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know . . .” He glanced at the desk. “Maybe the desk would be better.”

  She followed him to the desk where he took up the lesson again, this time leaning over by her side as she sat.

  “This word is ‘the.’ You see it?”

  “No. It looks nothing like ‘the’ to me.”

  “What does it look like?”

  “Like squiggly lines.”

  “But to me it reads ‘the.’ I can assure you this is a t and an h and an e. My eyes see it as plain as day.”

  “That’s impossible.” She looked up at him with wide eyes. “You’re saying that this mess of lines is English? Then why can’t I see it?”

  Thomas straightened. The fact of the matter was that the disease robbed her of the ability to understand pure truth, and the Books of Histories contained only truth. As much as her eyes were gray, her mind was deceived. But if he simply told her that now, she might never agree to see him again.

  “I’m not sure you’re ready for that lesson yet. We have to start here, with a simple understanding and trust.”

  “Then this is sorcery? You read with magic?”

  “No. But it is a power beyond either of us.”

  Thomas stood and walked around the desk. “I think that today we should start with a reading. We should familiarize your mind with these words, so that when I am ready to unravel them, you are familiar with the way they read.”

  “You will read to me?”

  “If you would like me to.”

  “Yes.” She stood eagerly. “If I have you to read them to me, why should I read them?”

  “Because you won’t have me forever. But tomorrow we’ll start the lesson in earnest. Now if you could help me find this one Book I was looking for.”

  “No, please, this one.” She lifted the black Book they’d just been reading.

  “I was thinking of another.”

  “Which?”

  “I don’t know where it is.”

  “Then read this one. Please.”

  He reluctantly took the Book and sat behind the desk.

  She walked while he read from the desk. He was an excellent reader, really. His tone was gentle and full of intonation, yet strong when the story called for it.

  Chelise looked at the towering bookshelves and lost herself in the tale he was reading. Then another, and another.

  “Should I stop?”

  “No. Please. Can you read more?”

  “Yes.”

  And he read.

  His voice soon sounded nearly magical. He was the kind she could trust, she decided. A good man who was unfortunately an albino.

  How many times had she wanted to read what she was now hearing? It was a special day. She leaned against a bookcase and set her head back. The sun was straight overhead. Midday. If these words were steps, she was sure she could climb all the way to heaven.

  She chuckled and sat down on the floor. The reading paused momentarily then started again. Read on, my servant. Read on.

  He read on.

  How could simple words carry such weight? It was as if they were working their magic at this very moment. Reaching into her mind and sending her on a journey that few had ever taken. To lands faraway, full of mystery. To lakes and clouds, swimming, diving, flying.

  She lay down on a window seat and rolled to one side, lost in other worlds. It didn’t seem to matter which story he was telling; they were all powerful.

  The one he was reading now was about a betrayal. Tears flooded her eyes and her heart beat heavily, but she knew it would be all right, because she knew that in the end the kind of power that was in these Books would never let her down.

  Still, the story he was reading was dreadful. A prince had lost his only love and searched the kingdom only to find that she been forced to marry a cruel man.

  She faced the ceiling and began to sob. The reader stalled, and when he restarted, she realized that he was crying too. Her new servant was weeping as he read.

  Or was she only hearing that in her mind?

  The story changed. The bride found a way to escape the cruel beast with the help of her prince.

  Chelise began to laugh. She drew her legs up and spread her arms and laughed at the ceiling.

  It was only after some time that she realized hers was the only voice in the room. She stopped and sat up, disoriented. What was happening? Thomas sat at the desk staring at her. Tears stained his cheeks.

  And she was on the floor.

  She scrambled to her feet and brushed the dust from her robe. “What’s going on?” she asked. “I . . . what happened?”

  “I can’t see the page,” he said.

  They’d both been crying. She hadn’t imagined it after all. She glanced at the door—still shut. What if someone had come in while she was in this awful state? She would never be able to explain. She wasn’t even sure what had happened herself.

  Chelise faced him. “The story did that?”r />
  “It seems the power of truth is quite shocking to your mind.” He seemed as surprised as she.

  “My mind. Not yours?”

  “I’ve been shocked plenty of times. Try drowning and you’ll know what shocking is.”

  She straightened her sleeves, suddenly embarrassed. But the power! The joy, the mystery. She couldn’t help but grin. Could she tell anyone about this? No. It could be very dangerous.

  She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. “That will have to be all for now.”

  He stood. “We’ll meet tomorrow?”

  Honestly, she didn’t know how to proceed. It was a frightening experience. Intoxicating. “We’ll see. I think so, if I can find the time.”

  “Maybe we could read again tonight,” he said, rounding the desk.

  “No, that would never do. You’re my servant, not my librarian.”

  “Then could you give me a torch for my cell? There’s no light.”

  “No light? I insisted you have light.”

  Woref.

  “And they’re making me drink the rhambutan juice on threat of my friends’ lives. If I drink the juice, I can’t dream, and I must dream.”

  “Now you’re going too far. I’ll get you light and good food, but this dream business isn’t my concern.”

  She walked for the door, half of her mind still trapped in the heavens.

  “And my friends, they will live?”

  She turned at the door. “I’m sure that can be arranged. Yes, of course. Anything else? The keys to your cell perhaps?”

  He smiled.

  18

  THOMAS WASN’T sure what had happened to him in the library that first day with Chelise, but he found that, try as he did, he couldn’t remove her from his mind.

  Her heart had been opened to a sliver of the truth; he knew that much. She’d heard the story from history—the unadulterated truth—and she’d become intoxicated by it. Another person might have heard the same thing and listened with vague interest. This much he understood. What was much less in focus was his own reaction to her.

  In some strange way, his own eyes had been opened to her. She had heard the truth, perhaps for the first time, but he had seen a truth he’d never seen before. The truth was Chelise. As Elyon saw her.