Circle Series 4-in-1

by Ted Dekker

They stared, silent.

  Thomas took Kara aside and lowered his voice. “You have to dream, Kara. I’m—”

  “Thomas, I—”

  “No, listen to me.” He spoke quickly. “I’m back in the library with Chelise. Woref is trying to force me to deny my love for her. He’s threatened to kill her if I don’t.” Thomas ran a hand through his hair, remembering everything now. “I need you to wake as Mikil and find Qurong. You have to dream before I do—you’ll need enough time to get into the Horde city, find her father, and convince him to rescue his daughter from Woref at the library. It’ll be dangerous, I won’t lie. And if Mikil’s killed there, you may die here. But it’s the only thing . . .”

  How could he ask her to do this?

  “Please,” he said.

  Kara set her jaw, then stepped forward. “Of course I’ll do it,” she said. She kissed him on the forehead. “It’s the least I can do for my brother. For the commander of the Forest Guard.”

  He was suddenly sure that he was going to cry. She saw it in his eyes and whispered gently, “I love you, Thomas. It’s not the end. Justin has more. I know he does.”

  Thomas tried to answer, but he was choked up.

  He cleared his throat. “Then let’s do this.”

  “Thomas . . .” A tear slipped down Monique’s cheek. She loved him, he knew. Maybe not as a woman loves a man, but she’d shared enough of Rachelle’s love for him to care deeply.

  “It’s okay, Monique. You’ll see. It’ll be okay.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” Robert Blair said. “You really don’t.”

  “Don’t be unreasonable. You wouldn’t have called me here if you thought differently. How can you even suggest I think differently?”

  They seemed frozen.

  Thomas turned and strode toward the waiting room.

  Three white-suited surgeons prepped Thomas. Kara had insisted that she dream in the same room as he. They’d sedated her and taped a patch with some of his blood to the same small, scabbed incision that Dr. Bancroft had made on her arm. She turned her head and stared at Thomas, who rested on his back, wondering if he could feel the heparin they’d just injected intravenously. The thrombolytic agent would keep his blood from congealing when it entered the bypass machine.

  “I’ll see you on the other side, Thomas,” Kara said.

  He faced her. Monique stood by her bed, arms crossed, fighting emotions that Thomas could only guess at. The president was outside the room on his cell phone. Evidently Phil Grant was missing. Figured.

  “Elyon’s strength,” his sister said.

  Thomas offered a weak smile. He could feel the first effects of the drugs.

  “It’s a passing, Kara. Just a passing.” He nodded at the window. “They may not understand what’s happening, but you do. You know as Mikil. It’s the way of Justin.”

  “It doesn’t feel like that here,” she said.

  “That’s because the Circle doesn’t always feel real here. But does that make it any less real? We have The Histories Recorded by His Beloved, Kara. The connection is obvious. It’s the same here as there; can’t you see that?”

  She faced the ceiling. “Yes. I can. But even in the Circle there’s a sadness at the passing, for those left.”

  She was right. “If I don’t make it, tell them, Kara. Tell them what we both saw.”

  “I will.”

  “Did I tell you about the red pool they have hidden behind the lake?” he asked.

  She turned to him. “No. Really?”

  “Really. Chelise says they drained the lake but they couldn’t get rid of all the water, so they covered it up on the north side.”

  “The red pools,” Kara said. “Like blood.” Her eyes closed briefly, then opened. The drugs were working.

  “I love you, Thomas.”

  Then her eyes rested shut.

  “I love you too, Kara.”

  He looked up at the bright light above him. Time seemed to slow.

  “You’ll begin to feel drowsy,” one of the doctors said. “We’ve administered the anesthesia into your IV.”

  They’d explained that they were using a simple bypass procedure that would pump his blood into the blue machine at his right. He wanted to dream, so they would put him under quickly. He would feel no pain, not even a prick. Once they started, the entire procedure would take less than ten minutes.

  The doctors stepped aside, and Robert Blair stepped to the side of his bed. He put his hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “I want you to know that not a soul living will have any doubt about who saved their lives,” he said. “You’re changing history.”

  “Is that what you think?” Thomas was having a hard time focusing. “Maybe I am. I’m saving some lives. When Justin died, he did much more. If you thank anyone, thank him.”

  “Justin,” the president said. “And who is Justin?”

  “Elyon. God.”

  Blair lifted his eyes and stared out the window. “Believe me, I will never think of God in the same terms again.”

  “Thomas.” A hand touched his other shoulder. He faced Monique. She was trying not to cry but failing.

  “None of this was your fault,” Thomas said. “It wasn’t your vaccine that caused any of this. It was what a man did with your vaccine. Remember that.”

  “I’ll remember,” she said softly. He could hardly hear her now. His world was slipping.

  “The real virus is evil,” he heard himself say. “The disease of . . . of the Horde.”

  Then he was sleeping.

  Dreaming.

  Monique could not bear to watch the entire procedure. All nice and neat with white gowns and silver instruments and sophisticated machines, but in the end they were simply draining Thomas of his blood until he died.

  This was how they slaughtered cows.

  Then again, it had been his choice. This man who’d come to her rescue repeatedly and saved her life twice already was now giving the ultimate sacrifice. She knew of no braver man.

  The only consolation was his dreaming. If he could dream and eat the rhambutan fruit every night for as long as he lived, he might live out a full life in the other reality before he died here, in the next few minutes. It was possible.

  On the other hand, he might die in both realities. This was now in Justin’s hands.

  Monique told them to call her when it was over and retreated to her office. She locked the door, sat behind her desk, and buried her face in her hands.

  Then she wept uncontrollably.

  The call came twenty minutes later.

  She picked up the phone. “Yes?”

  “We’re done.”

  She let a moment pass. “He’s dead?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “How long did he dream?”

  “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  She took a deep breath. “You know what to do.” Thomas’s sacrifice would mean nothing without a cup of his blood being delivered to each of the gateway cities within the allowable time frames.

  “It’s already on the helicopter, headed for the airport where the planes are standing by.”

  Monique hung up. She glanced at the cooler. A sample of his blood was still in there, enough for her to dream one last time. But he was dead now. She had no right to try something so speculative without understanding its implications.

  Or did she?

  42

  MIKIL JERKED up from her bedroll, eyes wide in the bright morning sun.

  Kara!

  For a long moment her mind wrestled with the information that Thomas had given her. He was in the library under threat of Chelise’s death. He’d just knocked himself out. But how much time was there?

  She scrambled to her feet and ran for the horses, yelling at Johan, who had lifted himself on one elbow. They’d traveled all night and collapsed in this cave, just outside the city, at first light.

  “Do not move! Wait here. I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you going?” Suzan demanded.


  “To the city.”

  Suzan jumped to her feet. “Then we go with you!” she said.

  “No!” Mikil grabbed the reins and swung into her saddle. She pulled her horse around. “I have to do this alone. We can’t risk losing anyone else.”

  “Mikil, please!” Jamous ran for her. “You can’t go alone. Let me come.”

  She leaned over and kissed him on the head, then on his face. “I’ll return. I promise, my love. Wait here, I beg you. Wait for me.”

  She kicked her mount and sped into the trees.

  “Mikil!”

  “Wait for me!” she cried.

  Thomas opened his eyes. He was on the floor of the library. His head throbbed. A hand was on his shoulder. Chelise sat on the floor beside him, crying quietly. How long had he been out? There was no way to tell.

  Long enough.

  Or maybe not long enough, depending on Mikil.

  He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. They’d been together for an hour, maybe two, all of it worse than he imagined even lying in the dungeon, fearing the worst. The very sight of her when they’d removed his blindfold and shoved him into the library had made his knees weak.

  Chelise. His love. The one woman he would gladly give his life for. This stunning being who was white with disease only because she didn’t yet know the truth. But he couldn’t see her disease. To him her painted face and gray eyes were the sun and the stars.

  He’d done his best for an hour. The words from his mouth felt like acid. But he knew that Woref would take her life if he failed. If she died now, her death would be eternal, and that was something he couldn’t bear. His only hope had been to give her the gift of life, so that perhaps one day someone else could lead her to the drowning where she would find her Maker.

  Now there was another hope. A thin sliver of light. Mikil. He had to give her time.

  But there was also something else now. He was going to die. When they took the last of his blood to save the world from the virus, he would die, there and here. Although an hour there in his dreams could be a month here, it could also be just a few minutes.

  He could not die without expressing his true love one last time.

  He lay still and let her cry softly, afraid to open his eyes again. It had all begun with a bump on the head. He’d lived a month in one reality, unknowingly releasing a plague and then perhaps undoing that same disease. And he’d lived sixteen years in this reality, where another kind of disease had been loosed and then undone.

  Both would end in his death.

  None of that mattered now. Only Chelise mattered. From the very beginning it had all been about her. This one woman who must be given the opportunity to dive into a pool of red to trade her white skin for the white gown of a bride. Justin’s bride.

  He had to give Mikil more time.

  The main library had been cleared of the scribes by Christoph in a simple agreement that would one day give him more authority. The chief librarian was no fool. He knew that in time Woref might have even more power than he had now. Ciphus was another story. The chief priest had agreed to bring Thomas, but he refused to implicate himself in any way. He could play both sides, a snake if ever there was one.

  Woref ’s most trusted lieutenant, Soren, sat by the wall that butted up against the storage room that held the Books of Histories. He occasionally peered through a small slit they’d cut in the wall to give him a clear view of the entire back room from above the fourth shelf of Books.

  Woref stood by the opposite window, looking out at the circular orchard in the middle of the royal garden. He had no interest in watching the albino—some things were better left unseen. He was interested only in the conclusion of this matter.

  The fury that had raged through his mind after seeing Chelise’s response to Thomas in the dungeons had surprised even him. He’d dreamed of Teeleh screaming into his face, fangs wide, throat deep and black. The beast had slashed him with his taloned claw.

  Woref woke from the nightmare weeping. Cheek bleeding.

  Recalling the event now, his neck went hot and his fingers trembled. He closed his eyes and calmed himself. Black flooded his mind. You will kill her, Woref. You know that. In the end, even if she loves you, you will strike her too hard or choke her too long, and she will die in your arms. Why not today and be done with it?

  Because we want her love.

  “He’s waking, my lord.”

  Woref opened his eyes. He had to give the albino credit. According to Soren, he’d done well, then knocked himself out to spare himself the pain. It had seemed rash to Soren, but Woref understood. He knew Thomas’s heart, and he despised him for it.

  The woman was another matter. Her love for Thomas ran deeper than he’d imagined. She was a stubborn whore. But he knew that she was crying for herself, not for Thomas.

  It was now only a matter of time. Teeleh would have his wench’s love.

  He couldn’t bear lying awake while she cried anymore. Thomas took a deep breath and rolled away from Chelise. She jumped to her feet and stepped back. “Thomas?”

  Woref or one of his faithful was still watching, listening. They’d let this go on only because of Thomas’s convincing performance thus far.

  He looked around, as if dazed. “How much time has passed?” he whispered.

  “What?”

  He looked at her. Face streaked. Eyes wide. Her question lingered on a parted mouth. Thomas suddenly couldn’t trust himself to speak. He would break down, here and now, and cling to her ankles and beg her forgiveness for the way he’d cut her to ribbons with his tongue.

  He swallowed and diverted his eyes. “How long was I out?”

  She didn’t respond right away, which meant she didn’t know either. He couldn’t do this! He couldn’t bear it any longer!

  “I don’t know, maybe half an hour. Or ten minutes.”

  “Only ten minutes?” Mikil would need much more time! Then again, if she’d fallen asleep and dreamed only five minutes before he had, she could have spent a whole day here already. In any case, no one had come for them yet. Which could only mean that Mikil had not succeeded. For all he knew, she was dead.

  “It could have been an hour,” she said. Her tone was sharper now. He glanced at her and saw that she was frowning. Still staring at him, but with more resolution now. There was only so much of this she could take before she began to believe his lies.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  Thomas clasped his hands behind his back and strolled down the line of Books. Please! She’d said please, and she might as well have kissed his lips!

  He tried to think of the missing blank Books and the very serious consequences that could follow the Books appearing in the other reality. But he had no room in his heart now for what-ifs. He couldn’t tear his mind away from the woman who watched him walk as if he was disinterested in her.

  I am interested in you, my love. Look at my face, my hands, the way I walk, the way I breathe. Can’t you see past this charade and know that I will always love you?

  That would defeat the purpose of his game, wouldn’t it?

  What if he actually succeeded? What if she turned against him in rage and never loved him again?

  His heart began to crash in his chest. He came to the corner and stopped. Tears were filling his eyes again, and he tried to blink them away. He closed his eyes and begged her to forgive him. It was worse than death.

  Mikil, where are you? He had to make Woref believe that he was playing his diabolical game. He had to stay strong for her sake. Silence smothered the library. A deep void of death. A sealed tomb filled with . . .

  Thomas opened his eyes. There was a sound behind him. A very soft wail. Not like her other sobs. There was an unmistakable sound of finality to her groan.

  Terrified, he looked back.

  Chelise was lying on the floor, facedown, with her hands extended above her head, weeping.

  Thomas was stumbling toward her before he could tell his feet to m
ove. He would not bear this! What had he done?

  He fell to his knees, threw his arms over her head, and buried his face in her hair. He tried to speak, but his throat wasn’t cooperating.

  He tried to be gentle—to pull back and tell her what he desperately wanted to tell her, to stroke her face and wipe her tears, but all he could do was cling to her and cry into her hair. Woref would come. At any moment they would crash through the doors and pull him off of her. He had to tell her!

  But he could only shake over her like a leaf.

  Stop it, Thomas! You’re terrifying her!

  Then he lifted his head, sat back on his legs, and wept at the ceiling. “I . . . love . . . you.” It came out as hardly more than a whisper.

  He sucked in a lungful of air and gazed at the back of her head through his tears. He stroked her hair with his fingertips. “I love you, Chelise, my bride, more than I could possibly love anything else.” Her crying had stilled. “I’m so sorry . . . It was a lie, all of it was a lie, so that you would forget about me.”

  His words rushed out with relief. “I had to drive you away so they wouldn’t kill you, but I can’t do it. I can’t do it; I don’t have the strength to see you suffer. Forgive me, forgive me, my love.”

  Chelise’s back rose and fell with her deep breathing. Did she believe him? The thought that she might not dashed through his mind. He dropped on her again, clung to her shoulders, and wept into her back.

  “I beg you, forgive me! I didn’t mean a word, I swear it.”

  He was smothering her again!

  Thomas pulled back.

  Chelise pushed herself to her knees, facing away. Thomas trembled, horrified by the thought that she might not believe him.

  She turned slowly and he saw that her mouth was locked in a silent cry. She stared at him through pools of tears. She was regretting? She was . . .

  Chelise threw her arms around his shoulders, buried her face in his neck. “I knew you loved me!” she sobbed. She kissed him below his ear and ran her fingers up the nape of his neck and squeezed him as if she were clinging to life. “I love you, my darling! I will always love you.”

  Thomas was beyond himself. He wrapped his arms around her, giving her only enough space to breathe. “Marry me!” he cried. It was absurd, but he didn’t care. He wanted her to hear it. “Marry me!”