by Ted Dekker
“Silence!” Chelise screamed. “Silence!”
But her voice was hardly heard above the clash of swords and cries of outrage on all sides. Many of the people were protesting, she saw. But enough backed Marie or Samuel to spur on their bitter battle.
“Thomas!” She spun back, saw that Thomas had vanished from her side, and quickly searched the crowd. Instead of finding her husband, she was drawn to the sight of a woman who stood on a pile of boulders, fists raised to the sky. She was glaring at Chelise. It could have been the firelight, but the woman’s eyes appeared red in the night.
“Death to Qurong and all of his bloodthirsty offspring!”
Chelise took a step back in horror.
Her love for the Horde was a personal love, directed toward her own father, Qurong, and her mother, Patricia, neither of whom she’d seen in ten years. She’d become preoccupied with their rescue from the disease this last year, so much so that Thomas had asked her to stop bringing it up publicly. She needed to curb her incessant, affectionate talk about the leader of the Horde, who had ordered their extermination. Qurong was rumored to walk the halls of his palace, cursing the albinos who’d absconded with his daughter and turned her into an animal. Her love for her father was being met by blank stares, a sure sign that she was testing everyone’s limits.
Chelise glared at the woman who ripped her father to shreds in a high-pitched voice. “‘Vengeance is mine,’ says the maker of all that is pure. He will cut off the impure branch, Qurong and his bloodthirsty priests!”
She knew then that if this one woman challenged her to a fight over the fate of her father, she would accept. She would defend Qurong to her death over the insults of this one witch on the stone.
Marie was doing no less, she realized. Confusion swirled about her.
Marie and Samuel exchanged a round of clashing blows, each effectively deflected by the other. But there was more blood now. Marie’s thigh lay open, and the side of Samuel’s head was bleeding.
Having sought the right to kill Horde, he was being soundly beaten in a fair fight, Chelise thought. She caught herself and shook the idea from her mind. Had the resentment of their tormentors grown so deep that they could no longer tolerate the abuse? The running and the hiding, the death of a loved one . . .
Just last week one of the camp’s finest dancers, Jessica of Northern, had lost her son, Stevie, when he went out to hunt deer with two of his friends. They were young and bold, and their search had taken them into the forest, where Horde assassins called Throaters had fallen on them from the trees and killed Stevie. Jessica had wailed for a day before falling hoarse.
The thoughts spun through Chelise’s head at a dizzying pace, punctuated by the cries and clanging of swords. Both combatants were panting, bleeding, caught up in a sole objective now: survival.
She had to stop this. It didn’t matter that they had the right to the contest, as Ronin claimed. Thomas had to stop this before one of their children was killed. It would fracture the Circle. It would lead to more death!
But Chelise didn’t know what to do.
And then it didn’t matter, because in the space of time it took Chelise to blink, Marie was on her back, flailing for a grip. She’d fallen. Tripped on a small ribbon of rock that edged the flat stone.
Samuel, seeing the opening, hurled himself forward. He didn’t go for her throat. She would have expected that. Instead, his right foot made contact with the butt of her blade and sent it spinning through the air.
Marie was left without a weapon.
A roar erupted from the crowd.
The woman with red eyes screamed at Chelise.
Samuel dropped one knee on Marie’s gut, effectively preventing her from twisting free. His blade slammed against the rock an inch from her neck, spraying her right cheek with shards of stone.
That resounding crash of metal against stone silenced the Gathering. But the night was not quiet. A wail of bitter remorse cut through the air.
Chelise had heard this once, only once, three years ago when twenty-three women and children were beheaded by Throaters while the men were out searching for a lost child. Thomas had heard the news, dropped to his knees, and cried to the sky.
She spun around, crushed by the cry of anguish.
Thomas was on his knees on a twenty-foot cliff behind her, arms spread, sobbing at the night sky. “Elyonnnnnn . . . Elyonnnnnn . . .”
For long seconds he wailed unabashedly, struggling to find breath, trembling like a man who’d just learned that his child had been found dead at the bottom of a cliff. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he wept. For his Maker. For his children. For the Circle. For the Horde.
All around the valley, the Gathering stood rooted to the earth, cowering under this horrible sound. Behind Chelise, Marie and Samuel breathed hard, but there was no sound of swinging blades.
“It’s over,” Thomas wept. “It’s over!”
“No,” Chelise said.
He cried to the sky. “You’ve left us.” Then even louder, “You’ve left us!”
“No,” she said again, begging him to hear her. “No, he has not left us.”
His chest rose and fell.
“No, Elyon has not left us,” she cried. “I did not die for this!”
Thomas lowered his chin and blinked. He looked lost, a shell of the man who’d led the mighty Forest Guard to victory in campaign after campaign before Qurong overtook them. For a moment, Chelise thought he’d lost himself in hopelessness, a man stripped of all he once treasured.
His eyes slowly cleared and he staggered to his feet, looked around at the Gathering. His gaze settled on his son and daughter. Marie still lay on her back, pinned under Samuel’s sword.
“Stand up,” Thomas said.
Samuel stared up at his father. He made no move to relinquish his hard-won upper hand.
“Get up!” Thomas roared. His voice was heavy with rage, and it seemed to have caught Samuel off guard.
His son slowly removed his sword and stepped back. Marie rolled over and pushed herself to her knees. Then to her feet. They stared up at their father, wounded and bleeding.
“Is this what we have come to?” Thomas demanded. “A band of vagabonds who would return to their own captivity? You want to join the Horde again?”
“We should kill them, not join them,” the woman who’d challenged Chelise said in a low voice. She might as well have screamed.
Thomas thrust his hand at the horizon. “Killing is what they do. To kill them is to join them!” He paced atop the cliff, and with each footfall, Chelise felt her fear grow. She didn’t like the sight of the desperation that possessed him.
“Is it Horde that you want? You’ve lost your belief in the difference between us and them, is that it?”
“No,” Mikil offered. “No, Thomas, that’s—”
“You’re doubting that Elyon is here, among us? That he cares? That he has any power? You wonder if he loves his bride the way he once did, if the Great Romance has become nothing more than the talk of old men around a campfire? Is that it?” He shouted his challenge.
“Thomas—”
“Enough! You had your chance to defend your hearts. Now it’s my turn.”
The words turned the night cold. It wasn’t often that he was like this, but Chelise knew him well enough to know that he’d made a decision, and no force this side of heaven or hell would change it.
“My own son has challenged the very fabric of our way, and he has drawn my own daughter into a fight to the death. Fine. Then I, Thomas of Hunter, both their father and the supreme commander of this Circle, will issue my own challenge.”
He stood above them, legs spread to the width of his shoulders, hands gripped to fists.
“I will settle this business once and for all. I will do it on my terms. We will see if Elyon has left us. The Circle will know to a man, woman, and child if he who woos us, who commands our love, is real or if he is nothing but hot air from the mouths of old men.”
<
br /> “Thomas, are you sure you want to do this?”
But he ignored William. “I hereby exercise my right to take on this challenge from Samuel. Do you accept?”
Samuel offered a cynical grin and looked up through loose locks of hair. “As you wish.” Then he added for effect, “Father.”
“Good. Then I will go to the Horde and cast my challenge. If Elyon is who I say he is, we will all survive another month. If he is not, then we will all be dead or Horde within the week.”
The words echoed through the canyon. The fire was dying, starved of wood. A dog barked from the main camp a hundred yards behind the red pool, where they’d all dipped their cups to celebrate Elyon’s love.
Now they were faced with death, and their cups sat heavy in their hands.
“Do I hear any objection?”
“How can you risk our lives like this?” some fool was brave enough to ask.
“There is no risk!” Thomas thundered over their heads. “If Elyon fails us, we should be Scabs. We will only be as we should be. If he rescues us, we will finish this celebration in earnest.”
A deep breath.
“Anyone else?”
No one dared.
“Send our fastest runners to the other three Gatherings. Tell them to come. We will live or we will die together as one. Is that clear?”
Still no objection. Not even from the council, who surely knew how dangerous this course was. But they just as surely knew that to cross Thomas was futile.
“Good,” Thomas said. “I leave tonight. Samuel, Mikil, Jamous, you three and you three alone will come with me. Get our horses.”
He was going to the Horde, to her father, without her?
Chelise stepped forward. “Thomas . . . Thomas, you have to take me!”
“No. Your mind isn’t clear on this matter.”
“How can you say that? I . . . I’m your wife! I’ve vowed my life—”
“You are the daughter of Qurong.” Then, with only a little more tenderness: “Please. Don’t question my judgment on this matter.”
“Then I should go, Father,” Marie said.
“Samuel, Mikil, Jamous.” He turned from them. “No more. Chelise, bring me my younger son. Bring me Jake.”
Then Thomas of Hunter turned and walked into the night, leaving the three thousand alone by the fire.
5
JANAE DE RAISON stepped out of her mother’s office and eased the door closed behind her, satisfied by the soft click of the latch when it engaged. Williston stood near his white desk in the atrium.
“Sit down, Williston,” she said. “The answer is no, I won’t be needing anything else. Maybe a sandwich, but I would rather fetch that myself if you don’t mind.”
He dipped his head.
She walked across the travertine floor, cool on her bare feet thanks to the conditioned air. Living in Southeast Asia could be a humid affair without the hum of electricity to suck water and heat from the atmosphere.
“You don’t mind me robbing you of that pleasure, do you, Will? I know how much you enjoy it, but I would like to do it.” She glided up to him and let her eyes wander over his tie, his black jacket. A handsome man with dark hair, graying at the edges. How many times as a child had she fantasized about having a passionate affair with their butler? Too many to remember.
She put her hand on his cheek and withdrew it slowly, allowing her fingernails to graze his skin. “Is that okay, dear Will? Just this once?”
“Of course, madam. Whatever pleases you.” He smiled. It was a game they played often and both managed to take some enjoyment from it, she in tempting, he in pretending to be tempted, though they both knew that he wasn’t always pretending.
She drew her hand down his tie, pulled it away from his shirt, then let it fall back into place as she turned away. “Where is he?”
“Where is who, madam?”
“Our fascinating little visitor?”
“In the guest quarters where I left him, I assume.” He sounded as if he wanted to say more, so at the twelve-foot arched entry to the hall, she turned back.
“You’d like to add something else?”
“No.”
“You don’t trust our guest?”
He hesitated. “He is a bit unnerving, madam.”
“Hmm. Then perhaps he and I will get along just fine.”
Again he dipped his head. “Yes, madam.”
Janae made her way to the kitchen, ignoring the servants, who moved like ghosts through the twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion that doubled as the world headquarters for Raison Pharmaceutical. Dusting, always dusting the crystal chandeliers and candle holders, the period paintings, the marble tables, anything that had a smooth surface. They were mostly Filipinos who spoke perfect English, and a few Malaysians. Janae had grown up trilingual, fluent by age eight in French, English, and Thai, but she’d also picked up enough Tagalog and Malay to get by.
She walked through the dining room toward the kitchen, mind on the visitor, on this Billy Rediger who’d waltzed into their home and sent both Monique and Kara into a tailspin, although they would never admit it.
“I’m making a couple sandwiches, Betty,” she said, stopping the cook across the kitchen. “Could you get me a tray and two glasses of very cold milk?”
“Yes, madam.”
She pulled out a white ceramic plate and made two peanut-butter and strawberry-jam sandwiches, each with a healthy side of Russian caviar.
With each wipe of her knife and dip of her spoon into the caviar jar, her mind went to the man. To Billy. Her mother had been unmistakably direct in her instructions to Janae. Kara had been even more forceful.
“Of course there’s no blood!” Kara said, dismissing the whole business with a sweep of her hand. She jabbed at the door. “But there is him. And as long as there’s someone out there with this foolish notion, particularly someone who can read minds, we can’t possibly be safe.”
“Why?” Janae asked. “If there is no blood?”
“Because there once was,” her mother said. “What he said is partially true. We did take a vial of Thomas Hunter’s blood and kept it safe for several years. But we feared an event exactly like this, so I sent it to our old lab in Indonesia, where it was destroyed. Neither the lab nor the blood exist today.”
“But as long as this fool thinks it exists, he’ll be a problem,” Kara added.
“So you want me to what? Distract him?” she asked, but she was thinking, Oh my goodness, what if Billy’s right?
“Is that a problem?”
“No. I think he could be the distractible kind. He really can read minds?”
“Please, Janae. Keep him close, but keep your guard up. He could be a rather dangerous character.”
Let’s hope so.
Janae picked up the loaded tray, refusing Betty’s assistance to carry the lunch. She left the kitchen and wound her way down the hall to the guest quarters.
There were things Mother trusted her with and things she did not. Send Janae de Raison into any plant or laboratory in the world that was slipping, and she would return it to full production within a week. But at times Mother treated her with the same scrutiny she’d showed her enemies. Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer.
Monique and Kara had no intention of trusting Janae with Billy. They intended to keep both as close as needed to monitor every move.
The large white door that led into the guest suite was closed. She thought about knocking but decided against it. Balancing the tray on her left hand, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The guest atrium was round, surrounded by windows that overlooked manicured lawns and the jungle beyond. A gilded dome rose at the room’s center, supporting a huge iron chandelier. Thick lace drapes swept across the top of each window and hung to the marble floor.
The furniture was mostly old English, wood painted in antiqued creams and browns, nothing too dark. Monique preferred light colors to dark stain here in the tr
opics, unlike her house in New York, which made ample use of cherrywood and mahogany.
No sign of Billy. He was either in the bathroom to her right, down the hall that led to the bedrooms, or in the parlor that doubled as a library. Janae considered the bedrooms with some interest but quickly decided that he would probably be more interested in books than beds even after a long flight. She angled for the library.
Her bare feet padded lightly across the tile. Giovanni had given her a full manicure and pedicure yesterday in New York, painting her nails a delectable deep ruby red that still looked dripping wet. Her short black dress was formfitting but loose below the waist so it could sway across her thighs.
She’d earned a black belt in jujitsu by age seventeen and had kept it up as a form of exercise over the eight years since. “You can seduce many men with a pretty face,” Monique used to say. “You can get them slobbering with a pretty face and a powerful body. But you can turn most men into idiots with a pretty face, a powerful body, and a bank account that earns enough interest to pay for jet fuel.”
So far Mother had been right, although she’d missed one: a potent mind was a more powerful aphrodisiac than all of the others combined.
She found Billy in the parlor with his back to her, staring at a bookcase loaded with leather-bound books. His fingers traced their spines slowly, as if he expected to read their contents like he’d read her mind. Her family had always been fascinated by books, and it appeared Billy might also be.
“Hungry?”
He spun around, startled.
She walked to a leather ottoman and set the tray down. “Hope you like peanut butter and jelly with caviar. A taste I picked up in Poland last summer.”
Billy held her in his green-eyed gaze. He’d been places, this one. For a few seconds she felt as though she was the lesser here, that he’d come to seduce her, to win his way into whatever prize he sought.
Was he really reading her mind? It seemed preposterous. She couldn’t feel anything that suggested his mind was probing hers, peeling back the layers of her thoughts, her deepest secrets.
