by Ted Dekker
20
THOMAS WALKED down the road leading to the palace as he imagined a priest with urgent business would walk; his head was bowed to hide his face, hands folded under his long sleeves, feet taking quick short steps. The sooner he passed any curious onlookers the better.
His urgency came from the books. More specifically from the need to return to the histories, where he would find a way for them all.
Once again, the world hung in the balance of every choice he made.
Michal’s words haunted him as he strode by a Scab warrior who mistook him for a priest and gave him a wide berth. What was once black will be green. And what was once green will be consumed by darkness. So, after all these years the great pursuit of mankind’s heart would finally end. Either Teeleh or Elyon would win them all.
Follow your heart, Thomas, because the time has come . . . he will give you what you ask in that hour when all is lost. What this meant, Thomas could not know. Only that an hour was fast approaching when all would appear lost, a prospect that certainly justified some urgency. The Roush’s next words could hardly be mistaken.
Go to the place you came from. Make a way for the Circle to fulfill its hope.
He approached two guards at the palace gate. The dried blood that covered the dead priest’s garment couldn’t hurt his chances.
“Open!” he hissed, snatching up a hand, careful to keep his flesh hidden beneath the sleeve. “I have urgent business from Ba’al.”
The guard on the left made for the latch, but the other stepped up. “Does his Excellency expect—”
“Open or I turn back and bring the dark priest to answer your questions!”
“No, my lord,” the first one said, pulling the gate open. “Ba’al’s word is Teeleh’s word.”
Thomas rushed past, giving them no time to peer beneath the hood. Six Throaters were positioned on each side of the path ahead.
“Let Ba’al’s servant pass,” the guard called. The mere prospect of answering to Ba’al had the desired effect. None of the warriors questioned the order. Even better, the guard at the next wooden entrance had heard the call and opened the door with a bow.
Thomas hurried inside the large atrium and pulled up, pulse pounding. Two large torches lapped at the walls on either side, filling the room with orange light. To his right, a bowl of morst powder sat beside some fruit. A round table made of stone centered the room, adorned with a tall statue of the black beast, Teeleh.
He considered powdering his face with the sweet-smelling morst to cover his albino skin, but he hadn’t come to hide. Instead, he threw back his hood, took several calming breaths, and introduced himself at the top of his lungs.
“Patricia, wife of Qurong, the servant of Ba’al calls you to hear him in the most urgent matter!”
His voice rang through the stone atrium and beyond. A servant appeared in the archway and looked at him curiously. Her eyes went wide, and she uttered a short cry before running off, yelling in a high pitch.
Thomas strode forward. “Patricia, wife of Qurong, Ba’al demands your presence.”
“Then come,” a woman called back impatiently. “What’s the ruckus? For the love of Teeleh don’t stand out there, come in and speak.”
Thomas entered the receiving room. A long table sat under three brass torches suspended by leather thongs. The walls were decorated with a dozen skulls of bulls and goats, either painted in reds and purples or plastered with morst paste. Chairs made of bone supporting leather seats ran around the table.
He recognized Patricia immediately. She had a large yellow melon in one hand and a black candle in the other, a woman not too elevated in her own eyes to help where she saw the need, despite having dozens of servants at her disposal. Her pale green dress ran to the floor, a long-sleeved garment with a brown belt. Her hair was braided and smothered in the white morst, as were her face and hands. Odd how the Horde claimed to prefer the smell of their own skin over the stench of albino flesh, yet they went to such great lengths to moderate their own stink.
“Well, then, speak.” Patricia glanced up as she set the candle in a stand on the table’s far side. “You know I honor the word of . . .”
Her mouth dropped open and she froze.
“The husband of your daughter,” Thomas said. “Thomas of Hunter, leader of all albinos. I come in peace.”
She still didn’t find her voice. Two Throaters with drawn swords rushed into the room, no doubt alerted by the servant.
Thomas shrugged out of the robe and let it fall around his feet. He spread his hands.
“I’m unarmed. Hold them back.”
Patricia hesitated, then waved them back. “Leave us.”
Neither moved. The cries of others came down the halls now, yelling a general alarm. Two of them burst into the room from a side hall and pulled up sharply at the door.
“Leave us!” Patricia snapped.
“My lady . . .”
“I said leave us. Or I’ll have your head! All of you. Stand down.”
They glanced at one another, then backed away slowly, muttering something about Qurong. Thomas kept his eyes on Patricia, knowing now that he’d chosen the right introduction. As the husband of her daughter, he held a place of importance to Patricia. She might relish the prospect of torturing him for tearing their family apart, but not before gaining some understanding about her daughter.
“I’ve come from Ba’al Bek, where Elyon made a mockery of your dark priest,” he said. “Now I’m here to appeal to Qurong without that snake’s knowledge. But I fear he may not hear what I have to say.”
She plopped the melon on the table and put a hand on her hip. “And what makes you think I’m interested in what my enemy has to say?”
“Because you were sent packing from Ba’al Bek with your tail between your legs.” Thomas said. Too strong?
“Is that what happened? Perspectives shape how we see mystical matters. I heard of a great victory.”
“Two hundred priests died. They didn’t tell you?”
“You mean Ba’al’s offering? I heard that Teeleh and his black beasts showed themselves to the world. The streets are teeming with fear already.”
“But in the end, my son climbed off the altar, alive.” He didn’t have the time to persuade her of what she hadn’t seen with her own eyes. Ba’al had already put his spin on the whole mess.
“Never mind,” he said. “I have a new proposal for Qurong. One that will help him destroy the enemy he fears.”
Patricia walked around the end of the table. “You’re mistaken if you think Qurong is threatened by the albinos. Just because you managed to steal Chelise doesn’t mean we fear you.”
“I’m not your enemy,” Thomas said. “You should fear the Eramites and Ba’al.”
He saw the quick movement in her eyes. He continued before she could form a response.
“My wife weeps for her mother and her father. No one has a more tender heart toward the Horde than she. What I have to say could save you all. I beg you, take me to Qurong and convince him to listen to me before he disposes of me.”
She stared at him, flat-footed. For long seconds neither moved nor spoke.
“And how is my daughter?” she finally asked.
A voice spoke from the darkened hall on Thomas’s right. “We have no daughter.” Qurong walked in, dressed in a leather tunic with long pants and soft-soled boots. No guards, no weapons. He stood nearly a foot taller than his wife, and his bare arms were maybe one and a half times the diameter of Thomas’s. His legs, thick like trunks without an ounce of fat. The man might not have Thomas’s speed, but he could likely drop a bull with one blow to its skull.
The supreme commander of the Horde snatched up a chalice of red wine and splashed some into a glass goblet. This he threw back in one long drink before turning his eyes to Thomas. He studied him for several long beats.
“I see Cassak failed to prove his worth,” he finally said.
“On the contrary, your general pr
oved better than most. But it was an unfair race. My son knows Eramite territory too well.”
To this Qurong said nothing.
“You’re wondering why the man who just fled you at Ba’al Bek now stands before you,” Thomas said.
“You’ll have to forgive us.” Qurong spat to one side. “It’s not every day a smelly salamander snakes its way into our courts.”
“How about a drink? It’s been a while since I’ve had a good drink of Horde wine.”
The leader hesitated, then nodded at his wife, who poured half a glass and stepped back. Thomas stepped up to the table and took a sip of the bitter liquid, grateful to hydrate his parched throat despite the nasty taste.
“He’s earned his right to speak,” Patricia said.
“Quiet, woman. I’ll decide who has what rights in my own house.” Qurong looked at Thomas. “So taking my daughter wasn’t enough? Now you come back and try to seduce my wife?”
Patricia glared at him. “Don’t be—”
“Silence!” he thundered.
“Her beauty and charm notwithstanding, I have no intention of seducing your wife any more than I seduced your daughter,” Thomas said. “I simply loved her, as I now love all people—albino, Horde, half-breed— they are all one. But if you don’t let me talk, you may not learn how Samuel, my son, whom Ba’al allowed to escape, is conspiring your death. Kill this albino salamander who stinks up your palace, and my knowledge will die with me.”
The man surely wasn’t foolish enough to dismiss this claim, not considering the source. Qurong frowned, then looked at his wife.
“Leave us. Seal the doors. I want no one within earshot.”
Her eyes didn’t leave Thomas. “How is she?”
Qurong held up his hand to stop them. But when Thomas spoke, he didn’t silence him.
“Good. Excellent. Healthy and as spirited as ever.” Thomas offered her a thin smile. “She speaks of her mother and father every evening, making you both heroes in Jake’s mind. Sometimes I wonder why she ever left you for Elyon.”
When he didn’t offer more, Patricia spoke very softly. “Jake?”
“Forgive me, I thought you’d heard. Jake is your grandson.”
He might as well have told them that they’d just swallowed poison and had only minutes to live.
“Leave us,” Qurong repeated in a low voice.
“I—”
“Leave us!”
This time she bowed at his raised hand, turned, and walked from the room, issuing orders to those beyond. The door slammed, leaving Thomas and Qurong to face off alone.
“Listen to me, albino. Your pleas for sympathy may melt the hearts of mothers, but all of this talk falls on deaf ears now. Never speak to me of this woman and her child again. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, I think we do.”
“I need you to be certain.”
“Then yes.”
“If it’s war you speak of, I’ll give you one minute to explain yourself.”
“It’s all I need,” Thomas said.
Qurong finally let out a breath, poured himself more wine, and sat. “I’ll never figure out you albino ghosts. Any other enemy and I would feel compelled to put you in chains the moment you enter our city. But you’ve all forgotten how to fight. You’re hardly a man.”
“I can see how you might think that.”
“Well, you’ve earned this right to speak”—Qurong waved his hand— “so speak.”
“It’s simple. The only reason the Eramites haven’t annihilated you is because they don’t have the numbers. But that’s about to change. My son has turned against me and will take half of all albinos with him to join Eram for the sole purpose of waging war against you.”
He let that sink in. It was a bold-faced exaggeration, but he was here for the books, not to help Qurong. His only ally was Qurong’s fear.
Thomas pressed his point. “Your high priest would like nothing more than to see you dead.”
“What would you know of Ba’al?”
“He let Samuel live. Why? Because he has conspired to bring you to ruin, and Samuel is his greatest ally. Once your body has fed a dozen Shataiki, he will step in and control all of the land, Horde, albino, and Eramite.”
“Absurd!” But Qurong stood and walked around the end of the table, clearly concerned.
“You’re deceived about some things, Qurong, but otherwise you’re a wise man. You surely know most of this already. Tell me that Ba’al isn’t your enemy.”
The leader glanced at the door.
“Or that Eram doesn’t lead a growing army that can no longer be discounted. Or that Samuel wouldn’t try to slit your throat if he were standing here.”
“Your minute is up.”
“I haven’t told you how to end this threat, once and for all.”
Qurong glowered. “There’s no end to your disrespect. This young woman who used to be my daughter may have drowned, but I . . .” He seemed to shudder. “I’m not such a fool.”
“You misunderstand me. I’m not here to tell you how to drown. I’m here to tell you how to defeat Eram, Ba’al, and Samuel.”
“Is that so?”
“It is.”
The man cast another glance at the doors to be sure they were secure. He lowered his voice. “Well, then. Speak.”
“My minute is up.”
“Then I give you another.”
“Did you ever wonder how I’ve been able to stay a step ahead of you at every turn for so long? How the Forest Dwellers were always the innovators, sprouting technology as if it grew in our closets? The forging of metals, the use of wheels, weapons—all of it, first to the Forest Guard and then to the Horde through your spies?”
The man frowned. “Hurry it up.”
“It was me. I came across the secrets to these advances personally.”
Qurong waited for more. “And how will this deal with Eram?”
“We can do it again,” Thomas said.
“Do what again?”
“Go into the Books of History and retrieve what we need to defeat Ba’al and his hideous god, Teeleh.”
“Go into the books?” Qurong was incredulous.
Thomas slipped into a chair and folded his hands on the table. “Not any books, naturally. One of the lost books.”
Qurong nodded slowly. “I see. You’ve come to enter the lost books. Have you lost your mind? This is worse than Ba’al’s antics. I know nothing of any lost books or this magic you’re trying to seduce me with.”
Here it was, then. Either Qurong had the books or he didn’t.
“No.” Thomas leaned forward and spoke softly. “You may not know of them as the lost books. There were initially seven, the number of perfection. But a great power can come from only four of them.”
Qurong wasn’t blinking. His whole face had stilled like a mask.
Thomas continued. “The lost books can open a window into a world of great power and magic, Qurong.”
Now Qurong blinked.
Thomas put his fleece out. “Does Ba’al know that you have the books?”
The commander’s eyes scanned the room.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Thomas pushed.
“There are six books that I’ve kept from him,” Qurong said in a low, quick voice. “When he first came to us from the desert, he turned the city inside out looking for any sign of them. He claimed he needed these books for ceremonial purposes. These could be the books . . .”
“Six? We need only four.”
“We?”
“You have them, I know how to use them. We.”
The prospect of returning to the other world was now so realistic, so palpable, so close, that Thomas had difficulty calming a tremor in his voice.
“Don’t be a fool,” the leader said. “We are Qurong and Thomas. There are no two greater enemies.”
“You’re sadly mistaken, my lord. The lust of Teeleh and the wrath of Elyon will make our diff
erences sound like whispers in the night. But even here, in your own palace, Ba’al is a greater enemy than I am. As is Eram and now Samuel. Next to all of them, I just might be your closest friend.”
“This is blasphemy.”
“Show me the books.”
“How can I trust you, the greatest deceiver of them all?”
Thomas took a deep breath and tried to sound calm. “Because if you don’t, you will die.”
Qurong remained silent. Suspicious, but no longer defiant.
Thomas made it clear. “We will all die.”
21
BILLY REDIGER was aware of several things in his state of dreaming. He knew that he’d thrown himself off a cliff of some kind, but the exact nature of that cliff kept shifting in his mind. At times he was falling into a black hole, clawing at the air to stop his never-ending descent and thinking that if he could just grow wings, like those of a huge bat, he would be fine.
Then he was being chased through a Black Forest by that very bat. It hounded him, snapping at his heels until it hauled him down and went for his neck with a ferocious snarl.
But Billy knew that he was dreaming. And dreaming was good, because dreaming meant that he was still alive. Or was he?
Then he remembered for the hundredth time: He’d lost all sense of himself, and despite Johnny’s and Darcy’s best efforts, he fled Colorado in search of himself.
In search of the beginning. The truth behind how his own fall from grace had begun. Before Marsuvees Black. Before the showdown in Paradise. Before he’d learned that he was the chief of all sinners.
Before he’d written that first word in the Book of History so long ago.
The truth came down to a man named Thomas Hunter and what remained of him: one vial of his blood.
He had to find the truth about himself, but having met Janae de Raison, he knew that her truth was a part of his truth. She was his soul mate. And he knew he would follow her to hell and back. Which is exactly what he was doing, lying on this gurney: following her to hell.
And hopefully back.
The murmur of voices interrupted Billy’s reverie. “It doesn’t take that much . . .” The voice sounded as if it came from the edge of a distant canyon.
“We don’t know that. We don’t know anything about how this will work.”
