Red (56 page)

Justin stood, rushed to his horse, and grabbed his sword. He thrust its tip into the sand and began to run, dragging the sword. He ran around them as they watched, drawing a large circle.

This was the symbol they had once used to signify the union between a man and a woman. Half a circle on the man's forehead for a betrothal, a full circle for their marriage. He was symbolically making them his bride.

Justin finished the circle and threw his sword on the sand. “You are mine,” he said. “Never break the circle that unites us. Do you understand what I'm asking you to do?”

They couldn't speak.

“Your lives have always been about the Great Romance, and in the days to come you will understand that like never before. Your love will be tested. Others will join you. Some will leave the circle. Some will die. All of you will suffer. The Horde will hate you because their hearts have been stolen and their eyes have been blinded by the Shataiki. But if you keep your eyes on me until the end”—he swallowed—“the lake will seem tame compared to what awaits us.”

“None of us will ever leave you,” Lucy cried.

Justin looked at her as if he himself was going to cry again. “Then guard your heart, my princess. Remember how I love you, and love me the same. Always.”

He was looking at Lucy, but he was talking to all of them.

“You won't see me again for some time, but you will have my water. Go to the Southern Forest, then beyond to the farthest southern edge, where you will find a small lake. Johan knows it.” He looked over their heads at the forest beyond. “I charge you to bring them to me. One by one, if you must. Show them my heart. Lead them into the red water.”

A hundred questions flooded Thomas's mind. He found the courage to speak, though not to stand. “All the lakes are red?”

“All of my lakes are red. To whoever seeks, this water will represent life, just as you found life by following me. To the rest, the lakes will be a threat.”

“Are the wars over?” Mikil asked.

“My peace is their war. The war will come against you. For a time, you will find safety in the Southern Forest.” He ran to his horse, pulled something out of his saddlebag, and faced them.

“Do you recognize this, Thomas?”

An old leather-bound book. A Book of History!

Justin grinned. “A Book of History.” He tossed it to Thomas, who caught it with both hands. “There are thousands, not just the few that Qurong carries in his trunks. This is only one, but it will guide you.”

Thomas felt its worn cover and drew his thumb along the title.

The Histories Recorded by His Beloved

He cracked the book open. Cursive text ran across the page.

“Read it well,” Justin said. “Learn from it. Ronin will help you discover my teachings from the Southern Forest. He'll show you the way.”

Thomas closed the book. “What about the blank book?” He touched the small lump at his waist where the empty book still rested. “Does it have a purpose?”

“The blank books. There are many of those as well. They are very powerful, my friend. They create history, but only
in
the histories. Here they are powerless. One day you may understand, but in the meantime, guard the one you have—in the wrong hands it could wreak havoc.”

Justin took a deep breath. “Now I must go.” He put his hand on his chest. “Keep your hearts strong and true. Follow the way of the book I have left with you. Never leave the circle.”

He eyed them each tenderly, and when his eyes rested on him, Thomas felt both weakened and strengthened by a stare that ran straight through him.

Justin turned toward his horse.

“Wait.” Thomas stood. “If this book works only in the histories, that means the histories are real? The virus?”

“Am I a boy, Thomas?” Justin turned back, smiling. “Am I a lamb or a lion, or am I Justin?”

“You are a father and a son?”

“I am. And the water as well.”

Thomas's mind swam.

“Will I dream again?”

“Did you dream last night?”

“Yes. But not about the histories.”

“Did you eat the fruit?”

“No.”

“Well then.”

He swung into his saddle and winked. “Remember, never leave the circle.” With a slight nudge of his heel, his stallion walked away, and then trotted.

Then he galloped up the same dune from which he'd first come, reared the horse once at the crest, and disappeared into the horizon.

33

THIS HAD better be important,” President Blair said. “

Kreet's eyes darted around furtively. This wasn't like the battle-hardened general.

“Don't tell me the Israelis have launched,” Blair asked.

“They launched a missile into the Bay of Biscay. Cheyenne Mountain recorded a fifty-megaton blast fifteen minutes ago. It was a warning shot. The next one goes into the naval base at Brest. They've given France twenty-four hours to guarantee Israel's survival.”

Blair didn't know what to say. They'd discussed this possibility, but hearing that it had actually happened immobilized him. Finally he cleared his throat and turned back for the door.

“Any response from Paris?”

“Too early.”

“Okay, keep this quiet. As soon as I'm finished, I want our people out of here. The ambassador stays. Leave him uninformed.”

“Excuse me, sir.” An aide interrupted by handing Kreet a note. “A priority message.”

He took the note, glanced at it. Stared at it.

“What now?” Blair asked.

“It's the French. They've answered Israel's demands.”

“And?”

“They've reciprocated.”

Someone had cracked the door, preparing to open it for him. One of the European delegates in the main hall was yelling about innocent citizens, but the voice sounded distant, muted by a ring that echoed through Blair's head.

“Cheyenne has picked up a missile headed over the Mediterranean. ETA, thirty minutes . . . that was four minutes ago.”

Blair couldn't think straight. Nothing, not even a week of anticipation, could prepare anyone for a moment like this. France had just launched nuclear weapons at Israel.

“We don't know their target. It may be a warning shot in return,” Kreet said.

President Blair stepped to the door. “Or it may not be. God help us, Ron. God help us all.”

This changed everything.

THE BASEMENT room used to be a root cellar—cold enough to keep vegetables from rotting. They'd plastered the walls and sealed the ducts, but it was still cold enough to serve its purpose.

Carlos stepped in, flipped on the lights, and walked to the gurney. A white sheet covered the body. He hesitated only a moment, then lifted the corner.

Thomas Hunter's blank eyes faced the ceiling. Dead. As dead as any man Carlos had ever killed. This time there would be no mistake; he'd gone out of his way to make sure of that. On both occasions that the man had seemingly come back to life, the circumstances were suspect. Carlos had never actually confirmed his death, for one thing. And the man's recovery had been almost instantaneous.

This time his body had rested in this sealed room for nearly three days, and he hadn't so much as twitched.

Dead. Very, very dead.

Satisfied, Carlos dropped the sheet over Thomas's face, left the room, and headed down the hall. It was time to finish what they'd all started.

THE JOURNEY CONTINUES OCTOBER 2004
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