Redemption of Light (The Light Trilogy) (9 page)

Behind him, he heard Ari reverently echo, “Amayne.”

Yosef opened his eyes and gazed once more on the corrupted corpse. Reaching out timidly, he stroked the boy’s ragged sleeve in a gesture of tenderness. “Rest easy, Adom.”

He grunted as he got to his feet and walked into the hallway. Even after all these years, Yosef’s soul ached for the blood of the innocent shed for all of Horeb. Ari put a warm hand on his forearm and squeezed gently. “I’m glad you thought of that,” he said. “I was too shocked to—”

“I know.” Yosef patted Ari’s hand and started forward. “Let’s see if we can’t find the library. It must be along this corridor somewhere.”

His gaze slid sideways every time he passed one of Rachel’s bloody footsteps. He had to take two for each one of hers.

Ari softly noted, “She must have been running with all her heart.”

“Yes. She loved Adom. I’m sure the task of murdering him to save Horebian citizens almost killed her. She was never the same afterward.”

“No, she changed dramatically, but that was more than Adom. After she and Tahn rescued Jeremiel from that death camp on Tikkun, she disappeared. Do you remember the times before the relocation ships forced us off the planet? Rachel would go away for months at a time and no one knew where she went. Then she’d come back and her eyes would seem hollower, like she’d lost part of herself.”

Yosef exhaled hard. “I remember.”

“During those dark days, I thought she only came back to talk to Jeremiel, as though the two of them shared some dreadful knowledge that they feared to reveal to anyone else.”

They walked straight down the passageway and edged beneath the tilted slab again. Yosef took a deep breath and gazed once more on room 613. “Ari, let’s try this one first.” He shoved on the door. It refused to budge. He threw all his weight into it and finally it jolted open.

A treasure trove of antiquities met his searching gaze. “Oh, my God, Ari!” Yosef shoved the door open farther and gingerly stepped into the small room. He coughed and waved a hand at the dust that plumed up into his face.

Ari pushed up behind him, bumping Yosef so that he had to take two lunging steps forward. “This must be it,” Ari whispered in awe. “The
genizah!”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Ari warned. His bushy gray brows lowered. “This could be just one of the hundreds of libraries that King Edom set up.”

A velvet-thick layer of fine reddish-gray dust covered everything—the dilapidated couch to his left, the sagging bookcase on his right, the tiny black table and chair shoved against the far wall in the back. Stacks of precariously piled paper books encircled the table or were scattered about the room.

“Look at this,” Ari said.

Yosef turned to see Funk kneeling and pointing. Swirling patterns marred the dusty floor, as though the hem of someone’s robe or cloak had swept the loam of centuries into ripples like waves.

Cautiously, they both edged forward, following the weaving path through the heaps of fallen books. Here and there, Yosef made out toe prints left by the careful steps of bare feet. Small, delicate feet. A woman’s feet.

One of the fallen books lay open along the trail. Yosef bent forward and frowned down at the writing. Many of the pages had crumbled to dust; others existed as large brittle flakes of paper. He shoved his spectacles up and squinted at the words. Unknowingly, he whispered them aloud:

“…
blue beasts came in droves … took us to … Lord only knows what would have happened if we hadn’t… the secret lay in their energy source.”

“Sounds like they were talking about the Magistrates,” Yosef whispered.

“Bah!” Ari grumped. “If they were, they’d have said blue
bastards,
not beasts.”

He leaned over Yosef’s shoulder and coughed in his ear. Yosef elbowed him in the stomach. “Will you back up? What are you trying to do, drown me?”

Yosef shoved Ari’s shoulder, making him step away so Yosef could straighten up. Gruffly, he wiped the beads of spittle out of his ear. “Blast you, Ari, have you no manners?”

Ari ignored him and began plodding along the swirling path. The footprints were clearer ahead, etched into the dust as though pressed into moist clay. Ari hunched over a book composed of some strange sticky substance. In the gleam of the candle, the pages shimmered like golden gauze.

“The Secret Halls of Giclas?” Ari whispered in astonishment. He swung around to pin Yosef with owlish eyes. “That’s the heading on this page!” He gently picked up the book and read:

“During the month of Uru, First Magistrate Mastema lectured to the Hall of Science on ‘Phase Transition Dynamics in Clouds of Trapped Ions …’”

Ari lowered the book and cast a disgruntled look at Yosef. “What the hell do you think that means?”

Yosef shook his head. He wiped clammy palms on his dirty tan robe. “I don’t know, but I think maybe we should collect as many of these books as we can and take them to Mikael and Sybil.”

“Why don’t we just bring them back here? That would be easier than carrying—”

“I … I just have the feeling we might not make it back. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know. Hurry, let’s gather all the books on the Magistrates that we can find.”

Yosef hobbled around, selectively grabbing books from the floor. After he’d loaded six in the crook of his left arm, he waddled to the black table and slumped down onto the chair, waiting for Ari to fill his arms.

Heaving a sigh, Yosef idly turned around and started reading the first page of the black leather-bound volume that lay open on the table.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…. The final attack has come. Horeb lies a barren waste. Thirty-two million dead. Milcom—Aktariel, I’m sure now—says we must press ahead. I haven’t the heart.”

Yosef gasped. Adorn had worshiped Milcom. How old was this journal? Old, very old. Did this imply that Adom truly had seen the golden glowing God he’d claimed, that Milcom had seduced others long before Adorn was born—
and that Milcom was in fact the wicked Aktariel who, for centuries, had been proclaimed the Deceiver?
Yosef’s gaze skipped around through the journal entries:

“Doubt consumes me.

I have only a questionable source
… a
fallen angel of immense beauty with a soothing voice and the power to convince frail humans of anything.

I can’t go on.”

Overhead, a low rumble echoed like a deep-throated growl. Yosef clutched the white fabric over his throbbing heart and struggled to get to his feet. Ari’s eyes grew as wide as gray saucers.

“What’s that?”

“An attack. …”

The sound grew louder, increasing to a violent roar. The room shuddered as though tormented by an earthquake. Books cascaded out of the sagging bookcase, slamming to the floor. Yosef grabbed Middoth’s journal and the other books he’d collected and lunged toward the door.

“Come on, Ari!” he shouted as he staggered across the vibrating room. “We have to get to the lower levels!”

Ari grabbed Yosef’s arm and they helped support each other to the door. In the hall outside, a fetid gush of air blasted the boulders and debris, whirling dust up like a deadly sandstorm in the deepest deserts.

Yosef rushed forward, but stumbled and screamed in fear when a dark shadow grew out of nothingness, swelling to monstrous proportions before his eyes. Like a huge black demon, it loomed over them. Repellent odors of darkness and decay filled the hall.

“Dear God,”
Ari quavered.
“What is it?”

The blackness hugged the walls as it hurried away—slithering toward the chamber where Adom’s corpse lay.

CHAPTER 10

Ornias glumly marched across the palace gardens. The thudding footsteps of his ministers and soldiers pounded behind him. The lush vegetation glistened wetly in the storm. Beads of rain clung to the emerald leaves of the trees, sparkling like tears in the flashes of lightning that lit the afternoon sky. Didn’t it ever do anything but drizzle on Horeb? He hated it. Tahn’s scorch attack over a decade ago had thrown so much dust and debris into the atmosphere that the clouds rarely parted for more than a few minutes at a time now. Ornias tilted his head to glare at the brooding gray sky. Cold fingers of wind gripped the hood of his amethyst velvet cloak and jerked it from his head. Rain sheeted his face. He cursed under his breath and pulled his hood back up, holding it in place. The gale set his gold embroidered hem snapping around his legs.

Blast! He was in a bad mood. He’d been unable to sleep all night long. A dream—a powerful dream—had been tormenting him for days. Every time he drifted off, a warm pool of glittering gold swallowed him and an alien being appeared. The creature’s amber features seemed to be chiseled from pure light. It called itself an angel and
threatened
him if he didn’t do as he was told!

An involuntary shiver traced up his spine. “Dreams aren’t real, fool. Get a hold on yourself. It’s just your unconscious reinforcing a decision you made weeks ago.” He cast a surreptitious glance over his shoulder anyway, just to make sure a hooded man of pure gold wasn’t standing there scrutinizing him.

The “angel’s” message wouldn’t leave him. It kept repeating in the recesses of his mind:
You must kill all the children. You can’t let a single one escape or the true Mashiah will rise up and crush the life from you.

“Stupid things, dreams.”

He sidestepped a flailing branch that swept the cobble-stoned path he walked. Ahead, he could see Sergeant Horner and a dozen other marines encircling a large group of bawling brats. A few adults stood around the edges. The children huddled together for warmth, their cries carrying on the wind like the howls of the damned echoing from the pit of darkness.

“Governor,” Fenris Midgard said tightly as he sprinted to catch up with Ornias. “Who are these children? Why are they here?”

“Captives from the last battle, Minister.” Ornias grinned at Midgard. Rain had matted the man’s graying brown hair to his pale cheeks and forehead, highlighting the suspicion on his face. His purple uniform clung in clammy folds to his thin body.

“Why are they here?” Midgard demanded.

“We’re searching for the Mashiah, Minister,” Ornias clarified amiably.

“Surely, you’re joking, Governor. You can’t believe—”

“No, of course not. But
they
believe, Minister. Don’t you see? If we can find and kill this child, Mikael Calas’ superstitious followers will consider it the end of the world.” He grinned in anticipated triumph. Yes, Calas’ followers would fall apart. Their faith in Mikael’s and Sybil’s leadership would crumble like the pages of a thousand-year-old manuscript.

“But—but,” Fenris sputtered. “How will we know which one is the supposed Mashiah? Surely these people won’t just point him out.”

Ornias gave Midgard a condescending look, then hurried forward to stand outside the circle of soldiers. Wind set his amethyst cloak billowing. Children shrieked, reaching out to the closest adult, begging to be held. They’d been standing in the storm for hours and they looked like drowned, dirty-faced rats.

Ornias glowered menacingly at the few Gamant adults who stared in his direction. “If they won’t point the child out, Midgard, then we’ll be forced to take more sweeping actions to ensure the baby’s demise. Of course, we’ll advertise and stage the executions at just the right moment. No sense in wasting such a priceless opportunity to lure the Calas family into our hands.”

Fenris’ jaw hardened. His chest puffed with anxious breaths. “Gamant children are protected under the Treaty of Lysomia, Governor! You have no authority—”

Ornias smiled coldly. “I do what I please on Horeb, Midgard. If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to request reassignment.”

“I’ll do that immediately, Governor!” Fenris stated flatly as he nodded vehemently. “Yes, indeed I will. And I’ll inform the Magistrates of your brutal, illegal behavior here.”

Ornias laughed long and loud. “I suggest you talk to Slothen himself, Fenris. I hear he has his own problems with Gamants rioting on the ring of satellites he’s erected around Palaia. I’m quite certain he’ll understand my methods here.”

Midgard’s mouth puckered, “Have you heard, Governor, that Magistrate Slothen has dispatched a battle cruiser to Horeb?”

Ornias paled slightly. Was this some kind of last-ditch ruse by Midgard? Slothen had no reason to send in another cruiser. “What for?”

“The message came in only an hour ago. It didn’t specify the reason, it only instructed that we make arrangements to greet Captain Amirah Jossel.”

“Jossel?”
Ornias shouted before he caught himself. That brutal, efficient witch generally served as Slothen’s hit woman. She had a reputation for coming in fast, striking with deadly accuracy, and letting someone else pick up the pieces of slag.

A small grin of triumph lit Midgard’s face. “Yes. I’m sure
she’ll
be especially interested in your illegal activities here!”

Fenris backed away. Ornias watched him stalk across the gardens, clearly heading to the palace’s communications center. Ornias signaled Horner. The ugly little marine immediately shoved through the crowd to get to him.

Horner saluted sloppily. “What is it, Governor?”

“You remember the unfortunate accident that Major Winfeld had last year?”

A cruel grin twisted Horner’s mouth. He gripped his gray rifle tightly. “Aye, sir. Who’s being a nuisance this time?”

Without deigning to look around, Ornias said, “Our brave Minister Midgard wants to see the battlefront up close. It’s unfortunate that he won’t be coming home.”

Horner chuckled nastily and saluted again. ‘Yes. Unfortunate, all right.”

Ornias pretended to study the crying children while he secretly watched Homer trot after Midgard; the marine caught the zealous minister at the comer of the palace entrance. Gripping Fenris’ arm tightly, Homer escorted him in the opposite direction—toward the space dock.