The Raising (The Torch Keeper Book 3) Page 6

  A wave of pain and bitterness washes over me, followed by a pang of fear.

  Who knows what kind of memories are locked inside my own head, just waiting to tear free from their prison, a cancerous tumor hiding, ready to burst at any moment and flood me with the thoughts of Queran Embers, a depraved dictator responsible for so much horror and death?

  How can I blame Digory for blocking out painful memories of us, when I would give anything to rip away all proof of that cursed life lurking inside of my own existence?

  Who the hell am I? And do I really have the nerve to discover the truth and face it head on?

  I spring to my feet and start packing up the gear, checking the compass. “Better make the most of the day before it gets dark.”

  For the next few days, we trudge inland, trying to stick to wooded areas to conceal ourselves from prying eyes. Our progress is hampered because we travel mostly at night, seeking concealment and rest in the underbrush during the days. After the ration bars run out, we sustain ourselves on edible roots and berries, with an occasional long-eared lepus providing protein and bad memories of my long-dead fellow recruits.

  We replenish our canteens with drinking water from streams along the way but at this rate, it’ll take too long to get back to the Parish undetected. We’re simply too far away to make it on foot. By sacrificing our Manta, I might have already doomed this expedition before it’s begun.

  The whole time Digory and I barely acknowledge each other’s presence, and only speak when absolutely necessary, in which case it’s more like a few muttered words, grumbles, and nods. I’m still processing the ramifications of what he’s become—and what I’m becoming.

  Even sleep has become a kind of burden. On more than a few occasions I’m jolted awake, gasping for breath, my heart thundering, unsettling fragments of barely remembered horrors plaguing my thoughts. I’m not sure if it’s just my subconscious getting the better of me, or if it’s a part of me—a part of that other life—struggling to emerge. And if it eventually does, what’ll happen to me? Will Lucian Spark just cease to exist, snuffed out by the original owner of this mind I’ve leased?

  Digory doesn’t seem to be faring too much better. Some nights I awaken to find him staring into space, his pale, sculpted physique bathed in sweat, whispering cryptic phrases. Most of it’s unintelligible, but I could swear I heard Why won’t they stop screaming and There was no choice.

  Once, as we hiked through the cool night and stopped to take a rest, we stared up in silence at the blanket of shimmering stars sprinkling us with twinkling light. It reminded me of a time so long ago when we had such innocent hopes and dreams, despite the fact that the world seemed to be closing in on us. Sitting so close, I found my hand absently wandering toward his, longing for its natural sheath—until it stopped just short. That time…those two people…it was all over now. And the moment passed, carried off by the wind and dissipating into nothingness.

  After almost a week of travel, my weary body starts to wonder how much more it can take when things come to an abrupt change.

  It seems like I’ve only been asleep a few minutes when Digory roughly shakes me awake.

  “What the hell—?” I start to mutter, until I see him jam a finger across his lips.

  I’m instantly alert, shaking off sleep like an old blanket.

  I join him peering down from the ledge of our hillside perch into the clearing below.

  A sleek, black and silver craft in the shape of a dagger is hovering there. I’ve never seen a vessel quite like it, but from the markings and crest it’s unmistakably from the Parish, and more specifically, from the Priory. The ship’s surrounded by several dozen monks cloaked beneath their hooded, crimson robes, the vibrant scarlet giving the appearance the ship is floating in a pool of blood.

  Turning, I whisper to Digory, “Those markings on the ship are religious. According to our informants still risking their lives in the heart of enemy territory, Prior Delvecchio has ascended to the role of Chief Spiritual Caretaker, a position even more powerful than Prior, placing him as one of the top three most powerful men in the Thorn Republic’s inner circle. Doesn’t look like a prayer circle down there, though. What can you tell me?”

  Digory’s staring blankly ahead. When he speaks, he doesn’t whisper. It’s more like he’s turned the volume of his own voice down. “Since assuming his newfound position, Delvecchio’s initiated a nationwide Depuration, a series of tribunals intended to cleanse the souls of those who have defied the Deity’s commandments and fallen from grace.”

  “That doesn’t sound too comforting.”

  “As part of this cleansing process, monks are sent to the outlying territories to fight the evil of the Non-Acceptors, those who worship other gods, or worse yet, no god at all.”

  I sigh. “Why do I get the feeling that in this holy battle, anything goes?”

  Digory nods. “It seems any method toward accomplishing this goal is permissible by the acolytes, no matter how hypocritical it appears to be.”

  “I wonder what brought them this far away from home?”

  Before he can offer an answer, there’s movement below, and the assembled part to admit several more of their brethren, escorting two captives, whose filthy white jumpsuits are a stark contrast in that sea of red.

  I recognize the clothing these newcomers are wearing in an instant.

  They’re refugees from Sanctum.

  It’s a male and female in their early twenties, maybe. They look haggard and malnourished like so many other casualties in this bloody war.

  “Please,” the young woman’s saying. “We come in peace. It’s not too late to accept the healing power of the Begetter—”

  Zap!

  She falls to the floor, writhing in agony from the acolyte’s neuro-stim blast.

  Her companion rushes to her side, but another monk kicks him so hard in the ribs I can hear the sharp crack from up here.

  The acolyte that appears to be in charge steps forward. “Blasphemer. There is only one true divine power, that of the Deity. But you shall have time to repent when you are brought before the tribunal and face our beloved Caretaker.” He motions to the monks guarding the prisoners. “Load them in and toll the bells. It is time to return.”

  As the prisoners are corralled inside the ship, the distinct sound of bells, just like those of the Priory, are broadcast from the ship. The acolytes, heads bowed in prayer, begin filing into the ship.

  I turn to Digory to relay my idea, but he’s already nodding and pointing toward a couple of acolyte stragglers, still in the woods.

  It just takes a few minutes to knock them unconscious, don their robes, and creep aboard the ship. The vessel takes off a few minutes later with a roar of engines. Soon I’ll be with my brother.

  Provided I survive the evils of the Priory.

  EIGHT

  Fortunately for Digory and me, these acolytes must have taken some vow of silence which, coupled with our hooded robe disguises, makes it easy to slip into the ship’s shadows with little or no interaction with our hosts.

  During the hours it takes to return to the Parish, we keep to our dingy, windowless cubicles, heads bowed and faces concealed. The air reeks of synthetic incense, seeping through the vents. When a couple of chanting acolytes pass us, I mutter unintelligible words into my clasped hands until they pass. The irony is, I do find myself actually praying. Not to the Deity or Delvecchio’s glory, but to the universe itself. Praying that Cole can still be saved, that my friends in the resistance have survived.

  Several times I sneak a peek at Digory, kneeling just a few feet away. I can’t see his eyes, but I wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s thinking anything at all. Or is he just being tortured by the sounds of that mysterious screaming in his head?

  Once the ship sets down, I can barely contain my excitement. I spring to my feet, despite the aching in my knees. But I force myself to tug at the reins of my impatience and follow Digory’s lead, slipping into the end of
a queue of monks disembarking the vessel. With the acolytes’ heads still bowed and their focus on a rhythmic chant, it’s easy for the two of us to slip from the end of the line into the shadows of an alcove.

  We slink from pillar to pillar in the flickering light of the candelabras, under the canopy of the huge, vaulted ceilings.

  “You seem to know where you are going,” Digory whispers in the gloom.

  “I’ve been here before. We should be able to make a break for it out the back and through the courtyard.”

  As we dodge a few sentry anchorites gliding past on their hover discs, a rumbling reaches my ears. It’s getting louder, like a pregnant storm. Only there’s nothing natural about this commotion.

  Creeping up to the piazza doors, I crack one open so we can peer outside, and suck in my breath.

  The vast courtyard is filled to capacity. Most are citizens, looking more worn and disheveled than I remember at the height of the Establishment’s power. Interspersed throughout the crowd are armed agents of the Thorn Republic.

  Just as in town square during the Ascension Day and Recruitment Day rituals, jumbotrons have been set up throughout the courtyard allowing scrutiny of even the most minute detail.

  The entire assembly is focused on the center of the square.

  A long, lavish table draped in red velvet has been set up. Seated at the center, in an ornate, golden chair, which seems more like a throne, is Delvecchio himself. His entire body glitters in the sunlight from all the jewels and rings adorning him. Delvecchio is flanked by anchorites seated at either side, his henchman from the Depuration Tribunals, I imagine.

  More disturbing is the sight displayed before the tribunal. One is a coffin-shaped silver pod containing an upright human being, a young woman, whose head is bowed so that her hair obscures her face. The second is an X-shaped silver contraption with a young man strapped to it spread-eagled. And the third is a silver tank with a woman suspended just above the foul-looking liquid inside.

  I’ve heard of these obscene devices, but I’d hoped they were just rumors. Each of these machines is an instrument of torture or punishment under the Depuration. What sickens me most are the words that have been etched into each of these infernal instruments in elaborate script:

  The Deity’s light shall free us.

  Delvecchio clears his throat. “Each of these poor souls has been found guilty of heresy. As you all know, anyone who attempts to construe a personal view of the Deity which conflicts with the Priory’s teachings must be punished without mercy.”

  The crowd remains silent, and it’s not hard to read the fear in their faces. Attempting to stand up for any of these convicted victims will result in joining them to face the consequences.

  “We are at war,” Delvecchio continues, “against those from the dark regions who would attempt to blaspheme our beloved Deity in the name of their false god, whose corrupt name shall remain unspoken, lest we pollute this Holy place.” He smiles. “Still, we are not entirely without compassion.”

  Digory and I exchange looks and as much as I’m loathe to admit it, I silently agree that there’s nothing we can do for these unfortunate prisoners. Common sense says that instead of wasting any more time, we should seize advantage of this distraction and flee from the Priory undetected.

  The thing is, I’m not feeling very practical today.

  Gritting my teeth, I catch sight of the girl in the coffin-like prison on the screens. She’s finally lifted her head and there’s no mistaking who she is.

  Tristin.

  “We can’t leave.” I don’t bother to look at Digory when I say this. He’s probably incapable of understanding what I’m feeling at the moment. Even if Tristin weren’t a dear friend, the fact that she’s Cage’s sister alone would make it impossible to leave her behind. I owe them both so much, and I’ll probably never get the chance to let either of them know.

  The anchorites flanking Delvecchio each grip one of his arms and help him rise to face the crowd. I’m not buying the frail act for a minute.

  He turns to the two prisoners on the end. “Aestreus Hawthorne. You and your wife, Belinda, have both been found guilty of harboring a wanted fugitive from the law, who was spreading lies about this sacred order.”

  “We found him at our back door,” Hawthorne replies, his voice laced with fatigue and pain. “He was nearly starved to death. All we did was feed him some soup and attend to his wounds.”

  “Isn’t that what the Deity would want us to do?” Mrs. Hawthorne chimes in, a hint of defiance in her tone, as if the sound of her husband’s protests have infused her with strength.

  Delvecchio sighs and shakes his head. “Even at the end you do not understand the ramifications of what you have done. Evil has clouded your minds.”

  While Delvecchio drones on, I scan the area, the gears in my head working over-time trying to figure out a way to stop what’s about to happen. With so many agents in the crowd, we’re vastly outnumbered. Even if we could reach the prisoners before they nab us, we’d never make it out alive. What we need is a miracle.

  I stare at the enormous stained glass window in the sanctuary behind us.

  If there truly is a Deity, it would never set foot in this abysmal place.

  “To show you how forgiving the Deity truly is,” Delvecchio rambles on, “I will give you both one last chance. Whichever one of you speaks out against the other first, shall be granted clemency, a prolonged stay in the isolation chambers where you will have years to reflect on the grievousness of your sins and find true repentance.”

  In other words, years of abuse—if they should be unlucky enough to survive.

  “The choice is yours,” Delvecchio says, reminding me of the recruits’ hellish instructions during the Trials, and the hopelessness of my stint as an Incentive. “I urge you to confess and safeguard your souls against the eternal damnation of the pit.”

  The Hawthornes look at each other, anguish carved into their tearful faces. The moment stretches out into eternity as the couple’s eyes seem to urge each other to speak out and save themselves. But in the end, their love for each other appears to be much stronger than the survival instinct. Mrs. Hawthorne shakes her head while her husband bows his and closes his eyes, his lips muttering what I assume is a final prayer.

  Delvecchio shakes his head and sighs. “So be it. May the Deity have mercy on your wretched souls.”

  He nods to one of his underlings, who activates a few switches on a control unit in front of him on the Tribunal table.

  Mr. Hawthorne stretches out one of his bound hands toward his wife, who presses her own against the glass of her tank. They’re both sobbing now.

  If I could just find a way to cut the power source—

  It’s too late. The entire courtyard is filled with the sound of agonized screams. The beams binding each of Mr. Hawthorne’s limbs spin like rotors, tearing his appendages from his body. Fountains of blood erupt from the severed arteries, dousing his screaming face and seeping into each of the letters carved into the machine’s base.

  The Deity’s light shall free us…

  Even as it tears us apart in blood.

  Mrs. Hawthorne is wailing at the sight of her writhing husband. Then a glistening metal pincer plunges into her neck, probably hitting her carotid artery. Her body plummets into the tank. Immediately, she’s entirely covered by the swarm of Serras, crazed with the scent of her blood. Their fangs are like scalpels as the tiny fish undulate over her squirming form, which disappears in the crimson cloud that engulfs the tank.

  It’s all over in minutes, leaving only the bloodless, dismembered corpse of Mr. Hawthorne, one of his severed hands still reaching for his wife. She’s now nothing more than a fleshless skeleton, the carnivorous fish snapping at each other for the remaining tatters of skin.

  Delvecchio turns his attention to Tristin. “And finally, we have Tristin Argus. My dear, you have been convicted of heresy. Spreading the word that there are many paths to the Deity is the most
insidious way to guarantee a soul a direct path to the underworld. There is only one supreme being that will lead to salvation.”

  Tristin looks up at Delvecchio. Her serene expression is in stark contrast to the carnage just a few feet from her, the growing pool of Hawthorne’s blood lapping at the base of her own prison. “Salvation is not limited to one particular god or adherence to any given dogma. All that any higher power cares about is the kindness and compassion we bestow on our brothers and sisters. That’s all that matters.”

  Delvecchio’s smile is almost paternal. “Consider your punishment a kindness to your eternal soul as you experience the burning fire of the damned from within.”

  Fire from within? Then it clicks. That capsule that Tristin’s trapped in is the microwave cooker I’ve heard rumors about. They’re going to boil all the liquids in her body—the water in each cell, the blood flowing through her veins, the fluid around her brain—with the human body being comprised of ninety-six percent water, she’ll suffer unimaginable pain. Gruesome images of bursting eardrums, ruptured lungs, eyes popping from their sockets, and melting skin bombard my imagination.

  Delvecchio gives the signal and the words etched into Tristin’s death chamber begin to glow.

  The Deity’s light shall free us.

  “What are you two doing here?” a deep voice from behind us rumbles.

  Two of the sentry Anchorites hover on their discs behind us. They’re both pointing weapons at us. The holy power of the Deity, no doubt.

  Digory springs first, grabbing one of the monks and twisting his arm until he’s rewarded with a sharp crack. Then he retrieves the anchorite’s weapon and kicks him off the hover disc, taking his place. In seconds I follow suit, kicking the other guard as he fires. His stray shot misses me and I tackle him, ripping the weapon from his hand and hopping onto his hover disc.

  Digory shows no emotion. He follows me as I zoom out into the square, already firing my weapon. The crowd erupts. There are screams and shouts as they rush the exits. Seizing the element of surprise, I fire at the mechanisms of Tristin’s prison as I dive close. The door springs open and I swoop down, scooping her up onto the disc, which teeters at the sudden, added weight.