An Abyss of Light (The Light Trilogy) (23 page)

“They won’t get you.”

“You’re a hell of an optimist,” he said, glancing sideways at the frizzy haired old man. Ari had a Cheshire cat smile.

“I’m a realist.”

“Are you? That’s good,” Jeremiel responded irritably, wishing he had about four battle cruisers at his back. “I need realists around me just now. I like company in times of travail.”

“You’re too sensitive. Me and Yosef, we’ll get you out of this.”

Jeremiel turned up the resolution on the screen to see if he could make out what sort of ships pursued them.
God damn. It wasn’t Tahn, was it?
His shoulder muscles tensed. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

“We’ll drop you off somewhere over the planet and me and Yosef will fly this baby to the nearest city. When those stupid marines catch us, we’ll just say you held a gun to our heads and forced us to fly with you as hostages. Then we’ll tell them you jumped ship and we don’t know where you are. And that’ll be true.”

“But risky, friend, very risky. They probably won’t believe you. And if they take you in for questioning and decide to use the mind probes—”

“What could they find out? That Yosef forgets lots of things or that I fart all day long? They won’t have to use mind probes to find that out.” Ari smiled sardonically.

“Uh … yes, you’ve got a point there. But I’m not worried about you revealing information. The probes destroy critical centers of the brain.”

Ari snickered. “Bah! Those centers were gone long ago! We’re not worried.”

“It’s kind of you to offer, but—”

“Somebody has to help the Underground before the Magistrates kill us all. And they will, you know.”

Jeremiel looked up, expression softening. This old man knew more about life than it appeared. Ari met his gaze with the stern determination of a seasoned war veteran. Of course, maybe he was. He was old enough to have been involved in the last Gamant Revolt. “Yes, I know. I fear that’s precisely what the Magistrates have in mind.”

“So, we’ll drop you off somewhere and land in the nearest city and find a good restaurant for dinner.”

“Horeb has a poor reputation for restaurants.” Jeremiel stalled while he thought over the offer. Maybe the Magistrates wouldn’t hurt these old men? Maybe it was naive to assume, but who in his right mind would think they knew more than what they’d eaten for breakfast? And it appeared his best chance—unfortunately. Silently, he railed at himself for needing to accept.

“You’re going to have trouble landing,” he said sharply. “With the gear damaged you’ll have to set her down real easy and expect to tumble sideways. Strap in good and use the attitude jets for all they’re worth.” He pointed to the appropriate levers on the console. “You said you knew how to fly this thing. Do you?”

Ari smiled wryly, bushy gray brows arching. “God, no. But I could have anyway.”

“Uh-huh.” Jeremiel filled his cheeks with air and spewed an anxious breath. “Well, I’ve got four days to teach you everything I know. Are you ready?”

Ari leaned back in his chair like a professional patiently awaiting his latest instructions for a spy mission. “I’m
always
ready.”

Jeremiel massaged his forehead.

CHAPTER 13

Adom glanced around as he paced his luxurious red and gold bedchamber. Cups of stone cold tea littered the dresser and table, and hid on the floor beneath piles of tossed clothing. Books formed a precarious stack on his desk, gold bindings luminescent in the light streaming through the broad windows. Satin sheets twisted in a rumpled mass against the ornate brass posts of his bed. His blankets draped carelessly into the untouched breakfast tray on the floor. Sleep had eluded him; his memories continually replayed the horrifying destruction of the temple.

“Rebels!” he whispered in anguish, slamming a fist into the wall.

He glanced out the open window. Whirlwinds of red dust wound through the fire-gutted streets of Seir, tormenting charred roof timbers until they banged and creaked mournfully. In the sky, a dust-spawned halo encircled the flaming ball of the sun. Eerie light penetrated the haze, turning the shadows from gray to a smoky azure. In the distance, he could see what remained of his holy structure: a scorched and gaping maw. Burned out buildings stood like lone sentinels around it. Though fire crews had worked through the night, smoke still curled from the rubble to twist away in the wind.

“Dear God, what should I do?
Tell me?”

He spread his arms and pleadingly stared at the thousand-year-old image of Milcom painted lovingly into the dome of his ceiling. “Tell me … Lord? Lord!” Guilt plagued him. Wave after wave of cries penetrated his sanctuary, floating up from the gardens outside. The fetid odors of death and filth drifted to him on each gust.

“Adom! Adom! Adom!” the cries continued until he thought he’d go mad.

He clamped hands over his ears, shouting, “I can’t stand this! Help me, God!”

Finally, the agony in his breast became so unbearable, he threw open his door and raced down the magnificent marble hall. Winding through the rich corridors lined with brooding statues of the saints, his feet pounded in a dull staccato. They watched him, those disapproving deities, angry with his incompetence. He took the stairs down three at a time, avoiding their gazes, to burst through the palace doors and out onto the top step of the pink fan-shaped entry stairs.

A roar of adulation and anxiety rose. For a full minute, no sound existed except a rumble like that of the sea. His heart thundered fearfully as he gazed over the enormous hexagonal garden filled with rock sculptures, peak-roofed gazebos and panic-stricken men and women who shoved each other, shouting as if crazed.

A hot northerly wind blew, flapping the hem of his maroon robe as he gingerly stepped down the marble stairs. Behind him, the massive bronze doors pinged with the peppering of wind-blown sand. Women sobbed and screeched near the bottom steps. Behind them, hard-eyed men shouted, daggers hanging menacingly from belts. To the side, a special section had been cleared where the injured lay in irregular rows, flies swarming in a black hungry cloud over their wounds.

“All this,” he whispered miserably, a sob rising in his throat, “because they wanted to kill
me?”

Gray-robed palace guards stared at him anxiously, unsure whether to stay in their assigned positions or move to protect him. He shook his head at them, then turned and raised his arms in a reassuring gesture to the throng. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

Hope laced the sweating people. They jostled relentlessly to get closer, toppling sculptures, screaming at each other and at him. Tears welled in his blue eyes, blurring the images of uncombed hair and unwashed bodies, of pain and desperation.

“I’m … I’m so sorry,” he sobbed.

A weeping woman in a torn, bloodstained tan robe ran up the stairs carrying an injured child. “Mashiah, I beg you! He’s a good boy and he’s only five. One of the stones in the temple fell on him. Be merciful. Heal him.
Please!”

Adom stared impotently at the dried blood spattering the boy’s crushed chest. Could Milcom work such a miracle? The child already seemed beyond hope.

He extended trembling arms. “Let me have him.”

The woman started to thrust the child into his arms, but from behind, an old man jerked the hem of Adom’s robe so forcefully, he stumbled backward.

“Mashiah!” the man cried. He sat hunched on the step, clutching his dead wife to his breast. “Could you bring her back to life, Mashiah? I can’t live without her!”

“I … I can’t make the dead live again. Forgive me.”

The old man’s face puckered and he wept miserably, rocking his wife’s corpse back and forth. “Why can’t you … why can’t you … why can’t you?” the man repeated over and over.

Everywhere the faithful looked at Adom through eyes of madness, imploring him to ease their suffering, and he felt so helpless, so frail beneath the weight of their despair.

And there were so many….

“Milcom?” he called into the eddying crowd. “Milcom, I beg you. Help us?”

He took another timid step down the stairs, reaching out to touch the dying boy. The mother gripped his maroon sleeve and buried her face in the silk. “Bless you, Mashiah. Bless you!”

Adom took the boy in his arms and sat hard on the warm stone step. “It’s all right. Milcom sees his injuries.” He smiled weakly, placing a hand on the boy’s fevered brow and offering a soft prayer. “Please, God, do you see us here? Please …”

“He’s healing!” someone shrieked and the crowd surged up, a massive, foul-smelling wave of screaming bodies. For an instant, he felt their cries like a gripping hand at his throat, malevolent and suffocating. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, clutching the boy tightly to his chest. After several minutes, he felt a tingling heat course through his veins and sensed the boy’s breathing had grown easier.

The child stirred.

“Oh, Mashiah,” the boy’s mother sobbed, “thank you. God bless you.” She knelt and took her son in her arms.

“Mashiah!” a filthy woman in gray rags shrieked, shoving against him. She fairly threw her child into his lap. “Mashiah, cure my little girl next. Please, she’s—”

“No, my son is sicker and we’ve been waiting all night!” A dark-haired crone crowded into the circle.

From every corner, every crevice, they came, shouting, pleading, shoving him. A smothering fear welled inside him.

His guards murmured among themselves, tension spreading down the line. They, too, feared the crowd … feared they couldn’t protect him if someone in the mob decided to commit murder.

He looked down at the girl. Her battered head lolled limply over his leg, tangled black hair forming a web over her bloody face. An ache built inside him. “Milcom?” he prayed softly and placed his hand behind her frail neck. “Heal this child?”

Behind him, a clamor of voices rose up, fiery and indignant. He didn’t understand the sudden enmity until he heard Ornias’ voice penetrate the outrage, “Adom? Adom!”

“Don’t take him from us!” “He’s our only savior!” “Let me touch the hem of his robe!”

Adom concentrated. Finally, the little girl shuddered and opened her eyes, croaking, “Mama?”

“Blessed Lord!” the mother shouted reverently. “I believe in Milcom, Mashiah.
I believe in you.”
She kissed his hand and picked up her daughter before shouldering through the crowd.

“Adorn!”

He didn’t want to turn, but reluctantly did so anyway. Standing tall, the Councilman’s ebony robe billowed like a bat’s wings as he waved for Adom to come to the palace.

“No,” he murmured stubbornly, gritting his teeth as he looked back to the faithful. “I can’t leave them.” Quickly, he stood and pushed farther down into the masses, touching anyone within reach. People pressed against him in a smothering tide, faces beaming with adoration and hope.

“Mashiah, I love you,” a one-legged beggar implored, stroking Adom’s arm. “Don’t let him take you from us.”

“Guards!” Ornias shouted harshly. The gray-robed troops immediately began closing ranks, tightening their circle, thrusting the beggar and other worshipers aside until finally they’d separated the people from Adom like chaff from wheat. Two guards gripped his arms hurtfully hard and quickly hustled him up the marble steps. He heard the shrill wails of those still desperately pleading for his attention.

“Mercy, Mashiah! Have mercy!”

He tried to turn, but the restraining arms of the guards prevented him. Before he knew it, the mauve velvet shadows of the palace enfolded him. Ornias slammed the bronze doors with an echoing clang and locked them. He smoothed his light brown hair which the wind had tousled and eyed Adom reproachfully.

“For God’s sake, Adom, were you trying to get yourself killed?”

“No, I—I …” He jammed his hands in his pockets, straining at his own inability to challenge the man. He only wanted peace and tranquillity around him. “The people came in droves throughout the night and I couldn’t bear to hear them call my name any more. So I—”

“Well, you mustn’t do that again. I know you trust everyone, but not everyone
deserves
your trust. Human beings are a scurrilous lot. You—”

“I know my flock. They’re good people.”

Ornias sniffed condescendingly. “Yes, well … Please notify me the next time you want to wade amongst them? That’s all I ask.”

“If … if you’re near.”

Ornias scowled. “I apologize for being gone these past few hours. I know they’ve been difficult for you, but we captured one of the rebels this week and I’ve been questioning him.”

Hope flared in Adom’s wounded soul. He took a step toward the Councilman. “Where’s Rachel Eloel? Have you discovered—”

“Not yet, but I will.”

“I hope it’s soon.”

“I’m working as hard as I can, Adorm. But I need more time.”

Anxiety burned so brilliantly in Adom’s chest he felt sick. “We must find her. Anyone who could kill so thoughtlessly is a danger to herself and everyone else. We can’t let her stay free.”

“Of course not. We’ll find her. Don’t worry.” Ornias came up beside him, putting a hand at his back and guiding him deeper into the protective womb of the palace. The structure formed a gigantic triangle in the heart of the city. Gothic arches stretched fifty feet high throughout, the pink marble darkening to magenta at the peaks. Fringed tapestries covered the walls, accenting the plush paisley carpets of turquoise and indigo, pearl and apricot. Pieces of intricately craved furniture stood between the pillars: high-backed chairs, tables with vases of dried desert flowers, locked bookcases containing rare volumes of religious literature … and the disapproving saints.