Curse of the Forbidden Book (2 page)

“You promised me,” he heard himself shouting. “You promised they would go free!”

The man in front of him just smiled. He was dressed in a dark gray cloak with an
A
inside a broken circle on his medallion. “You bargained for your own life, not the lives of the others.”

“No!” The cry was full of anguish, and the real Demetri echoed it in his mind, feeling the pain all over again.

“If you leave this tent,” the man warned, “I cannot guarantee your safety.”

Demetri did not care. The thick cloth of the tent flap rushed into his vision, and then the cool of the desert night as he ran outside. There were soldiers outside, Da'armon soldiers, marching silently toward the Youth Guard's camp, toward Benjamin and Uric and Desma.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

Suddenly, he was there, among the soldiers who were attacking the camp. To his left, Benjamin had pulled out his sword and was holding off two of the soldiers. He couldn't see any of the others. “Stop!” Demetri—Justis—shouted over and over again. But no one listened. No one heard.

Beside him, Benjamin gave a cry and fell to the ground. He did not move again.

Then Desma stumbled out of a nearby tent, her sword drawn. For a moment, their eyes met, and it was then that Demetri knew. He had betrayed her. He had betrayed all of them.

He tried to run, tried to run to her, but the thick arm of a soldier knocked him down. A spear drove him to the ground, slicing into his upper arm. Demetri heard himself cry out in pain.

Suddenly, everything began to blur. The clamor of battle mixed with the beating of Demetri's heart. He dodged blows and horses' hooves, tried to stand, to draw his sword, to run away.

Above it all, Demetri heard the scream that echoed endlessly in his mind. Desma's scream. And then…blackness.

Demetri awoke covered in sweat. He cursed himself for allowing memories. The memories always brought nightmares. He could never change the horrible mistake he had made that night.

He grabbed the Guard Rider medallion and placed it around his neck again. Anything was better than the memories, the nightmares. If Aleric and Chancellor Doran would keep those away, he'd give his life to the Riders. He'd do anything.

That was why he had joined the Riders in the first place. After the disaster, he had been forced to swear to serve the king, or they would kill his brother. He refused to betray his brother like he betrayed Desma.

Now the three Youth Guard members are dead,
he told himself, lying back down. The Guard Rider medallion was already giving him strength, letting him breathe easier.
It will be all right
.

But no matter what other lies Demetri had made himself believe, he knew that was not true. Nothing would be all right ever again.

The second time a passing traveler gave Jesse money, he began to think that Parvel was right about needing to wash and get new clothes.

“Sir,” Jesse called, standing to return the money. His limp made it hard to catch up with the man. “Really, I'm not a beggar. You don't….”

But the man never stopped. In fact, he started walking more quickly, as if afraid that Jesse would try to rob him.

When he turned back to Silas, Rae, and Parvel, he could tell they were trying to hold back laughter. “It's because we're sitting by the road, like many beggars do,” Jesse grumbled, sitting down next to them.

“Then why are you the only one anyone has given money to?” Silas pointed out.

Jesse tried to think of an answer. “Because I look the youngest.”

Silas and Parvel, though only a few years older than Jesse, looked much older. “But Rae is fourteen,” Parvel countered, “a year younger than you. And she's just as small.”

“Then it's my crippled leg,” Jesse said, feeling as if he were losing the argument. He did carry a walking stick, carved for him by his friend Kayne, but even more obviously, his torn pant leg exposed his scarred, battered left leg.

“No,” Parvel said, grinning widely. “It's because you're dirty, smelly, and ragged.” Silas and Rae laughed.

“So are you,” Jesse shot back.

“We don't look nearly as bad as you,” Rae said with her usual bluntness.

Jesse wanted to argue the point, but found he could not, so he changed the subject instead. “Why are we sitting here in the open, anyway? Captain Demetri and the Patrol think we're dead—what if he sees us here?”

“What are the chances that he would pass by on this very road?” Silas pointed out. “The captain must have gone home to District Four by now.”

“See?” Parvel said triumphantly. “If even Silas says it's safe, we know it's safe.” He had a point there, Jesse knew. Silas was the most cautious of the group. “Even if this Captain Demetri of yours showed up, Jesse, he'd never recognize you under all of those layers of filth.”

Jesse ignored the comment. “Can we get on with the planning? Please?”

“If we can keep from being interrupted by people wanting to give Jesse beggar's coins,” Rae said.

“I hope we all at least look somewhat tattered and poor,” Silas said, standing. He started to walk again. Jesse groaned. He was tired of walking. “We'll need to act like weary travelers if we are to be admitted to the house of refuge outside of Davior.”

That was their plan for a meal and a place to spend the night. They had run out of food the day before, and Jesse, at least, was tired of sleeping on the rock-hard ground. Silas had said that the priests who ran the houses of refuge rarely asked questions of their guests.

Jesse had never seen a house of refuge before, but he had heard of them. His uncle and aunt had talked about taking him to one when his parents disappeared two years before. The priests often took in orphans as well as travelers. Then Aunt Dara decided she needed more help at the inn, and there had been no more talk of taking Jesse to “those fool priests.”

“How far is it from here?” Rae asked, falling into step next to Silas.

“Not far at all,” Silas promised. Jesse didn't believe him. He had been saying that for two days as they traveled. “We'll be there within the hour.”

Rae grunted. “Good,” she said. “I don't know how much more of Parvel's jabbering I can take.”

Jesse couldn't understand why Parvel's story bothered Rae so much. It wasn't some wild, exaggerated tale that Parvel told to pass time as they traveled—it was the true story of God, and God's son, Jesus, who came to earth. Jesse was fascinated by the miracles Jesus performed and the way He seemed to love even the most insignificant people.

Silas and Rae, though, did not believe in God, and did not appreciate Parvel's story. They had grumbled about it during their journey to Davior, often traveling ahead so they wouldn't have to listen.

Jesse ignored Rae's comment. “We were at the part where Jesus' friend Lazarus was sick,” he reminded Parvel.

Parvel grinned, although Jesse couldn't figure out why. Sickness was not a thing to smile about. “When they received the news, the disciples were upset, but Jesus didn't leave. He stayed right where He was….”

Jesse fell into an even pace, leaning on his walking stick, as Parvel continued the story. By the time they reached the gates of the house of refuge, Parvel had told Jesse all about how Lazarus had died, and how Jesus had raised him from the dead.

“And so many people believed in Jesus because of Lazarus that the leaders decided they would have to kill Jesus
and
Lazarus,” Parvel finished.

Jesse laughed. “That's ridiculous. How do you kill a man who's already died?”

“You cut his loudmouth head off with a sword,” Silas snapped from in front of them. Even Parvel looked a little taken aback. It was strange of Silas to be so outspoken, even when joking.

“No more of this story,” Silas said. “We're coming into the village. From now on, let me do the talking. I'm from this District and know how things are done. Besides, you all have accents.”

Rae sniffed and folded her arms. “I don't have an accent. Everyone else does.”

Parvel laughed. “I suppose all of us could say that.”

Jesse didn't mind the silence, just as he didn't mind hiding their weapons or travelling off the main road. If Silas was overly cautious, at least that was better than rushing blindly into danger. They didn't want to arouse any suspicions.

Like most houses of refuge, the one in Davior was on the very edge of town, another reason they had chosen to stay there. Jesse knew the reason was to make it more accessible to travelers, but the house of refuge looked lonely on the hill overlooking Davior, as if it had been pushed away from the city along with the outcasts who lived there.

Once they got closer, Jesse could see that the house of refuge was a large, two-story building surrounded by a neat pole fence and marked by a white flag with a red stripe—the symbol of the Order of Amarian priests.

The porch creaked under their collective weight, but other than that there were no signs the house of refuge was dirty or run-down. The floor was swept, the windows clean, and a few flowers poked bravely out of the ground near the wall.

That surprised Jesse, because the tiny chapel in his hometown of Mir was little more than a dirty hut.
Then again
, he reminded himself,
our priest was fat and lazy. There's no reason to assume that all priests are like him.

Silas's knock on the door echoed hollowly. They stood there on the porch, waiting.

“What if it's been abandoned?” Jesse asked. “I've heard of that happening. The king has his men inspect the houses of refuge, then shuts down the ones that aren't run the way he wants.”

“No,” Silas said. “Everything's too neat for that. Unless they were driven away just a few days ago.” He knocked again.

“That would be just our luck,” Rae muttered.

Then he looked down. A little girl peeped out at the same height as the doorknob. “Who is it?” she asked.

“Travelers seeking a place to stay,” Silas answered, as formally as if he were talking to a grand duke.

“Oh,” she said. She bit her lip, like she was trying to remember what to do. Then she smiled and opened the door. “Come in.”

They followed her into the entryway, which looked to Jesse more like a parlor. It was much more elaborate than the homes he was used to back in Mir. The furnishings were elegant, but faded, as if they had been a part of the house of refuge for many years.

“Wait here, please,” she chirped, darting through a doorway with a dark curtain hanging to the ground. “I'll get the priests.”

Jesse glanced around. On the cabinet against the far wall was an open book, a velvet ribbon marking the place. “A Song for Divine Peace,” it read in calligraphy at the top of the page, followed by what looked like a poem.

“What do the priests believe, Parvel?” Jesse asked, looking up from the book. “My father never trusted them, so I paid them very little attention.”

“It's rather complicated,” Parvel admitted. “For most, the Order is a meditative religion. The priests teach from the Book of Prayer, and most see God as a kind of impersonal force present in all of nature and in the good aspects of the world. Others….” He shrugged and glanced around the parlor. There was a chair with cushions, a painting over the fireplace, and a window with real glass, all of them expensive luxuries.

“Others only take the job for the salary and the tax exemptions that come with being part of the Order,” Silas cut in, his voice like ice. “Is that what you were going to say, Parvel?”

He didn't deny it. “So, which kind of priest was my father?” Silas continued.

“I did not know your father,” Parvel said. “Even then, I would not be able to say for certain. I cannot judge a man's heart. Only God can.”

“That's what….” Whatever Silas had been about to say was cut short when two men entered the room. They both wore the traditional red belt of the order, but that was where the resemblance stopped.

The first priest walked with confidence. He was younger, with a strong chin and a stomach enlarged from not a few years of rich living. The other was an old man, small and frail, with simple clothes that had lost nearly all of their color from years of washing and use.

The older priest stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Welcome to our house of refuge,” he said. “Blessings upon you as you enter this place. I am Anton, and this is Harrod.”

“My name is Thomas,” Silas said. They had all agreed that it would be dangerous to use their real names, in case the priests kept any kind of record of their visitors. “My friends and I are traveling together. We need a place to stay for a few nights.”

“Thomas,” the old priest mused, looking up at Silas with serious dark eyes. “An interesting man, that one. So many doubts…but he saw the truth in the end. Yes. In the end.”

“Excuse me?” Silas asked.

“Just an old legend of the Order,” the younger priest said, waving his hand in dismissal. “Anton lives in those musty old books. Sometimes he forgets when he's in the real world.”

Anton chuckled to himself. “It's true. Half of the time, I don't know which stories are true and which were made up by lonely old men like me, dreaming of something that isn't real.” He shrugged. “But enough of that. We need to find you a room.”

The younger priest crossed his arms and directed his question at Silas. “Can you pay?”

“Harrod,” Anton scolded. “You know we don't take fees, as if we were a common inn.” Still, he waited for Silas to answer.

“We have no money,” Silas said, keeping his shoulders straight and head up, even though Jesse knew it must be humiliating for him to beg for a place to spend the night.

“Very well,” Anton said, nodding several times in a row like a sparrow. “You can work for your meal. We can always use more help in the kitchen.”

“Telemachus isn't going to like it,” Harrod said. “You know he likes to keep to himself.”

“Our young friend Telemachus isn't in charge of this house,” Anton said, a trace of determination coming into his voice. “And, besides, it will do him good to be around young people closer to his own age.” He turned to Silas. “Come with me. I'll show you your room.”

The room was more like a closet, with straw mattresses wedged five across. “The young lady, of course, will sleep in a different room,” Anton said, indicating a larger room across the hall. “With the orphan girls, I'm afraid. There is only room for so many here, you understand.”

“Never mind,” Parvel said graciously. “I'm sure Rae would love to spend time with the young children.”

Rae looked at him doubtfully.

“Yes,” Anton said, his sagging face brightening. “It would do them good to have a motherly figure around, even if it is just for a short time.”

Jesse nearly laughed.
Yes, a mother figure who can kill a man in one stroke, fight off wild beasts, and climb up sheer mountain cliffs
.

They set down their packs. Jesse rubbed his stiff shoulders. It was good to be free of the burden for once, although he hoped none of the orphans would dig through his possessions.

As they descended the weathered staircase, Jesse tried to decide what was creaking most, the steps or Anton's old joints.

“Are you followers of the Order?” Anton asked, breaking the silence.

Jesse glanced at Parvel. Could they really say they followed the priests' watered-down religion? “We are seekers of the one true God,” Parvel said firmly.

“Some of us,” Silas muttered, so quietly that Jesse was sure Anton hadn't heard.

Anton turned around at that and tilted his head curiously. “Seekers of the one true God. Interesting,” he said vaguely. “Well, I'm glad to hear it. You'll need Him for your work in the kitchen.”

At first, Jesse laughed, until he realized that Anton's face was serious. “What are we going to be doing?” he demanded.

Anton's dark, solemn eyes never blinked. “Peeling potatoes.”