The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) (6 page)

Nathaniel stretched his legs until the muscles sang. He’d
been ready to rush off to Temple City at once, but his father had forbidden him
to go. As a loving son, he was loath to openly disobey, so he’d waited until
the wee hours of the morning before leaving. By dashing off before sunrise, he’d
cut the vicar’s lead in half. Now he hoped to close the remaining gap with his long
stride. Whenever his legs tired, he pictured Orah in the teaching cell and
pressed on.

He paused to rest near one of the temple trees that loomed
over the landscape, with its stubby branches and garish green needles. His
teachers had proclaimed these towers a miracle of the light, possessed of magic
and to be avoided, but his father had taught him a more practical use. Set at
intervals of exactly ten thousand paces, they provided a good way to measure
distance—two hours apart at a normal stride, but he’d passed the last few in
less. If only he could keep up this pace.

He arched his back to expand his lungs and drew in a deep
breath, then started off again.

Thomas had tried to stop him, insisting no one could prevail
against the vicars. “They’re too strong and instill too much fear.”

Nathaniel had dismissed him with a wave. He felt no fear. Nothing
could shame him more than this—after waiting his whole life, he’d failed his
first test of courage. He’d run away, and the vicar had chosen Orah in his
stead. Now he must pay the price.

Like the knight of his dreams, he’d charge into Temple City,
but this time, he had no doubt what to do. He’d go to the vicars and offer
himself up in her place.

***

“Let us record the first teaching of Orah Weber of Little
Pond. Blessed be the light. Orah, do you understand why you’re here?”

Orah gazed up at the three men and forced herself to match
their stares. “No, my lord, I do not. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“We concern ourselves less with the doing of wrong than the
tendency to make choices that allow for the darkness to return. You
do
know
what the darkness is?”

“Yes sir. The darkness is the time before the light, a time
of chaos and death.”

The vicar in the center wore a hat with six red stripes and
a beard two hands long—an arch vicar. She’d learned the rankings in school, but
had never seen a vicar so powerful.

He glared at her unblinking, thick brows hooding his eyes. “The
darkness was much more. This teaching will help you learn the truth about the
darkness, so you shall never forget the need to obey the Temple of Light.”

Orah tried to stay focused, but her gaze kept wandering up
to the arches, which were lost in the shadows cast by flickering candles
dotting the surrounding walls, and back down to the panel of vicars.

The clergymen sat at a curved desk mounted high on a
platform, which forced the person standing before them to crane their neck. A
tapestry hung behind them, covering the wall halfway up the dome. Its colors
had faded, but its meaning remained clear. On one side, the sun beamed across
rows of vicars with arms uplifted in prayer. On the other, a black thunderhead
threatened the advancing host. The battle of darkness and light.

Beneath her feet lay the hatch hiding the teaching cell.

She shook off such thoughts and answered with a firm voice. “I
look forward to your help. I’m an excellent student and eager to learn.”

“And so you shall, Orah. Isn’t that a name from one of the
forbidden languages?”

“It may be, sir. I’m told it comes from the word for light.”
She conjured up an image of her father, and raised her chin. “It’s a proud name
passed down in my family for generations.”

“But forbidden, nevertheless. Rules exist so the darkness
may never return, yet you play loosely with those rules. That means you do not fully
appreciate the horrors of the darkness. Orah of Little Pond, whose name means light,
we shall ensure that you learn—” He leaned forward for emphasis. “—to the
depths of your being.”

She withered under his glare and swung her hands behind her
back, hoping to hide how much they’d started to shake.

***

Nathaniel could no longer contain his sense of awe. The
Ponds had only one-story buildings, all made of wood, but even from a distance
Temple City soared. Elaborate stone structures rising six stories or more
challenged the low-lying clouds. In place of the modest sloped roofs of his
home, sculpted spires rose above all, as if aspiring to the light.

His impression changed once inside. While the official
buildings dominated the horizon, the dwellings within had been crammed together
off trash-strewn streets—half-built hovels no one in Little Pond would deem fit
to live in—and he found no hint of the hospitality of the Ponds. People cast
suspicious glances as he passed. Children fled into their homes or ran into the
soiled aprons of their mothers. All seemed fearful of strangers, and trudged
about in tattered tunics with the bent-over gait of someone recently beaten.

Though quick to reach the gates of the city, he’d lost time
finding his way inside, wandering in circles and passing the same buildings
again and again.

On each circuit, he’d run into bands of men marching four
abreast—temple officials, he assumed, but not vicars. They wore no hats, and
their black tunics matched his except for an insignia on their chests—the sun
icon shining down on the adoring family of three. In the center of the sun lay
a gem in the shape of a star. It held no color of its own but reflected the
colors from its surroundings.

The men strutted about with disdain for all they passed. He
took a hint from the locals and shied away from them.

After the third loop, he became desperate. Time flowed like lifeblood
leaking from his veins.

He finally approached a woman whose kindly appearance
reminded him of Orah’s mother. “Pardon me, can you tell me how to find a vicar?”

Her brows crumpled together, forcing a crease above the
bridge of her nose, and the kindness in her eyes disappeared. “By the light,
man, why? No one speaks to the clergy unless spoken to first.”

“Please help me. My friend’s been taken for a teaching, and
I have to find her.”

The woman’s pupils grew large. Her mouth opened as if to
respond, but no words came out. Instead, she showed him her back and scurried
off.

After the third such rejection, he changed his approach. When
a boy trudged by with his head down and a sack of flour under his arm,
Nathaniel stopped him. “Who are these men, marching with the mark of the Temple?”

“Why, sir, they’re deacons, defenders of the light.”

“Do you think they’d take me to a vicar?”

“They might, or they might beat you for sport. I’d keep my
distance if I were you.” The boy took a few steps away, then called back as he
broke into a trot. “Don’t go near them till I’m gone, and don’t let them know
we spoke.”

Nathaniel’s head throbbed, and the air around him grew thin.
The sounds of the city became muffled, as though he were underwater.
What
good is courage without a plan?
He finally gave in and approached the deacons
directly.

After a series of rude questions, the vicar’s henchmen aligned
in a square-shaped formation with him at the center, and marched him through the
arched gateway of the main Temple building, with stern statues of deceased
clergy eyeing him as he passed. The corridor ended at a massive chamber with
hundreds of officials bustling about.

A low-level lackey ushered him before one of the dozens of
desks that lined the walls, where an ill-tempered clerk scribbled Nathaniel’s
request down and repeated it in a nasal whine. “You say your friend has come for
a teaching, and you’re offering to take her place. Is that correct?”

“Yes sir.”

The clerk paused and punctuated his writing before looking
up. “Hmmm. Most unusual.” He folded the request, marked it with a wax seal in
the shape of the sun, and handed it to one of the couriers dashing about
everywhere.

After so much time lost, the chance to keep Orah from the teaching
had passed, but Nathaniel still hoped to save her from the worst. He stepped
forward to accompany the messenger, hoping to speed up the process, but the
clerk signaled for him to wait.

With the flurry of business in the hall, he worried he’d wait
for hours, but the courier returned in minutes and gestured for him to follow.

They ended up in a round room with
vaulted ceilings much as his father had described. Three clergy sat at a raised
desk along the back wall, all well-fed and with beards greater than any he’d
ever seen—senior vicars with more red stripes on their hats than he could
count.

The one in the center with the most stripes began. “You are
Nathaniel Rush of Little Pond?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you are here to... request a teaching in place of Orah
Weber?”

“Yes sir.”

The senior vicar shook his head. “Extraordinary.”

The vicar on the left leaned forward. “No one ever requests
a teaching.”

“Nevertheless, I’ve come to offer myself in Orah’s place. I’m
of age, from the same village, and would serve your purpose as well. My father’s
an elder and my neighbors regard me with favor. My teaching will make Little
Pond stronger in the light.”

The vicar on the left grumbled and murmurs of disagreement spread
between the three.

Nathaniel edged closer to eavesdrop,
but they noticed his approach and fell silent.

“Nathaniel of Little Pond,” the senior cleric intoned,
trying to restore order to the proceeding. “We’ll need time to confer alone. Our
servants will bring you to a holding area in the meantime.”

He rang a bell with a miniature sun icon for a handle. Four
deacons marched in, formed the well-practiced square around Nathaniel, and
prepared to escort him out.

He rose to his full height, arched his back, and refused to
go.

The men of the Ponds stood a good hand taller than the people
of Temple City, and Nathaniel stood a hand taller than them, so he towered over
the deacons.

They wavered, looking to the clerics
for guidance.

The vicar on the right waved them off with a flip of is hand.
“What now?”

“My request is urgent. I want my friend relieved of her teaching
at once, or my offer will not stand.”

The vicar in the center stared at him, stroking his beard, and
an impish expression stole across his face. “Your friend has only arrived this
morning. We’ve just finished with her, and will deliver our pronouncement soon.
Now with your permission....” He waggled his thick brows and pointed using only
his eyes. “Follow these gentlemen to your... guest quarters.”

He gestured for the leader of the deacons to approach, leaned
in and whispered a few words. The deacons reformed and guided Nathaniel away.

As he walked out, he glanced back over his shoulder.

While the two younger vicars stared
in bewilderment, their superior gazed after him, deep in thought.

***

The deacons led Nathaniel down a narrow stairway to an
underground hall. On one side, the wall bore no markings other than the etched
decay of years. As his boots echoed on the stone floor, his imagination turned
these scars in the stone into images—demons with exposed skulls or shrieking
birds of prey. He turned away. On the other side stood a more ominous sight, a
row of stout doors, each with a tiny window concealed by a metal slat
controlled from the outside—and each anchored by an iron bolt.

Nathaniel understood the true purpose of this place—not a
guest house but a prison. They’d keep him locked up here until they handed down
the judgment. He prayed he hadn’t condemned both Orah and himself to a teaching.

One of the deacons opened the door and escorted Nathaniel inside.
The room was not the cramped cell he feared, with a wide floor and headroom to
spare. A serviceable cot lay to one side and a table and chair to the other. Though
windowless—the walls were below ground—a tarnished brass receptacle on the
table held a lit candle. At least he’d have light.

He settled on the cot and stared at the walls as the deacon
shuffled out and locked the door behind him. Years of decay had worn down the
stones, leaving a layer of dust on the floor and a stale taste on his tongue. Yet
he refused to be discouraged, still determined to save Orah. He hoped the vicars
would accept his offer.

As for his notions of Temple City, he’d been deluded. This
place had not a whiff of ancient greatness. Men of honor would never build such
a prison.

“So this is the great Temple City,” he said with a sneer.

“Not quite.”

Nathaniel froze. Had someone actually answered, or had he
already gone mad? A grating came from the opposite wall, like the gnawing of a
rat on stone. He grabbed the chair for defense, but what happened next took him
by surprise.

A flicker of light filtered through a hole in the wall,
followed by a muffled voice.

“You see, they built many Temple Cities. This is only one.
Not the biggest either.”

Nathaniel set the chair down and edged toward the wall. “What
did you say?”

“Not the biggest. I’ve seen only three, but one was bigger, at
least as far as I can recall. They brought me here so long ago.”

Nathaniel came closer. “Who
are
you?”

The voice on the far side of the wall gained strength. “You
see, the Temple designed their world on a grid—east to west, north to south—a Temple
City every six days, each location responsible for children of light within a
three-day-walk. Do you know for what purpose?”

Nathaniel had no idea how to respond.

“Control, of course. To control you and me and everyone
else.” The voice became deep and mocking. “So the darkness shall never return.
Why else do you think we’re here in these cells? To protect the world from the darkness?
No. To control our thoughts.”