The Sowing (The Torch Keeper)

  “Yes, I remember.” How could I ever forget reading Cole his favorite tale—the forbidden story, which I’d found in the library archives, of the regal queen who presided over the magical city? Especially after I discovered the towering statue of her during the Trials and realized that she wasn’t a myth. She had once existed, just like the now-ruined city she protected.

  I hug him again, kissing the top of his head. Then I break the embrace and hold him at arm’s length, looking deep into his eyes.

  “Someone’s coming,” Cole whispers.

  I duck into an alcove.

  “There you are, Spark. I’ve been looking everywhere for you, boy. You can’t hide from me.”

  The sound of that voice wriggles around my spine like it did before. Suddenly, I’m twelve years old again.

  It’s Prior Delvecchio.

  seven

  My heart catches in my throat. Delvecchio still looks pretty much like the specter that’s haunted my memories and stalked me in nightmares over the years. Perhaps a little more gaunt, the grooves in his face a little deeper.

  The Prior’s dark shadow falls over Cole’s bed. “I checked on you earlier and you weren’t in your lessons. I was informed you were ill.”

  Cole sinks into his pillow. “My head hurts.”

  Delvecchio sits on the bed. His knobby fingers press against Cole’s forehead, rubbing it, lingering too long before pulling away. “You feel just right to me, boy. No fever. But we cannot be too cautious. If you are not feeling well, there’s no sense in wasting your dinner. I’ll have it withheld until you’ve recovered enough to keep it down.” He smiles.

  Cole’s eyes open wide. “But—”

  The cleric leans in, the tips of his fingers edging closer to the chron’s hiding place. “I worry for the fate of your immortal soul, young Spark. I hope you aren’t lying to me about being ill. Lies are the instruments of sin. I would hate to think of what would happen to such a naughty child in the afterlife.” He shakes his head in mock sorrow. “Fire and pain for all of eternity.”

  All my muscles tense. If he touches Cole again, I’ll kill him.

  The Prior stands up. “Actually, I came to inform you that you’ll be leaving us very soon. It seems there are great plans for you. However, I believe you’ve been treacherous, and a cleansing of your mind and body is in order.”

  Delvecchio pauses. The only sounds are the thudding of my own heart in my ears and the moaning wind, setting the windows creaking and melding with Cole’s soft breaths. Time is running out. I have to get back before Arrah and Valerian question my absence.

  Delvecchio sighs. “During the remainder of your stay here, you will be remanded to a regimen of fasting, coupled with increased chores and the sting of the lash. This will do wonders to clear the mists that can shroud one’s conscience.” He strides toward the exit and turns. “We shall see just what it takes to purge the evil from your young heart.”

  Then he’s gone.

  I wait a few minutes just to make sure it’s clear. Arrah must be wondering what’s taking me so long by now. Creeping from my hiding place, I slink back to my brother’s bed.

  He buries his head against my chest. “Please don’t go,” he whispers.

  “I’ll be back for you tomorrow, Cole. I promise,” I whisper back, tucking the sheet in around him like I always used to.

  I kiss his forehead and steal down, excited that I’ll soon take him far away from this hell.

  A few minutes later I’ve made my way through the maze of echoing hallways and staircases, folded my robe and hidden it just in case I need it again, and am back outside tramping through the snow, my breaths puffing out like bursts of exhaust as I rush to meet up with Arrah. All the while trying to formulate our escape plan.

  Late tonight, I’ll sneak out of my bunk at the Citadel and make contact with one of the barge operators at the port. He owes me a favor for freeing his brother from the mines in a railway crash I caused. Tomorrow, after the Ascension Ceremony, I’ll pick up Cole and we’ll hide aboard the ship. Once we’ve sailed beyond the Parish limits, we’ll debark and head west. I’ve saved enough money that we should be good for a while. Not what I had planned, but with Cole scheduled for this mysterious U.I.P. treatment instead of Haven, I have no choice.

  I turn into the alley, just in time to see a figure emerge from the shadows behind Arrah and reach out for her.

  “Arrah! Look out!” I sprint and leap, soaring through the air and crashing into them.

  Next thing I know, I’m rolling in a heap of tangled limbs, banging against trash bins, spinning in garbage. When we come to a stop, I’m straddling the figure beneath me.

  It’s a girl around my age. Fair-skinned, with brown hair strangled into a long braid. She’s clutching something in her hand and I snatch it from her.

  It’s a cluster of fake IDs. I’ve seen this before—she’s a Worm. Someone so desperate they’ll assume the identity of potential Recruits’ loved ones and risk dying as an Incentive, just to have enough money to survive. I’ll never forget the screams of the last Worm I encountered, begging for his life as that slobbering Canid tore him apart limb from limb.

  I turn away from the girl and look back at Arrah. “Are you okay?”

  Arrah’s face is rigid. “She came out of nowhere. I never saw … ”

  The girl’s face brims with desperation and fear. Her body is trembling.

  I can’t turn her in. The punishment for being a Worm is public execution. But if I let her go, Arrah will know.

  Cassius’s words taunt me. You’re no better than anyone else. No better than I am.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the girl.

  “Dru-s-illa,” she manages through quavering lips.

  I squeeze her shoulder. “You’re going to be all right, Drusilla.” I move off of her and help her to her feet.

  As much as it pains me, now all I can do is sneak up behind Arrah and knock her out. Incapacitate her long enough for the girl to get away. Then take my chances and blame it on a phantom attacker.

  We turn toward Arrah. “We’ll have to take her in,” I say, hating the thought of what I’m about to do to my fellow trainee.

  “Right,” Arrah responds, her face colder than the snowflakes in the gap between us.

  The girl tenses.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to her.

  She rips free and lunges toward Arrah—

  —who gathers her into her arms. The next thing I know, they’re cupping each other’s faces tenderly, kissing each other passionately.

  Arrah looks at me. “I’m sorry too.”

  I have just enough time to register the gleam of her firearm pointing at me before a loud blast rips through the air, flinging me backwards.

  The pain’s intense—

  Then nothing.

  eight

  Voices drift in and out of the smothering blackness.

  Why did you bring him here?...I panicked. Didn’t have much of a choice … Too bad you didn’t finish the job … Will he live? … It’s too late. He’s seen. He knows too much … He has to die …

  My eyes spring open. Harsh lights overload my vision, intensifying the throbbing in my head. I’m lying on a table of cold steel, each of my limbs manacled to its surface. Ignoring the aches, I struggle to pull free, but it’s no use and I slump back against the slab. The head of the table is elevated, and the glare of lights is making it difficult to distinguish my surroundings.

  From what I can see, the room I’m in is small and cramped. Low ceilings. Brick walls. A single arched door, iron by the look of it, lined with bolts and rivets. There’s a head-sized opening cut into it at eye level, complete with bars.

  A prison cell.

  Nothing as sleek or high-tech as those in the Citadel of Truth.

  A draft blows through the opening, carryi
ng cool air and the echo of murmuring voices. My head’s spinning, and not just from dizziness and pain.

  The loud clang of the bolt unlatching knifes through my senses, followed by a drawn-out creak of hinges as the door swings inward. I see her familiar silhouette imprinted on the door’s surface a moment before she enters.

  Arrah.

  She walks up to me but doesn’t say anything. She just stands there, expression unreadable but with the occasional tell of a twitch on her lips.

  I break the silence. “Come to make sure I was dead? Sorry to disappoint.”

  The resolve in her face fractures. “Lucian. It’s not like that.”

  I can’t help but let out a hollow laugh. “It certainly looks like that from where I’m lying.”

  She sighs, more like her old self again, whoever that really is. “If I’d wanted you dead we wouldn’t be having this discussion now. I purposely aimed at the awning right behind you, which collapsed and sent you smacking into the wall. Just some bruises, contusions, and a minor concussion. I’m a pretty decent shot. You’re the Fifth Tier, remember?”

  “Where am I?”

  “I can’t tell you. It’s … complicated.”

  I pull against the cuffs for her benefit. “It looks like I have the time.”

  The expression on her face turns grave. “Actually, you don’t. Not much, anyway.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She leans in closer and lowers her voice. “They’ll be coming to take you for questioning in a few minutes. Your fate depends on what you know—or don’t know.” She turns away. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into all of this, but I didn’t have a choice.”

  There’s always a choice.

  I shove Cassius’s words from my mind. “This is all tied into that girl, the one I tackled—Drusilla.” The image of them embracing and kissing comes back to me clearer than ever.

  She nods. “I couldn’t let you arrest her. We love each other. But no one in the Establishment must ever know or they’d use it against us. She’s up for Recruitment.”

  The irony of the situation almost makes me burst out laughing, if it weren’t for the pain in her face and the seriousness of it all.

  “Hate to break it to you, Arrah, but I never checked in with Valerian after our rounds. They’ll be looking for me.”

  She shakes her head. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she looks ashamed. “After bringing you here, I slipped back into the Citadel and used your log-in password to check you in, as well as a set of your fingerprints, which I took the liberty of lifting while you were knocked out. Since we’re both off duty for the remainder of the day, no one will miss you until tomorrow morning.”

  Now it all makes sense. The feeling that Arrah was hiding something from me. The fact that she’s so different from the other trainees. How she acted nervous earlier, like she was waiting for someone.

  No wonder Arrah attacked me. I would have done the exact same thing.

  “This place,” I say. “It’s a rebel safe house, isn’t it? You’re both part of the movement.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve already said enough. I’m sorry I can’t tell you any more.”

  Someone’s approaching down the hall. Several people, from the sound of it.

  Arrah’s palm presses against my cheek. “All I wanted was for them to treat your wound. I was going to try to make up a story. But you saw me with a gun. They think it’s too risky to let you go.”

  “They? The resistance leaders?” I ask as the approaching footsteps get louder. They’re almost right outside the cell. “Arrah, listen. I wasn’t going to arrest Drusilla. I was going to knock you out and let her go. Believe me. I swear!”

  “I want to believe you. I really do. But there’s too much at stake. The final decision’s not up to me.” She hesitates, her face a battlefield of conflicting emotions. “I’m so sorry, Spark. I think you’re okay. Even for a Fifth Tier.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  She leans in so close, I can feel her hot breath on my ear. “I’m not sure what your relationship to Digory Tycho was, but I suggest you think very carefully before you answer their questions about him.”

  The mention of Digory’s name triggers a geyser of adrenaline. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Before she can answer, the cell door bursts open and she moves away from me to join Drusilla in the corner. Four figures bustle in, all wearing black hoods over their heads. Three of these people keep their distance, while the one in the center approaches me. Male, by his shape and size. He pulls out a familiar object and dangles it in front of my face.

  My ID tags. Mine and Digory’s, the only tangible remnant of him I have left.

  “These were found in your possession after you were shot.” He speaks through an electronic modulator that disguises his voice.

  “What does Digory have to do with any of this? He’s … ” The word catches in my throat. “He’s dead.”

  Hoodie stuffs the silver tags back into his pocket. “It doesn’t matter. Any bloke associated with Digory Tycho, especially during the Trials, is suspect.”

  “Suspected of what?”

  “Being a traitor to the cause. Conspiring with the enemy.”

  “The enemy? You mean the Establishment, don’t you?”

  Hoodie tilts his head as if he’s puzzled. “Strange words coming from an Imp trainee.”

  I cock my head toward Arrah. “I don’t know about that. Maybe you can get our other trainee here to weigh in on the issue.”

  Arrah doesn’t say a word. She just stares hard, as if willing my mouth to remain shut.

  Hoodie ignores my sarcasm. “You were one of the four others recruited with Tycho. The only one who survived, to our knowledge. We need you to tell us how and why Tycho perished.”

  It’s all starting to make sense now. The last time I saw him, Digory told me how he and his husband Rafé, a fellow resistance fighter, had married as part of their plan to be each other’s Incentives and not put anyone else’s lives at risk during the Trials. Digory had sacrificed Rafé’s life, and his own, so that Cole and I would have a chance. But at what cost to his reputation? His tortured words still ring in my mind: We knew what we were getting into, what the risks were … but Cole’s just an innocent child …

  How would the resistance react if they knew Digory let one of their own die for personal reasons? Would they view Cole’s life as worth more than Rafé’s? Or would they view Digory’s decision as a betrayal of their cause, since Rafe’s survival as a rebel could be considered more important to the greater good?

  If I tell them that Digory did what he did out of love for me, they might not care about his reasons and harbor resentment at his choice. The truth could seal my own fate, and Cole’s fate as a result.

  But why would any of this matter now?

  Unless they, too, suspect he’s still alive and want justice.

  I shake my head, trying to maintain my composure and smother the emotions swirling inside me. “Look. I don’t know what it is that you’re after, but Digory died because he was a victim of the Trials, like we all were. I only wish there was some way I could have saved him—”

  The words slip out before I can reel them back in. I try to contain myself, but by the look in Hoodie’s eyes, which are growing wide behind the slits of his hood, I’ve failed miserably.

  “So you admit that you and Tycho got to be cobbers during the Trials, did you? Perhaps even closer? Was he secretly working for the Prime Minister? Following orders from the Prefect? Tell us what you know.”

  I look deep into Hoodie’s eyes without so much as a blink. “I don’t know anything, except that Digory was horrified by the atrocities we saw committed during the Trials. He seemed like one of the most decent and compassionate human beings I’ve ever met.” I choke back the rip
tide of emotion crashing against the walls of my chest. I have to be strong.

  Hoodie doesn’t break my gaze. “So how did Tycho supposedly cark it?”

  Splinters of memory embed themselves deep in my skin, tearing through, leaving gaping wounds. “The three of us remaining Recruits were infected with a virus. There were only a limited number of antidotes. Digory was trying to get the last one so he could save his husband’s life.” Hoodie seems to tense at these words. “I … ” I take a deep breath. “I beat Digory to the last one and … left him there alone to die.”

  And left a part of myself with him to die, too.

  “So why were you wearing his ID tag?” Hoodie finally asks.

  For the first time during this little interview, I feel like I can finally be a hundred percent honest.

  “Digory had no other family that I know of. It wouldn’t be right if he were forgotten.”

  Hoodie is silent for the next minute or so. Then he proceeds

  to barrage me with questions for the next thirty minutes. Or is it an hour? Two? It’s hard to tell. I’m emotionally drained and physically exhausted. He grills me regarding Imposer troop movements, security protocols, weapon caches—but I can sense it’s more of a formality at this point. I don’t have any vital information to give them, and they know it.

  Finally, Hoodie turns and huddles with his companions, muttering and whispering out of earshot. At one point I hear him tell the others, “If we do this, it’ll make us just like those mongrels.”

  My eyes find Arrah, her hands entwined with Drusilla’s, her expression grave. We both know what’s coming next. A heavy cloak of silence drapes over the motley assembly.

  Then Hoodie surprises me by tearing off his hood, revealing the handsome face of a young man close to my age, with pale skin stretched over high cheekbones and an angular jaw. His long wavy brown hair is pulled back and tied. He clears his throat.

  The fact that he’s letting me see his face can only mean one thing.

  His charcoal eyes pierce right through me. “A decision has been reached. You are to be executed immediately.”