RACHELLE CRESTED the dune that overlooked the Horde camp when the sun was halfway up the eastern sky.
Find Thomas, Justin had said. The words had haunted Rachelle as she stumbled over the sand. No matter how terrible, he had said. What could possibly be so terrible?
She ran down the dune toward the Horde camp. In all truth her spirit soared. Yes, Thomas was in the Horde camp, their virtual prisoner, and yes, there was danger on every side—she could feel it like the sun on her back.
But she’d found Elyon! Justin was the boy; she was sure of it. He’d changed her skin from gray to flesh tone, and he’d healed her wounds with a single word. Elyon had come to save his people! She couldn’t wait to tell Thomas.
She understood that Monique had made a connection with her. What Monique was doing now, she had no clue. Unlike Thomas, who seemed to have an awareness of both worlds at all times, her and Monique’s connection was apparently sporadic and depended on Thomas.
Rachelle began to yell when she was still two hundred yards out, before anyone had seen her. Whatever happened, she couldn’t risk them misunderstanding her intentions as hostile.
“Thomas! I need to see Thomas of Hunter!”
She must have screamed it a dozen times before the first soldiers appeared at the perimeter. And then there were a hundred of them, staring out at the strange sight. This unarmed woman screaming in from the desert, demanding to see Thomas of Hunter.
She pulled up panting, twenty paces from the line of ugly beasts.
“I’ve been sent to speak to Thomas of Hunter. It’s urgent I see him.”
They stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. And why would they ever agree to let her see him? Thomas was their insurance.
“What business do you have?” one of them demanded.
“I am here because my lord needs me,” she said, remembering what Thomas had told her about the way the Horde women spoke of the men. Several seemed stunned by her request. Was something wrong with Thomas?
“I am here to ensure that nothing is wrong with him. I am sent by our Council to know that he’s in good health.”
The Scab who’d assumed charge scowled. “Be gone, you wench! Tell your commander that we don’t accept spies.”
Rachelle panicked. “Then Mikil will cut Qurong’s throat!” she screamed.
That set them back.
“If you turn me back, I will go straight to them and tell them that you’ve betrayed them, and Qurong will die. If I don’t return in good health myself, then the same will happen. So don’t think of hurting me.”
The leader, a general by his sash, studied her for a moment. “Wait here.”
He backed away, conferred with several other warriors, sent one of them off with a message, then returned.
“Follow me.”
She entered the camp surrounded by a small army. The smell was hardly tolerable, and so many shrouded eyes peering at her made her skin crawl. She tried to breathe in shallow pulls, but it only made her dizzy. So she breathed deeply and forced her mind from the stench.
No women that she could see. Naturally, the Horde didn’t allow their women to fight. She couldn’t bear to look the men in the eyes, but she refused to look any less than a warrior herself, so she walked tall and straight, praying that she would be directed at the next possible moment into a tent to see Thomas.
They led her to a large tent in the middle of the camp. If she was right, this was the royal tent where Thomas had found the Books of Histories.
A guard parted the front flaps and she stepped in. The general who met her was named Woref, if she understood the guards correctly. His eyes had the look of a snake, and his face looked as though it might crack if he tried to smile.
“Where’s Thomas?”
“We did nothing to him. You should know this. His wounds are self-inflicted.”
“What wounds? Take me to him!”
He dipped his head and led her down a hallway. The serpentine bat they worshiped was everywhere—decorative paintings on the walls, molded statues in the corners. Teeleh. Elyon, protect me. They entered a large room where a half-dozen guards stood at the ready. A long table was spread with an array of fruits and wines and cheeses.
But where—
A body lay on a cushion along one of the walls. The head was bloody.
Thomas? Yes, it was him; she recognized his tunic immediately. He was wounded!
Rachelle ran over to him, dropped to her knees, and stared in horror at a round hole the size of her finger in his head. Blood had run into his hair. Dried.
“Thomas?”
But he was dead. Dead! And by the looks of him, he had been dead for some time.
She couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t possible! No, this couldn’t be happening! Justin had found her, and she had just been saved, and Samuel and Marie were still children, and . . .
What could have made this kind of wound? No weapon of this world.
Something had happened to Thomas in the other reality. She recalled that Monique had been sleeping next to him under the boulder. Carlos must have found them! Now Thomas was dead. But she was still alive!
The thoughts drummed through her head painfully. Her heart didn’t feel like it was moving. And behind her the Scabs were staring.
She spun around. “Out! Get out!” she screamed. Her vision was clouded with the pain. “Leave!”
The general scowled but left her alone with the body.
Rachelle sank slowly to her knees, knowing precisely what she had to do. Elyon had told her to find Thomas, not this dead body. Justin had healed her from near death. He carried the power of the fruit in his hands, they said, because he was the power of the fruit.
And now she would use that same power.
She rested both hands on his cheeks. Her tears fell on his face. “Wake up, Thomas,” she whispered. “Thomas, please.”
But he didn’t wake up.
Now her voice rose to a soft wail. “Please, please. Save him, Elyon. Wake him from the dead.”
Waking from the dead isn’t like healing.
“Yes, it is!” she shouted. “Wake up, Thomas! Wake up!”
But he still didn’t wake up. There was still a hole in his forehead. He was still dead.
She kissed his cold lips and began to sob. What if Justin didn’t know he was dead? No, that was impossible. “Wake up,” she cried again, slapping his face. “Wake up!”
Justin had to know. He knew everything. They didn’t know; they didn’t even remember—
Remember me. Remember my water.
His water. She frantically grasped the canteen still hooked to Thomas’s belt. Pulled it free from the clip. Spun off the cap.
She splashed some on his face before she’d really thought it through. The clear liquid ran over his lips and his eyes and filled the small wound on his forehead.
She dumped more on. “Please, please, please . . .”
Thomas’s mouth suddenly jerked open.
Rachelle cried out and jumped back. The canteen flew from her hands.
Thomas gasped. The wound closed, as if his skin was formed of wax that had melted to fill itself in. She had seen nothing like it for fifteen years, when she chose Thomas by healing him of the deadly wounds he’d suffered in the black forest.
Thomas’s eyes opened.
Rachelle lifted both hands to her lips to stifle a cry of joy. Then she threw her arms around him and buried her face in his throat.
“Get off me, get off me, you . . .”
He didn’t know who she was! She lifted her head so that he could see her face. “It’s me, Thomas!”
She kissed him on the lips. “Me. You remember my mouth if not my face.”
“What . . . where are we?” He struggled up.
“Be quiet; they’re outside,” she whispered. “We’re in the Horde camp.”
He jumped to his feet. The blood was still on his face, but his wound was gone. She could hardly take her eyes off his forehead.
“You were dead,” she said. “But Elyon’s water healed you.”
“His water heals again? I . . . how is that—”
“No, I don’t think his water’s changed. I think he just used it to heal you. Justin is the boy, Thomas.”
He lifted a hand to his hair, felt the blood, looked at his fingers. “I was shot. But I didn’t dream. I don’t have any memory of a dream.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his head. What was it like coming back to life? Hopefully he was putting the pieces of his memory back in place.
“What do you mean, Justin is the boy?”
“I mean he’s him. Don’t you see? The signs were all there. He’s come—”
“He can’t be Elyon. He grew up in the Southern Forest. He was a warrior under my command!”
They were whispering, but loudly.
“And who’s to say that he’s not Elyon? I saw him—”
“No! It’s not possible! I know when I see—”
“Stop it, Thomas!”
He stared at her, mouth still open, ready to finish his statement of disbelief. He clamped his jaw shut.
She told him what had happened in the desert. She hurried through the events in a whisper, and when she was finished, he just looked at her, face white.
“And I just saved you with his power. How dare you question me?”
“But Elyon? I fought Elyon?”
“He’s come to save us from ourselves, just like he said he would, when we didn’t think it could get any worse.”
“I . . .” He turned from her. “Oh my God. My dear, dear God, Elyon! I’ve betrayed him!”
“We all did. And he beat you handily.”
“No, with Johan!”
She pulled him around by the arm. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I struck an agreement with Johan that would make Johan the king of the Horde.”
“So—”
“So he insisted that he betray both Qurong and Justin. I . . . I agreed.”
These words weren’t making sense to her. How could anyone betray Justin now? “But once they know that Justin is Elyon, there won’t be any such thing.”
“It’s already started! They are due to reach the forest late this afternoon and work the betrayal. Mikil has informed the Council. Johan intends to kill Justin.”
It was suddenly clear to her. Qurong and Johan were influenced by the Shataiki. By Teeleh. They were being used as the creature’s instrument against Justin. This wasn’t only about the Forest People; it was about Justin!
“We have to stop them!”
Thomas looked around frantically. “How many are outside?”
As if in answer, the flap parted and the general Woref stepped inside. His eyes flashed at the sight of Thomas standing.
Her husband walked toward the man. “Which one of your men tried to kill me?” he demanded.
“None.”
Thomas moved quickly. He leaped for the Scab’s sword, yanked it free from its scabbard, and ran for the far wall. “Hurry!”
He swung the blade over his head and down, parting the wall from top to bottom, opening it to daylight. He ripped the cut wide and held the sword out to stop the general.
“You follow and you die,” he said, and then stepped through the tear into the passageway between the tents. They had already started through the camp before the stunned general gave the alarm.
“The horses!” Thomas yelled, pointing to several that were tied to the side of the tent. They both swung onto a horse. Then they were galloping out of the camp, dodging Scab warriors taken completely off guard by the two horses.
No one tried to stop them—naturally, they’d probably been strictly instructed not to touch Thomas of Hunter. Only the general, and probably now his men, knew what was really happening. It might not have made a difference anyway. The horses outran any words of warning.
They galloped from the Horde’s camp straight toward the distant forest.
“Can we make it?” she demanded.
He rode hard just ahead, leaning forward, face drawn.
“Thomas!”
“I don’t know!” Thomas snapped. He slapped his horse, coaxing every last ounce of strength from its fresh legs. “Hiyaa!”
The general from whom Thomas and Rachelle had escaped stared out at the dunes that led to the forest. Woref, head of military intelligence, despised the Forest Guard perhaps more than he hated Qurong.
He played the loyal general, but under his pain, not a day went by that he didn’t curse the father of the woman who would one day be his. Qurong had forbidden any man from marrying his daughter, Chelise, until the forests had fallen. It was the leader’s way of motivating a dozen senior-ranking generals who vied for her hand. If the decision had been left to Woref, they would have burned the forests long ago, then killed every last woman and child who bathed in the lakes and feasted on their flesh for the victory. But Qurong seemed more interested in conquering and enslaving than killing.
“Do we give chase?” his aide asked.
“No,” Woref said. They had planned for this contingency. As long as Thomas was delayed by four or more hours, he would be too late. The western army would march.
He glanced at the sun. “Prepare the men to march at nightfall. We are going into the forest.”
By week’s end, the daughter of Qurong, Chelise, would be his. And then he would look to become Qurong himself.