Authors: Kaleb Nation
An Angel in the Desert
Thomas drove for two days, only stopping for a few hours of rest each night, pulling off the road and laying the seats back. He and Bran rarely spoke until the last evening.
“A few more miles, I would guess,” Thomas said. The road had taken them far out of the city, into a desert-like place with rocks and cactus and great hills of sand that blocked most of what was beyond. The sun had started to set, so that Thomas had to turn on the headlights as they drove. Where the hills sloped down, Bran could see the faint glow of a city far off to the west.
“Dansby,” Thomas said, when he saw Bran looking. “We’re actually closer to Dunce than we were in East Dinsmore, in a roundabout way.”
“Maybe I should stop by home,” Bran said. “Grab some snacks.”
“Or more bullets,” Thomas suggested.
“You need more?” Bran asked.
“A man can never have too many bullets,” Thomas declared. “Nor can he have too many firearms on his person at one time.”
“You plan on starting a war?” Bran asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” Thomas said. “But I’ll be able to finish one, if need be.”
“You think there’ll be a war sometime soon?”
“There will be a war,” Thomas replied after a deep breath, all sarcasm gone.
“And you know this for a fact?” Bran asked.
“Assuredly,” Thomas nodded. “It will be a war unlike any this world has seen. All of nature seems to be preparing for it. And those like you, who rely on magic, will wish they had been as those like me, who rely on things not.”
Bran did not know whether to take that as an insult or a warning, or just Thomas being less than serious, as he commonly seemed to be.
“And here we are,” Thomas said, removing any chance Bran had of pressing him further. Bran looked out the window and saw that they had come to a dip in the road with rocky sides. The road cut straight through, but Thomas stopped before the stones and pulled off the road.
“A few miles off that way is where it’ll be,” he said.
“We’re going to walk?” Bran asked.
“I’d prefer to call it hiking,” Thomas replied. So Bran climbed out of the car with his backpack, and Thomas walked around to open the trunk. He first took out a backpack of his own and then heaved a large wooden crate out, setting it gently onto the ground. There were two long ropes attached in a loop to the sides of the box and small ski-like protrusions at the bottom so that it would slide easily. Thomas put his pack on, wrapped the ropes over his shoulder, and started to drag the crate behind him.
“This way,” he said as he slammed the trunk. And so Bran and his father started off into the sands, toward the light of the setting sun.
The day had worn on; the air around them cooler than Bran expected. He didn’t think that this place could actually be considered a desert, more a very rocky and sandy place, which is very close to the definition of a desert anyway. Bran debated with himself on whether it was a desert or not until he felt silly. The sand and the rocks got old and boring very quickly, especially when both got into his shoes.
They trudged ahead with Thomas leading the way. Bran was thankful that his backpack held so few things, because Thomas’s seemed to be rather full, though the man showed no sign of complaint. The crate slid lightly over the sand like a sled.
“What’s in the crate?” Bran asked.
“My sins,” replied the man amusedly, as the weight of it dragged behind him.
“Is that why it’s so heavy?” Bran asked. Thomas regarded Bran with a raised eyebrow.
“Unbearably so.” He heaved it forward. They stepped over rocks and came to high pillars of dark gray stone, made rough from sandstorms and wind. Thomas navigated around them, leading them straight on toward the sun, which was now only a tiny line on the horizon. Nim flittered back and forth until her curiosity about every lizard and fly was satisfied.
“Will you know the way when the sun goes down?” Bran said.
“No, we’ll be hopelessly lost,” Thomas replied. “And perhaps eaten by desert ronchins.”
“But I hear they prefer to eat adults over teenagers,” Bran said, having no clue what a desert ronchin was, but his father’s sarcasm was beginning to annoy him.
“Actually, they eat sand,” Thomas said, pulling the crate forward. “Suck it up through their snout like water through a straw. Such a curiosity.”
“Are you just making this up as you go along?” Bran said skeptically.
“Why would I make up a thing like that?” Thomas said, faking hurt.
“I don’t know,” Bran said, trudging along. “I can’t ever tell when you’re lying or telling the truth.”
“Oh, my poor aching heart,” Thomas said, putting his fist to his chest as if he were holding a knife. “You always think the worst of me.”
“Give me a reason to think otherwise,” Bran said.
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Thomas said plainly. “I could have shot and killed you a thousand times already in that car. Or I could have mixed in some uldiah leaf with your food and watched you burn up from the inside until you went mad.”
“Would you actually do that?” Bran asked.
“Would you do it to me?” Thomas replied.
“You thought about poisoning your own son?”
“Twice,” Thomas replied bluntly.
“Why in the world would any sane human even think to do that?” Bran said, astonished.
“Consider that ending your life might be showing you a bit of mercy from the things to come. You also have an uncanny ability to stay alive in places no one else would last for minutes, despite you being rather naïve.”
“If by naïve you mean ‘never once considering shooting and poisoning your father,’” Bran said, “then by all counts I am guilty. Though I’m slowly reconsidering.”
“I shall get you a sin crate, then,” Thomas said. “You can start filling it.”
They said no more to each other. They had come to a hill where the ground became very rocky, and the crate kept getting caught on stones. They pushed on over the bumpy way until they could see down into the vast valley below. It was dotted by cactus that threw long shadows from the tiny prick of sun that still remained. There was a large cleared area straight below them—and in the middle of the sand rested statue.
Bran’s eyes almost passed over it entirely, because it blended in with the rocks. It was an angel, its outspread wings carved with incredible detail, its eyes cast up toward the sky. The statue’s arms stretched high above its head, its hands clenching a long sword, as if in victory over an enemy. Thomas did not stop his pace, and as they approached, Bran saw that the worn statue was nearly double his height and that the base of it was buried in a solid stone foundation.
“And there it is,” Thomas said, wiping his brow and gesturing ahead. “They called him Iro.”
“Who called him that?” Bran asked.
“The Ancients,” Thomas replied. “He’d come alive and talk to them.”
Bran looked at Thomas.
“All right, I made that part up,” Thomas relented. “I’m not sure what he is, besides being called Iro.”
Bran waved toward it. “Well, we have a statue. Where’s the temple?”
“That’s it,” Thomas replied.
“That small?” Bran said. “Were the Ancients related to ants?”
Thomas shook his head and moved for the wooden crate. He fished around in his backpack and dug out a long crowbar, placing its flat edge between the lid and the box and heaving against it.
“Letting them out to air?” Bran said.
“Sins do get a bit musty after a while,” Thomas replied. The lid cracked off and fell into the sand, exposing the box’s contents: long rows of packages wrapped in black paper.
“Take two and go set them over there in the sand,” Thomas said. “Not close to the statue though.”
“Over here?” Bran asked, a few feet away from the statue.
“Goodness, no,” Thomas said. “Way out there. No point in ruining it.”
“Ruin it?” Bran said. “What is this stuff?”
“They’re bombs,” Thomas said. Bran nearly dropped them right out of his arms.
“Bombs?!” he exclaimed.
“Don’t worry,” Thomas called to him. “You’re perfectly safe cradling them close to vital body parts and limbs. They’re disarmed, I think.”
“You think?” Bran said, and he held the devices out a bit from himself, until he had walked about twenty paces from the statue. Thomas, carrying three of the devices, trudged past, and Bran followed until they were far from it.
“Here’s the spot,” he said, lining the devices up in a circle and then adjusting them so that they were in line with the pointed shadow from the statue’s sword. “Now move back over behind those rocks there. I’ve got to put the wires all together to the remote, and sometimes they go off randomly.”
Bran did not need any more urging to get out of the way, and he stepped behind the rocks to watch as Thomas connected the explosives together. He then trudged toward Bran, a small remote in his hands.
“And what’s the point of blowing up the sand?” Bran asked.
“It’s in the way,” Thomas said. “Messy stuff. We can work far easier without it.”
“But isn’t the temple over there?” Bran said with irritation, pointing toward the statue. Without warning, Thomas pressed the button, and a giant explosion rocked the desert, throwing Bran against the ground. Sand and dirt burst into the air, mixed with smoke and a blast of flame and heat. It was over in seconds, but the debris continued to rain, so that Bran covered his head with his hands while his ears rang.
“What are you thinking?!” Bran shouted, but he couldn’t even hear himself.
“Sorry, Bran,” Thomas said. “My finger must have slipped around the time you started getting snarky. Apologies.”
Thomas tossed the remote into his backpack, unaffected by the blast that had illuminated the now darkened skies. All the sound and smoke drifted away quickly, though the dust was reluctant to settle. Thomas waved it out of his face as he started toward where the explosives had been placed, so Bran drew the top of his jacket over his mouth and followed him.
“Careful,” Thomas said. “It’s still crumbling.”
He gestured ahead, and through the dust Bran saw a gaping, black hole. The surrounding sand poured into the hole like water. Bran peered closer and saw that around the hole were the jagged edges of flat, white stone, entirely in contrast to the rest of the desert.
“Is that a door?” Bran said.
“A roof,” Thomas replied. “The roof of the temple, over which you are now standing. At some point in time it was above ground. But that was many years ago. It has since been buried beneath these sands.”
“And the statue?” Bran asked.
“It stands on the edge of the temple roof,” Thomas replied. “Do you have your map?”
Bran, still so dazed from Thomas’s revelations, drew the two pieces out with no hesitation. Thomas took both of them and arranged them with his and the one they had gotten from Elspeth to show the full map together. He took out a magnifying glass and clicked on his flashlight.
“Now, here’s something you need to know about this map,” Thomas said. “These arrows are the ones you want to follow. But the maze doesn’t really look like it does here, because, see these?”—he gestured to the red dots—“Those are transora.”
“And what’s that?” Bran asked.
“I’m not quite sure how to explain transora,” Thomas said, looking into the sky and scratching his head. “Just be careful, when you’re following this map, to only step on the dots with the arrows. Because, as you can see, there are many others here to which the arrows do not point. I assume those are traps and will perhaps lead to your body colliding at rapid speed into a stone wall, splattering your bones and internal organs across some tunnel.”
“It might be fun to become wall art,” Bran said as Thomas and he moved for the hole.
“Save that for when you’re home,” Thomas replied, giving him the pieces of the map and the magnifying glass. “And after I’ve killed two individuals assuredly heading this way.”
Bran turned to look toward the gaping crack in the ground.
“You still up to going?” Thomas asked.
“Haven’t got a choice,” Bran replied, cautiously stepping closer to the edge.
“Then take my flashlight,” Thomas offered, holding it out. “Least you can do is see.”
Bran smiled but reached into his backpack instead and drew out his mother’s wand.
“Suit yourself,” Thomas said. And Bran turned from him to the hole and leapt through into the dark.
The Labyrinth of the Temple
Bran’s feet touched softly on the ground, his powers cushioning him as he landed in a crouch at the bottom. He was surrounded by darkness so black that he couldn’t see his own hands in front of him. He felt Nim still holding tight to his jacket, and he held out his mother’s wand, pushing his powers through it for light. The grooves in the wand began to shine with a pulsing white glow; his magic was washing along and filling the recesses. The darkness that surrounded him was vanquished, so that he could see the vast, towering hall he had entered.
As he looked up he couldn’t help but feel dizzy as he peered through the opening in the ceiling and saw the world far above his head. He tore his gaze from the ceiling and looked again at the room. It was made entirely of white stone with eleven giant pillars supporting the ceiling—five on each side and the eleventh in the center of the room at the back. The floor was stone as well, white against the walls but then changing to a deep blue that ran like a carpet from the center of the room where Bran stood toward the front of the temple.
Bran pushed more power into the wand so that the light increased and he could see where the blue floor led. At the far end of the room, towering so high that it nearly scraped the domed ceiling, was an enormous statue. It was of a human—Bran could not tell its gender—made of white marble, leaning forward precariously so that it loomed over the room. Out of its back were giant wings like that of an angel that touched the walls on both sides of the room and covered the front of the hall like a shield. It was so smooth and cut to such perfection that he could see the very ridges of the statue’s robes, and its eyes were staring down at Bran with a serene gaze of comfort.
It was difficult for Bran to look away from the eyes of the statue, and although cut from stone, the face was enthralling. Bran’s eyes slid down the robes of the statue to the base where the image became a solid and smooth stone foundation, and there, embedded in the bottom, was an open passageway.
He had been rooted in the same spot since he had leapt through the roof, and now as he stepped forward he found it difficult at first, and he kept glancing at the face high above his head. It seemed that no matter how many steps he took, the eyes still seemed to be gazing at him with a peaceful expression.
As Bran came closer, the floor beneath him began to glimmer with tiny inset crystals. It was rather dazzling to see them light up in the dark, and the closer he got to the door, the more densely gathered the crystals became, so that the ground sparkled blue and white with every step he took. The air did not seem stuffy at all but felt cold and fresh. Bran looked up as he walked in silence, at the stone wings that formed an arch over his head.
“That must have taken someone years of work,” he said to Nim, partially because the absolute silence was beginning to make him uneasy. Nim, who had been clinging to his shoulder, hovered away a few inches, looking around with a mixture of curiosity and fear as her wings beat softly. Bran wondered what the purpose of the temple was as there didn’t appear to be any altar nor any sign of religious worship, only the floor that pointed to the statue, which protected the door. As he came up to the opening, he held the wand outward hesitantly to light whatever was beyond.
It was even darker through the opening than it was in the hall. The entrance went straight about three paces and then dropped down into a narrow, stone stairway. Bran stood at the top and counted eleven steps exactly, and at the bottom he saw a scarlet cloth hanging from the ceiling, covering whatever was beyond.
The cloth looked new and had a thick border of some tougher, yellow material that held it straight. Bran could not help feeling afraid as he saw the cramped stairway, but he also realized that he was stepping somewhere that few had entered in decades—perhaps even millennia. He looked down to the pieces of paper he clutched in his hand, and though he saw no marking on it of the temple or the door, he knew that he must pass through this curtain.
His steps down were slow and careful, though each time his foot struck against a lower step, he felt a deepening sensation of tranquility he could not explain. By the time he reached the bottom, a strange confidence filled him.
Thus, when he reached the curtain, he had no hesitation in brushing it aside. As his hand touched it, he saw that there were words inset in the design that he had not seen before. He held his light out so that he could read them.
though pure of soul shall feel at peace,
in wicked hearts shall fears increase.
Bran pondered the words and why they might have been placed there, though he did not let them disturb him and stepped through.
He found himself in a circular room that domed above his head like an inverted bowl. The ceiling here was low and covered with yellow chalk and there were markings all around the wall. The chalk images had faded and become blurry. In the center of the room was a single hanging lamp with a chain that held it suspended at the level of Bran’s waist, with a wick and oil.
“
Feiro
,” Bran commanded absently, waving his hand at the light, and it began to burn. Its light was very dim, however, so Bran did not extinguish the wand but was free to hold it lower as he looked around the room.
The floor was decorated with a set of three circles, each inside a larger one. It resembled a galaxy: the outermost circle was dotted with white stars against a blue background, the next looked like the moon, and the innermost was a fiery yellow and red sun. The lamp hung in the center of the sun, with five branching arms each holding an unlit candle in one of the missiv colors of red, purple, green, blue, and finally solid black. A small stone was suspended above each by a thin wire, matching the color of each candle. Inky symbols he could not read circled on the ground below it. At the far end of the room, spread out evenly, were six doors that drew Bran’s immediate attention.
He lifted the papers in his hand again, and Nim came closer as he held them toward the lamp and studied the tiny marks. He could not see them at all, so he brought the magnifying glass out and looked closer. And there, at the beginning of the map, he saw marks for six doors and the first arrow pointing to the third door.
“This way,” he said to Nim, though she had already followed his eyes and flew ahead. Bran grabbed her from the air, noticing that the arrow pointed straight to a red dot.
“Stay here with me,” he whispered. “I don’t know what this thing’ll do once I step in it.”
Nim understood, because she crawled into his jacket pocket and held on. When Bran looked down at her, he saw the gnome-hat key ring still dangling from the zipper of his jacket, and he thought about what Gary might be doing then—but it was a sad thought, and he pushed it from his mind. He approached the third door and held the wand up into the dark.
His shoes made scraping noises as he shuffled forward slowly in case there were more stairs. He pushed more power into the wand again to feed its fading glow, and he saw that the passage went on farther than he could see, widening the moment he passed through the doorway into some type of tunnel that curled up at an angle. It was very rocky and rough there, as if the builders had simply stopped and left the stones as they were. However, he noticed a solid red chalk circle.
“Here we go, Nim,” Bran said, taking a deep breath as he looked down at the circle an inch from his shoe. He stepped onto it, and the moment his foot touched the circle, he was wrenched from his feet and thrown through the air.
Bran shouted in alarm. The rocky tunnel wound in circles, up and down and in every direction possible, so that Bran was thrown tumbling uncontrollably until he couldn’t tell what was up and what was down anymore. He shouted as his body twisted and turned, unable to fight the force that pulled him magically through the passage at a dizzying speed. He managed to right himself so he was facing forward as he flew. His heart leapt every time the forces seemed to bring him dangerously close to the rock walls, until suddenly he was deposited onto the ground.
His body slowed the split second before his landing so he wasn’t squashed against the rocks. He tumbled forward but sprang to his feet, grabbing the wand from where he had dropped it.
“Drop me a bit harder next time,” he grumbled back at the tunnel. “You didn’t manage to break any bones.”
He checked to make sure Nim was in one piece. She was, though dizzy.
“You’re all right,” Bran consoled her, turning so that the wand could light up the new location. It was hardly more than a small, enclosed room underground, like a tiny pocket of a cave deep below the surface. There were three openings carved out of this place, and Bran’s light revealed that there were also three corresponding red dots on the map.
“We’re headed the right way,” Bran said, feeling excitement begin to rise inside him. He felt as if he were getting close to Astara, so close to everything he had worked toward. He looked at his map, and though it did not mark the length of the previous transora—showing it as merely a straight tunnel, which was hardly accurate as he had discovered—he saw the arrows pointing to the right-most tunnel passage. So he moved for it and again was lifted off his feet.
He was ready for it this time and was able to keep his body from turning as the forces seized him and launched him forward like a rocket. He had no sense of distance as he flew through the rugged tunnels, although it felt like nearly a mile or more, winding and twisting up and then down, taking him far from where he had started. He didn’t consider how he might get back; all his thoughts were focused on how close he was to reaching the Specters.
He got to the end of that transora and found himself in yet another room, just as rocky as the previous. He had no trouble finding the correct passage through this one and again was sent flying through the tunnel. He did this three more times, following the map closely, until finally, passing through the last, he was dropped through the air and hit the hard floor of the final room at the map’s end.
When he struck the ground, his grip on the wand was lost, so that it clattered beside him and the light went out. He rolled over, searching for it with his hands, which were lit with a soft, green light. Grasping his mother’s wand, Bran slowly turned his gaze.
He was sitting in the middle of a cave that was larger and higher than he had ever thought possible. It seemed to go for hundreds if not thousands of feet in every direction from him, with stalagmites and stalactites so tall and wide that they might have been great redwood trees, some nearly connecting the floor to the ceiling like supports. The stone floor stretched ahead of him, stopping at a giant pool of water that separated Bran from the other end. The green light emanated from the other side of that pool—a glow so dim and yet so prevailing that despite the vastness of the place, Bran could see everything.
A wall made entirely made of crystal, like a towering stained-glass window, loomed before him. Its green light reflected on the water like a mirror, but what startled Bran the most was beyond the wall. For there, held captive behind its translucent surface, were the faces of thousands of people looking back at him.