"I'm afraid he couldn't take it again," she said.
"He's not in the teaching."
She was surprised by his certainty. "How do you know?"
"Because the teaching only frightens those who believe, not those who've learned the truth. They've seen the messages, the tool to disable the trees, the communicator. They know we've been to the-"
Her hand flashed. She pressed two fingers to his lips and shook her head.
"There may be ways to listen. Secret places should remain that way."
Boot steps echoed in the corridor outside. They came and passed, but no one entered. Orah listened long after they were gone, staring at the door, pressing it shut with her eyes. When it was quiet again, she turned to Nathaniel.
"Will he tell?"
"He might. He told before."
Orah picked at the melting wax from a candle on the tabletop, molding it into a figurine. When it was finished and before it hardened, she placed her thumb on its head and pressed downward until nothing was left but a splotch.
"He won't tell," she said. "I know it."
"How?"
She turned from the candle to the ceiling and sniffed the stale air, then looked back at Nathaniel.
"Because I know him, my friend since birth."
***
The arch vicar waited for the boy to be brought in. The others had earned the consequences. The boy was different. His teaching almost a year before had revealed no strong beliefs other than loyalty to his friends. When he finally came to the light, he was broken. The arch vicar loathed that part of his role, but for hundreds of years, such methods had kept the darkness away.
The darkness. Always there, always ready to return. These young people knew nothing of the forces they might unleash.
The door opened. Deacons dragged the boy in, supporting him under the arms so only the toes of his boots grazed the floor. The arch vicar waved his hand to release the captive, but immediately regretted it when the boy slumped to the floor in a heap. He stepped out from behind the desk and stroked the boy's head.
"Thomas. Can you hear me?" With the tip of one finger, he lifted the boy's chin. "The Temple has a crisis and needs you. No one will hurt you. No more teachings or darkness cell. But I need your help."
The young man nodded, though his eyes darted everywhere as if unable to focus. The arch vicar resumed his place behind the desk and shook off an offer from a deacon to raise the boy to his feet.
He waited for the boy to compose himself, then used the voice of authority he'd been taught in the seminary.
"Thomas of Little Pond," he boomed. "Where have you been?"
The boy began to sob.
The arch vicar lowered his voice. "Thomas, can you hear me?"
He nodded.
"Are you willing to defend the light?"
He nodded again.
"Let me hear you say it."
The voice was hoarse. "I'm willing to defend the light."
"Then tell me where you and your friends have been."
The eyes rolled around, the body trembled. Not a young man now, but a boy. Not a boy, but a child. Finally, he steadied himself.
"To the keep, holiness."
The muscles in the arch vicar's jaw tensed and released. It was true. The keep. How often he'd dreamed about its wonders and the knowledge it might offer. But he, like the others of his race, could not be trusted with that knowledge. If it was found, he'd send others too ignorant to know what it contained. Let them destroy it and the temptation would be gone forever.
But first, how far dare he go with the boy?
"Thank you, Thomas. Now I need one more thing from you." He let the boy's panic subside. "Tell me how to get to the keep?"
Too much. The boy doubled over as if he'd been kicked in the stomach, his forehead welding itself to the floor.
The arch vicar went to the boy again. His knees creaked as he knelt on the floor beside him.
"I'm your friend, Thomas, and will do what I can for you. But you must tell me where the keep is."
"I don't know holiness," the boy protested between sobs. "I never knew where we were going. They blindfolded me at crossroads. No teachings, holiness, I beg you." Then, looking up in a panic, trying to give something to save himself: "There was a mountain, waterfalls, a cave. They blindfolded me. We walked for weeks. Maybe north. Maybe west. No teachings, holiness. It's all I know."
Enough for now. Was he telling the truth? His friends knew he'd betrayed them and may not have trusted him. But how to know for sure? Only his friends could confirm the story or reveal the lie. It was why he'd kept them apart.
***
The arch vicar had struggled against the darkness for forty years and would keep on until his dying breath, but he was weary of the younger vicars. In varying degrees, they believed in the light, but many were more interested in power. The questioning began before he'd settled into his chair.
"Have they been to the keep, holiness?"
"Of course they've been to the keep. Where else would they have obtained such technology?"
He studied the faces. Someone in this room had betrayed him to the council.
"But will they tell where it is?"
He opened a folder on the table and read but found nothing to change his mind.
"Thomas Bradford broke down in his teaching and gave the names of his friends. They had reason to mistrust him. The boy is either unstable or extraordinarily clever. He may be the most likely to reveal the secret, if he knows it. But the boy seems terrified. If there's a chance to gain the secret from him, the best way is with kindness."
The new monsignor's hand shot up, but he began speaking before being recognized. Civility was lost on the younger vicars.
"But holiness, the keep is the heart of the darkness. I know these children from Little Pond. We should use all force to get the location."
The arch vicar's black eyes had served him well in exercising authority. He leveled them now on the younger man.
"And would you violate the precepts to get it?"
The monsignor blinked and backed down, but the arch vicar knew the answer. He'd violate the precepts if he sat in this chair.
"The Temple is best served by treating him well. He'll be given the opportunity to work in the kitchens. Of course, he'll be supervised at all times and kept locked up at night."
Murmurs of approval, some nodding of heads. His success in finding the three had strengthened his hand. But some would be taking notes in the event of failure.
"And what of the others?" the monsignor said.
"The others are believers in the darkness. They're unlikely to tell."
"But holiness-"
He raised his voice and added intensity to his glare. "They're unlikely to tell, I said. Not with teachings, not with any method allowed under the precepts. But it doesn't matter. Whatever is in the keep we already possess or our forebears rejected long ago. There's nothing we want. I'd destroy it if I could. But what matters most is that it never be found again."
Shock, some shouts mixed in. He struck the table with the flat of his hand. They fell silent. His eyes were burning now, his thick brows hovering over them like billowing smoke.
"The keep doesn't matter. Only the knowledge of the keep matters. If we can find it, we'll go there and destroy it once and for all. If not, the secret will be lost forever. The two won't get the chance to stand before their people. The secret will be lost, and they'll never see the light of day again."
***
Orah let her eyes roam to the peak of the dome and then back to the tapestry. The chamber was the same, but the circumstances were different. The arch vicar sat alone behind the raised desk. The room felt less imposing. And she now saw the battle between darkness and light for what it was-a fantasy to inspire clergy, a nightmare to frighten those who'd be taught.
And this time, Nathaniel was at her side.
The arch vicar kept them waiting while he shuffled papers on his desk. When he spoke, he used the thundering Temple voice, but after seeing him at night in the forest, it was wasted.
"Nathaniel Rush and Orah Weber, you stand accused of crimes against the light. The Temple relies on its rules, and you have violated many. Blasphemy, praising the darkness and inciting others to follow. What have you to say in your defense?"
Orah wanted to indict as well, to recite her own litany of lies and the harm the Temple had done. But there could be only one outcome to this trial. Better to say nothing. She glanced at Nathaniel. His back had stiffened and he was preparing to speak. She concentrated, trying to pass the thought across to his mind. Be careful, Nathaniel. He's shrewd, dangerous. Don't let him anger you.
But this was no longer the Nathaniel of Little Pond. His passions stayed under control.
"What we say won't matter," he said. "It's all for show. Just... get on with it."
The arch vicar knew control, had lived it for more than twice their lives. But Orah noted how he reshuffled the papers for no reason. Finally, he looked up and glowered.
"Tell me where you've been."
"You know," Nathaniel said. "We left a trail of messages. I'm sure you've tracked them all. Some towns we've forgotten. Others, we never knew their names."
Good, Nathaniel. Say nothing he doesn't already know.
"Tell me anyway," the arch vicar said. "Starting from Little Pond."
***
Orah quieted her mind. It had been too easy. The old man had asked obvious questions. She had parried. But she knew a trap was coming.
She tried to disrupt the flow of the interrogation. "What have you done with Thomas?"
"Your friend will be cared for based on his needs. Each child of light is treated according to Temple precepts."
Temple precepts.
It doesn't harm its children; it harms the whole world. But the arch vicar went on, speaking about Thomas.
"The Temple will treat him better than his friends did." He leaned his elbows on the desk, his full weight upon them. "He tells us you treated him badly."
Treated him badly? Thomas wanted to be with them. But would he say that? He might if... She saw Nathaniel bite down on his lip and stay silent, but the comment needed an answer. Careful now. The trap is about to be sprung.
"He's our friend. We'd never treat him badly. But after your teaching, we could no longer trust him. We couldn't leave him behind, so we took him with us."
The arch vicar tightened the net. "But you never left him? He went everywhere with you?"
Think it through. Don't rush. "Yes, of course. We couldn't leave him alone. He'd have run off."
"Then he'd know the way."
Think, Orah.
He's questioned Thomas separately. The arch vicar settled back, his thick hands folded in front, a block of granite weighing down the desktop. He wouldn't be the next to speak.
"He saw nothing."
"And how was that, Orah of Little Pond whose name means light?"
She felt like a child fighting the darkness with a stick. She steadied herself.
"At every major turn, at each crossroad, we used my scarf to blindfold him."
The arch vicar snapped a look at Nathaniel, and Orah followed his gaze. Her best friend was nodding in agreement.
Her best friend... and so much more.
***
The session had gone on for hours. Nathaniel did his best to pay attention, but the questions kept coming. Orah had been masterful. Their story had stayed consistent, and there was no mention of the keep.
At last, the arch vicar eased the folder closed. It was time.
"Orah Weber and Nathaniel Rush. I take no pleasure in the judgment I must now hand down. You've followed your beliefs, misguided though they were, and will gain nothing from teachings. But you are a danger to the light. As arch vicar, I rule you shall stay here as our guests for the rest of your lives."
The rest of your lives
. Nathaniel had one remaining hope but was unable to speak it, the words stuck in his throat. Orah seemed to have the same thought and managed to say it aloud.
"Will we be together?"
He could see her turning toward him, her whole body turning.
"No. You'll be kept apart. I'd make it easier for you, but... " The arch vicar's thick brows drooped at the corners. "You've done too much damage to the light. The answer is no."
***
Orah's spirit sagged. Bad enough to never see her mother or Little Pond again. But to live without Nathaniel...
The arch vicar rang the bell with the handle in the shape of the sun, and eight deacons entered. Nathaniel forced himself between them and approached the desk.
"Will you let us share meals?"
The arch vicar shook his head and stood to leave. Orah was in a deacon's grasp, but she twisted toward Nathaniel and then the arch vicar, pleading.
"One meal, holiness. One meal a week."
The arch vicar looked at Orah, then Nathaniel, and finally settled his gaze between them.
"No. This session is ended."
The deacons had them now and were pressing toward the exit. The shadow of separation hovered over them. Orah become lightheaded. Was this how Thomas felt at the end of his teaching? She was near the door, dragging her feet, trying to touch Nathaniel one last time.
"Wait." The arch vicar addressed the lead deacon. "Place the boy in the same cell as his last stay."
Orah held her breath.
"And the girl, she'll stay in the next one, recently vacated by our late guest Samuel, who has expired."
A gift. The peephole as dispensation. Blessed be the light.
Temptation
Nathaniel slowed his heartbeat to allow himself to sleep. The weeks since leaving the wilderness felt like a long illness. They'd both need time to heal, to prove they'd not begun to die. At first they talked incessantly, mulling over their circumstance until there was nothing left to say. Their world had become simple-no goals, no plans, no future. Now they spoke whenever a thought occurred.
He'd insisted on shifting their beds to the common wall so they could hear each other even as they slept. He listened for Orah's breathing, wondering if she was awake. But before he could gauge the rhythm, she spoke.