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  He told his story to the authorities, but they thought his tale was a fanciful version of an abduction by a group of mountain bears. They dismissed it as the fruit of a vivid imagination. Later, when Uriel grew bolder and began publicizing his story, the authorities prosecuted him and locked him up, first in the dungeon, then in the insane asylum. Although no member of the Gateway had been able to locate Uriel’s grave, by all accounts, he died at the age of seventy-seven, alone and in chains.

  That imprisonment, however, did nothing to stop the rise of believers in Uriel’s claims. In fact, the persecution helped to raise doubts about the government’s version of the story, especially among the families of the missing. While in prison, Uriel wrote his now-famous prophecy, which emboldened the faithful and drew into their fold those who hoped for an end to their oppression, and the Underground Gateway, a secret society of people dedicated to finding the truth, was born.

  “Excuse me. Jason Masters?”

  Jason swung his head toward the door. A young man stood there, his body ramrod straight, his hands behind him, and his uniform pressed. The loose sleeves and pant legs in the all-black uniform identified him as a Courier.

  “Yes?” Jason crumpled the newsletter in his fist and stuffed it into his pocket. “I’m Jason.”

  “I have come to escort you to the governor’s side.” His voice was formal and monotone. “Please follow me.” He began to swivel but stopped abruptly, his gaze locking on Jason’s wadded clothes. His tone became inquisitive. “You have a Courier’s tube?”

  Jason snatched it from the bureau along with his discarded shirt. “Yes,” he said as he opened the genetic key hatch, hiding his movements with his shirt. “It was addressed to my brother. He asked me to bring it with me.”

  The Courier extended a rigid arm. “You are not allowed to have a tube that has not been sent to you or by you. Section three of the communications protocol expressly forbids it. Your brother should know that.”

  “Really?” Jason fumbled for the erasing switch on the side. “I guess that’s why he asked me to erase it.”

  “I will erase it.” The Courier marched toward him. “Give it to me immediately.”

  Jason pushed the button. He would have to hold it down for five seconds, and the genetic key would have to stay inside during the process. “Too late.” He turned, dodging the Courier’s grasping hand. “Do you ever watch the messages before you deliver them?”

  The Courier stepped back. “Of course not. That would be a violation of section two of the protocol.”

  “That’s what I guessed.” The tube clicked, signaling the end of the erasing procedure. Jason slid out the hair and enclosed it in his fist. “Here you go.” He extended the tube to the Courier. “I’m sure the governor is pleased with your rigidity.”

  The Courier snatched it out of Jason’s hand. “Now,” he said coolly, “if you will please follow me. Mortimer will see to your peasant clothing.”

  As he followed, Jason glanced at his pile of clothes. The Courier wasn’t happy with Jason’s appointment as bodyguard; maybe others in the elite class wouldn’t be pleased with this new peasant in their midst either.

  They emerged into the palace’s main entry vestibule, a chamber enclosed by marble-coated walls and high ceilings. Above, sunlight vents near the apex allowed the fading orange rays to filter in and illuminate their surroundings. Soon the attendants would light the lanterns that lined the walls and put flame to wick in the candelabra that hung from the ceiling. Although most of the guests had already arrived and entered the cathedral, a few stragglers might venture in. Without energy channels in the walls in this section of the palace, anyone walking through after sunset would need the more primitive lighting fixtures.

  The Courier opened a door at the rear corner of the chamber and bade Jason to follow. While they hurried through a narrow corridor with wood-planked floors and plaster walls, Frederick’s image—his anguish, his fear—burned in Jason’s mind. Why hadn’t Adrian told him? Why did he allow the secret to be revealed after he marched away into the woods?

  The answer broke through like a gushing flood. Because Adrian wanted to go alone. If he had revealed the truth, Jason would have insisted on joining him. This meant that Adrian hadn’t told everything to Father or Mother. To them, this was likely just a foray into the wilderness, yet another fruitless journey in search of the elusive gateway to the world of dragons. Yet Father seemed to suspect something more. Otherwise he wouldn’t have reacted so strongly.

  And there was something more. This time Adrian had a priceless clue. Someone had intentionally left the hat and a video message. Surely the messenger, whoever it was, would have left other clues, and Adrian would never give up the hunt. He would take greater risks than ever before. He would not come back without Frederick.

  As they passed through a second rich chamber, the main living room in the governor’s private quarters, Adrian’s words filtered back into Jason’s mind. There is a cryptic puzzle in the words. When you hear it, you’ll recognize it. I need you to solve the puzzle.

  Jason touched the hilt of his sword. Only he could provide the help Adrian needed. It was time to perform, not to worry. He had to find the bear and the key that rested on his heart.

  The Courier stopped at a square entryway and nodded toward the room beyond. “You are to enter now.” His tone was still cold and condescending. “We Couriers are not privileged enough to step within the governor’s private bedroom.”

  Jason kept his face lax. Without giving the Courier another glance, he strode through the open door and into a chamber every bit as large as the living room. The polished marble floors reflected the light of four energy channels, one embedded in each of the surrounding walls. The four-poster bed, adorned in purple velvet, was big enough for a family of six.

  Governor Prescott stood near the far wall. Short, chubby, and dressed in silky purple breeches and a black satin vest over a frilly white shirt, he looked like a beaten and bruised penguin. “Come here, Masters,” he said, waving. “I am late, and we have much protocol to discuss.”

  Holding his sword in place at his hip, Jason marched ahead as quickly as decorum would allow, mimicking the stride and posture he’d seen Adrian adopt so many times as he kept pace with the always-hurried governor.

  Prescott set a hand on Jason’s shoulder and looked him over. “You’re scrawnier than your brother.”

  Jason straightened his body, trying to appear taller. “He’s eight years older.”

  “To be sure.” Prescott pulled away and folded his hands behind his back. “You have probably divined by now that I chose you for one reason and one reason only—your brother’s recommendation.” As he spoke, his pale cheeks shook, and his watery blue eyes gleamed. His voice was higher and squeakier than the low tones he used during his speeches and proclamations. “There were many aspiring young warriors who longed for this position, so you should be wary for two reasons. One, if you fail me in the slightest way I will replace you without warning. Two, one of my trustworthy counselors has told me of murmurings against you. You should watch for conspiracies that might bring harm to your person or injury to your reputation. Not everyone in my court is as virtuous as I am.”

  Jason wanted to add, “Or as humble,” but he held his tongue. Getting replaced during his first minute of duty would ruin everything.

  “Come.” Prescott walked toward the entryway. “While I am moving, stay three steps behind me at all times. This way you are able to guard my left and my right.”

  Jason kept pace. “If I am to guard you, then wouldn’t it be easier if I were walking in front of you?”

  With a graceful spin, Prescott stopped and faced him, a condescending smile on his lips. “Why, no. Of course not. First, you cannot know where I will choose to turn. Second, those whom I am about to meet will not be able to see my person, which is crucial with regard to the decorum of diplomacy. And third, I am not able to see behind me, so that is my more vulnerable side.”
r />   As warmth flowed into his cheeks, Jason nodded. “That makes a lot of sense. I apologize for my ignorance.”

  Prescott again looked him over from head to toe. “Ignorant or not, your abilities will suit my purpose.”

  Jason nodded again, unsure of how to reply. “Uh, I hope I can—”

  “We have no more time for chatting,” Prescott said as he turned and strode away. “Remember, I hired you for your presence, not for your voice. Keep silent unless you are addressed directly. You have seen your brother work with me. You will have to do the best you can.”

  Jason leaped ahead and followed, staying the required three steps behind. After they hurried through the narrow corridor, they emerged in the rear of the vestibule, now much darker than before. Although shadows blackened the walls and floors, Prescott never slowed.

  Staring into the darkness, Jason reached for the hilt of his sword. Something was wrong. It didn’t make sense that the governor would so carelessly stroll through an unlit chamber. Shouldn’t someone meet them with a lantern trimmed for evening? Why hadn’t the wall lanterns been lit?

  As they passed by the parlor, something clicked near the wall on the opposite side. Someone was out there, hidden in the shadows. Jason quietly drew his sword. Ahead, a tall statue loomed near an intersection with a hallway.

  Jason grabbed Prescott’s arm and pulled him against the statue’s cubic base. “Someone is hiding out there,” he whispered.

  Even in the dimness, Prescott’s wide eyes were easy to see. “Impossible. Everyone should be at the invocation.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.” Jason eased away from Prescott. “Please stay here. I’ll check it out.”

  “Very well.”

  While Prescott ducked low behind the statue, Jason soft-stepped toward the middle of the chamber. Darker than ever now, the room seemed smaller, as if the walls were closing in. Adrian had taught him how to overcome tricks his mind might play. Focus on one sensory input at a time—first sight, then sound, then smell, then touch, and finally, that quiet voice inside, a warrior’s instinct that danger troubled the air around him. With that approach, competing channels of data wouldn’t be able to fool his mind. He would be ready for anything.

  Shallow breathing entered his ears. The faint odor of human sweat drifted by. This attacker was nervous, not a professional. Soon he would take a deeper breath. That would be the sign of attack.

  Jason stared into a void between two shadowy columns in the wall. The intruder had to be there. Every sensory input pointed in that direction.

  Flexing his fingers around the hilt, Jason turned ninety degrees away from the void and waited. Better to let the attacker believe he had the advantage of surprise. When he learned otherwise, he would crumble like the rookie he likely was. Then, instead of killing him, Jason could take him prisoner and learn where this conspiracy led.

  A hooded figure leaped from between the columns, swift and silent. Jason ducked, allowing the attacker’s swinging sword to sweep over his head. With a leg thrust, Jason tripped the man and sent him tumbling. The sword flew from his hand and slid across the marble floor.

  Jason leaped up and ran to the sprawled body. He pressed his sword’s tip into the attacker’s hood and whisked it off. A wide-eyed, square-jawed young man gaped at him.

  “Randall?”

  Gasping, Randall stared at the sword. “Don’t kill me. I was just—“He clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. “Just don’t kill me!”

  A cold chill ran across Jason’s skin. The governor’s son. A loyalist. Too unskilled to be an assassin. A sacrificial lamb? Could there be another?

  Turn!

  Jason whipped around, his blade up. Another blade clanked against his, the speed like lightning and the force like a charging bull. Grunting under the weight, he crouched. The attacker flew overtop, but after a deft flip landed on his feet and charged again.

  Still crouching, Jason lunged to the side. As the attacker’s sword swiped past his face, Jason thrust his own blade, but the nimble, hooded figure leaped over it just in time.

  Jason jumped to his feet. The attacker spun toward him and pointed his sword, waiting silently.

  Flexing his muscles, Jason stared at his opponent. He was good, very good. Shorter than average and lithe, his speed and agility were superb.

  Jason stepped to the right to get a better look at his opponent. The dark attacker stepped to his own right at the same pace, making it look like the two swordsmen were orbiting a central point on the floor. Jason watched the attacker’s graceful movements. This man had been inside the tournament ring many times. His range was exactly the size of a battle circle. But that could be used against him.

  Jason backed against the wall. If this attacker was familiar only with school training, he wouldn’t recognize this strategy. Without a passing lane behind Jason for his opponent’s escape, a lunge on the opponent’s part would be far more dangerous.

  The hooded man stalked toward him but halted abruptly several steps away. In an oddly strained voice, he said, “Are you a coward? Come out and face me in a fair, head-to-head battle.”

  “You talk about fair,” Jason said, pushing a tone of challenge into his voice. “You sent a scared puppy ahead of you and attacked me from behind. It seems that you’re the coward.”

  “I see.” The attacker stripped off his hood. Long auburn locks fell out, and an angular female face appeared.

  Jason gawked at her. “Marcelle?”

  She smirked, and her normal voice flowed softly and sweetly. “You should teach your brother some of that bravado.”

  Jason swung his head toward the statue. Prescott emerged from his hiding place, clapping his hands as he approached.

  “All three of you performed with excellence!” Prescott said. “And Marcelle, you were right, as usual.”

  Jason glanced between them. Both the governor and Marcelle carried triumphant expressions. Behind them, Randall rose to his feet, his head low.

  Prescott laid a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Merely a test, young man. Adrian recommended you, but, because you are so young and inexperienced, I wanted Marcelle to take his place at my side. Yet Marcelle assured me that you would be a fine bodyguard.”

  Jason looked at Marcelle. Her smirk softened to a friendly smile, and she offered an approving nod.

  “I suggested the test,” Prescott continued. “And you have passed brilliantly. Both Randall and Marcelle knew not to harm you, so there was no danger.”

  Jason held back a rising growl. Stay calm and polite. “Not to question your idea, Governor, but I could have hurt your son.” He wanted to add that Marcelle was also vulnerable, but that might not have been true.

  Prescott reached for Randall’s tunic and pulled the shoulder back, revealing a tough sheet of metal. “He was well-protected, and the suit made him heavier, which explains your easy victory over him. Marcelle, of course, required no such protection.

  “We needed Randall to distract you in order to test your warrior’s sense and your reflexes. My son, of course, is just as qualified to be my bodyguard as you are, but since he is so dear to me, if he were captured by an enemy, he could be used to bend my will.”

  Still clutching his sword tightly, Jason fumed inside. Randall was good, but they had already proven who would win in a battle of swords and wits.

  “Fret not,” Marcelle said as she touched Jason’s arm, her voice again sweet. “Your skills have been approved. You will make a fine bodyguard for His Lordship.”

  Jason relaxed his grip and nodded. A strained “Thank you” was all he could muster.

  “Now,” Marcelle said, turning to Prescott, her smile a bit tighter, “you will adhere to your part of the bargain.”

  “Of course. Of course.” Prescott reached into his tunic’s breast pocket and withdrew a set of keys on a metal ring. After pulling a long brass key away, he handed it to her. “You will find what you are looking for in the weapons cache. After you secure it, you may keep the k
ey. I have another. Do you know where the cache is?”

  “I do.” Marcelle took the key and turned toward Jason, a look of sincerity bending her tawny brow as she whispered, “I meant no insult to your brother. I made this bargain to save his life.”

  With that, she sheathed her sword and ran into the shadows.

  Jason stared after her. What could she have meant by that? Asking Prescott might bring an answer, but she obviously wanted her comment to remain a secret.

  Prescott stooped and picked up Marcelle’s hood. “The ceremony began long ago, but they will not be able to install Counselor Orion without me. Let us hurry now to the cathedral.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Randall asked.

  Prescott gave him the hood. “See to it that all traces of the battle here are wiped away, and then retire to your quarters. You may get something from the bakery first.”

  “As you wish, Father.” Randall bowed. Then, after shooting an angry glare at Jason, he shuffled toward the battle area.

  Prescott strode toward the statue. “Come!” he ordered, his tone becoming agitated. “The people will begin to stir if I am not there soon.”

  Jason followed. He glanced back at Randall, who was now on hands and knees wiping the scuff marks with Marcelle’s hood, a mournful expression on his face. This was the first time he had seen Randall like this—humble and hardworking. Although he had been born in the elite class, this posture gave him a nobler appearance somehow. He had always been a boastful sort during lessons, not mean-spirited or a bully, just overconfident and self-centered. Now he seemed…well…peasant-like.

  As he slid his sword into its scabbard, Jason kept pace with the swift governor. New revelations swirled in his mind, especially Marcelle’s words about saving Adrian. This would be a long evening. Somehow he had to find out the truth, and maybe solving the strange puzzle from the Courier’s tube would provide the answers.

  Four

  Koren strained against a pair of ropes as she hauled a cart up a rocky hill. The slope’s steepness and the many rocks forced her to keep her eyes on the path, so she couldn’t monitor the honeycombs in the dilapidated four-wheeler. At least this cargo was sticky enough to keep it inside the cart. Last week, the olive oil sloshed back and forth, spilling a third of the load.