The Year of the Witching(44)

But Immanuelle would not be so easily tempted.

Not now when Ezra’s fate depended upon what she did next.

She forced herself onward, fighting for every step toward the sunlight. And then, with a final lunge, she cleared the woods and broke to her knees at the cusp of the tree line. Ezra went down with her, and they struck the dirt together with a bruising thud.

Immanuelle scrambled onto her hands and knees, rolling Ezra onto his back, pushing the hair from his eyes. She pressed a hand to his chest, but she couldn’t feel his heartbeat.

Across the distant pastures, the farmhand, Josiah, broke toward them in a full run, scattering the flock as he approached. Immanuelle cradled Ezra’s head between her hands, brushed the dirt from his cheeks, pleaded with him to come back to her.

But he didn’t answer. He didn’t stir.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





The Father will pour His spirit into the flesh of His servant; and the flock will call him Prophet, for he will see the wonders of the heavens and speak in the tongues of angels. The secrets of earth and blood will be revealed to him and he will know his Father’s voice.

—THE HOLY SCRIPTURES





IT WAS NINE days before Immanuelle heard any news of Ezra. After Josiah rode to Amas for aid, he’d returned with what seemed like half of the Prophet’s Guard on horseback. Immanuelle was still in the pasture with Ezra, his head cradled in her lap, Anna on her knees beside them, dabbing his brow with a bit of damp cloth in a vain attempt to ease the torment of his vision. Glory stood weeping a few yards away, waves of dead, high grass swaying at her waist. In the distance, the Prophet’s Guard spilled down the rolling hills of the pasture.

The rest happened very quickly. At least, it seemed that way to Immanuelle.

One moment, Ezra’s head was cradled in her lap, his hand grasping hers as he struggled through his second seizure. The next, he was gone, snatched away by some faceless members of the Prophet’s Guard. A few of the guardsmen had stayed back to interrogate Immanuelle, there in the pasture. In turn, she’d supplied them with a few lies and half-truths. Just enough to lay their suspicions to rest without incriminating herself or revealing the true horror of what had really happened in the Darkwood that day.

Immanuelle could only hope that if Ezra woke—no, when Ezra woke, he wouldn’t expose her lies. But she wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. Not after all that he’d endured in the Darkwood.

When news of Ezra’s condition finally arrived, it came in the form of a holy edict hand delivered by one of the Prophet’s personal couriers. While the letter was addressed to Abram, he gave Immanuelle the honor of breaking the seal and reading the edict within. Her hands shook violently as she tore the wax seal in two. The letter read as follows:

    With the utmost joy, we share the news that Ezra Chambers received his First Vision. After eight days of dwelling with the Father through the Gift of Sight, he has regained consciousness and is now recovering in the Haven, in preparation for the coming Sabbath. Long live Ezra Chambers, heir to the Holy Prophethood, and may the Father bless his predecessor, Grant Chambers, in his final days.

In light alone,

The Holy Assembly of the Prophet’s Apostles





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THERE WAS A gutting on the following Sabbath to commemorate Ezra’s First Vision. The Moores woke early, dressing in their best, taking care to iron the creases out of their skirts and polish their shoes in honor of the special occasion. They left at daybreak and arrived before the sun cleared the treetops.

The cathedral was as crowded as Immanuelle had ever seen it. A few paces from the churchyard, the river ran freely. Most of the gore on the rocks had been washed away and the water had cleared to a rusty hue. The taint of the blood plague was finally over. Many declared it a miracle—Ezra’s first.

Immanuelle scanned the crowds in the churchyard, searching for Leah. But she noted her friend was not among the Prophet’s brides who stood grimly at the cathedral’s threshold, all of them dressed in identical gowns of black. A few held damp handkerchiefs to their swollen eyes, openly grieving what they stood to lose—a husband, a father, a leader. The Prophet wouldn’t be long for this world now that Ezra had risen to power. If the rumors of his sickness were to be believed, he wouldn’t live to see the New Year.

At the sound of the bell’s toll, Immanuelle crossed the churchyard and trudged up the cathedral stairs. She shuffled into a pew that stood just a few feet from the altar.

It was hot with everyone crowded into the benches, standing shoulder to shoulder. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and burning incense.

The doors of the cathedral slammed shut. The apostles moved along the walls, shuttering the windows as they went. The Prophet came after them, dressed in formal robes, his bare feet shuffling across the floor. He had a pronounced limp and it seemed like he struggled more and more with each step. Several times he had to catch himself on the back of a pew to keep from falling. As he staggered closer, Immanuelle could hear his labored breathing, a deep wheeze that rattled in the pits of his lungs. It was clear that whatever illness plagued him—be it gout or fever or some unnamed affliction—was rapidly getting worse.

Ezra entered after his father, slowing his steps to keep from passing him by. They stepped up to the altar together and stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing the flock. There was a smattering of applause, but the Prophet ordered silence with a raised hand.