shield themselves as the strange shadows form phantasms that dart and flicker, looking like specters of the old world come back from their fiery ruination to seek unholy revenge.
At first light, in the crisp morning, they move.
The traces of civilization become sparse, odd mounds here and there covered with weeds and field grass. The procession turns north. They wind their way through more ruins, squat moldering buildings with a few standing outliers, then struggle up a barely worn and treacherous path until they emerge atop the high plateau.
The Temple looms before them.
A monumental palace, built of smooth off-white sandstone, enormous blocks nearly as tall as a man. Each ascending tier sets in a bit further, its tapered apex leveling off flat with a colonnade of redwood beams enclosing an ornate rooftop terrace. It cuts an imposing silhouette across the gorgeous natural landscape, stark and trapezoidal. Two wings branch off from the side, one of them still under construction, connected by high-vaulted arches formed by a labyrinth of trelliswork. Semicircles of palms radiate from the Temple’s grand entrance, framing a lavish staircase that fans out onto the grounds. At the head of the staircase, covered by a redwood portico, two enormous wooden doors stand wide open, large enough for a giant to pass through.
The plateau overlooks the misty valley, where the ruins of the old cities spread out below them in a fragmented grid. They march across the grounds. An elaborate garden encompasses the palatial structure, lush greenery, manicured trees and shrubs, with gravel paths meandering around the carefully arranged landscape. From the veranda at the base of the opulent staircase, a shallow reflecting pool stretches across the garden, its footprint expansive, its surface tranquil and cool. Several grooves funnel water through small fountains that trickle lazily in the afternoon sun.
There are people milling about. They do not scream and run for their lives when they see the murderous warriors approaching. They smile.
The children look apprehensively from their cages. The people gather around them, gawking through the slats at the grimy, terrified children curled up inside. A few of them wave. A handful of the children, bleary-eyed, wave back.
Jack peers out curiously as a man wearing a shirt of rough linen and simple black leggings jaunts down the staircase, surrounded by a small entourage, and strolls casually across the sandstone veranda, stopping frequently to greet people, moving always in the general direction of the procession.
There is now a chattering corridor on both sides of them, the throng collecting more new faces steadily. The children, independently, are each thinking roughly the same odd thought—they all have such nice smiles.
Small cottages are scattered about the gentle hillside, puffing out light smoke. Behind the Temple, built on the rise of the hill, is a broad sloping terrace with stone benches ascending up the natural rake of the terrain.
The cages are carried through an entrance just to the side of a broad, crescent-shaped stage. The heavy wooden door slams shut, leaving the giddy crowd outside—only the man in the linen shirt enters with them. He surveys the cages and moves about the warriors affably.
“Welcome back,” he says, softly embracing each man he encounters.
He looks in at the children, little more than a cursory glance, and they are all transfixed by his strange features. The man’s eyes are clearest blue, a trait lost to the Ages and rarely seen for many long centuries. The children did not imagine a person could be born with eyes of such a color, so bizarre and unnatural they seem.
The nursemaids carry their little baskets past him and he beams warmly at the infants, taking a few miniature hands into his own and playfully nuzzling them. The women give a swift curtsy and sweep their little bundles off to some other location, taking the smallest toddlers with them as well, and the man with blue eyes escorts them out.
The warriors set the cages down in the center of the cavernous room. Jack’s tormentor on the long voyage kneels by his side, tapping the slats with his knuckle. Jack is breathing deeply, hoping if the man aims to hurt him that he will get it over with quickly.
He grins, then slowly rises, holding Jack’s eyes with his own, then collars a fellow warrior and they hustle out of the chamber.
More stewards enter the holding area and start untying the ropes that lash the cages together. Their practiced hands make quick work of the task. A couple of them notice the shrouded form