Free The Sowing (The Torch Keeper) by Steven dos Santos

my body through, and ease it closed behind me as quietly as possible.
    After the blinding brightness of the snowstorm, it takes me a few seconds to get my bearings.
    There’s no one around. All’s quiet except for a mournful cadence of far-off chanting that weaves through the shafts of light radiating from the stained-glass windows. Vaulted ceilings tower overhead. As my feet pad against the plush carpet, the flickering of sweating candelabras stretch my shadow down the long, wide corridor—past grand fireplaces with gilded mantels, elaborate hand-knit tapestries, and glass cases filled with jewel-encrusted diadems. The trinkets in this place alone could feed the entire population of the Parish indefinitely.
    I wind through spiraling stairs, searching, ducking into the occasional alcove for cover from hooded passersby. The Anchorites glide along on hover discs like bloody specters, exchanging wordless nods with one another before floating past me.
    The deeper I travel into the Priory’s bowels, the louder the chanting becomes. I finally find myself on a balcony that overlooks a gathering of the monks. I hide behind a pillar. They look like a mass of flames, all on their knees facing an altar of sparkling gold. Above the altar, a stained-glass mural depicts a flowing figure in white, arms outstretched.
    The Deity.
    Below this figure, tumbling into a pit, the mural shows two mythical beasts. One resembles the galloping caballus, except that it seems deformed somehow, smaller—with tinier hoofs, no flowing mane, longer ears, larger eyes, and a sparse tail except for the tuft at the end. The other beast is much larger, a grayish behemoth with large, flapping ears, sharp tusks, and a long curling snout.
    The stained glass comes to life as the holographic projectors embedded in the crystal panes are activated. The two animals bite and tear at each other, even as they fall into darkness. The glass turns black as night, then burns bright with an intense white light.
    “Behold,” says a hooded monk from the pulpit. “The Great Deity cast down his mightiest angels, whose lust for power and greed led to the Great War of Ashes that destroyed the Holy Land of Usofa. As punishment, they were transformed into the Beasts known as Asinus and Elephantidae, forever condemned to the eternal darkness. Because of their grievous sin, no one shall ever reap any rewards that set them higher than the rest. So spaketh the Deity.”
    “The Deity’s words shall bind us,” the gathered Anchorites chant in response.
    I shake my head. Nonsensical stories, used to frighten and control the ignorant.
    Darting between the stone columns, I pause at the landing of a spiral staircase just in time to hear a hovering sentry Anchorite whisper to his companion, “The child upstairs … ” before they glide past and disappear round a bend.
    It feels like a hammer is pounding nails into my heart as I dart up the steps. Two of the monks are standing sentinel beside the entrance to an open room that’s filled with beds. A dormitory. I pull the hood farther over my head and nod, striding inside as if I belong there.
    Unlike the rest of the Priory, the décor is sparse in here. Empty beds line the walls on either side. My eyes strain through the gloom as I cut between them, searching for some signs of life.
    I reach the last bed, which is likewise empty. He’s not here. I feel crushed, as if someone’s cast me down a dark pit with no hope of ever climbing my way out again.
    That’s when I hear the soft sound of sniffling. I look up.
    Cole is wedged into a corner of the room. He’s sitting on the floor, staring out the window at the snow-smothered landscape.
    Suddenly everything else—my training, the covert hits on Establishment targets, even the business with the virus—none of that seems as important.
    I close the gap between us, resisting the urge to startle him from behind with a huge hug. “Cole,” I whisper. “It’s me. I’m here.”
    He turns