Journey Into the Flame (3 page)

As if orchestrated, all eleven simultaneously removed their masks
and set them down on the table. In silence, they looked at one another. The
salutis personatus
, or masked greeting, was a centuries-old tradition used by secret societies to signify anonymity. Some of the people at the table who were already acquainted acknowledged one another with a slight nod or knowing glance.

The oldest of those gathered, a slight, frail man wearing a forest-green ascot and grasping a black cane even while seated in a wheelchair, spoke with a raspy voice. “Why have you summoned us here, Simon? For what reason would you bring a group such as this together, and under the traditions of the old guard?”

“Because it is time, Dario.” Simon leaned forward in his chair and pushed his mask aside. “After forty-two years, my friend, it is time. The Rising is over.”

“Are you certain?” the old man asked.

“Yes. It is time to finish the work my father was unable to accomplish in his lifetime. The moment has come for us to reclaim what the Great Disruption and the rebellion of men took from us!”

A sharp-chinned blond woman interrupted. “Those days are over, Simon. They ended with the arrival of those books you now display in front of us. Put them away! Even after all these years, they still make me sick.”

Before Simon could respond, a woman with dark, expressive eyes added, “I agree with Catherine. We all know the damage those books wreaked upon our stature in the world. People no longer need us. Camden and Cassandra Ford, along with the Council of Satraya, saw to that. But I do not have to tell you that, Simon. You know that story better than any of us.”

Catherine acknowledged her with a nod. “Thank you, Ilia.”

Simon watched with displeasure as some in the group nodded in agreement. Others, such as Dario, remained silent, waiting for Simon to prove Catherine and Ilia wrong. Simon did not make them wait long. “No, Catherine! No, Ilia!” he began. “The people need us again. I have found the way to bring back the old order.”

The old order Simon referred to was that of a group who called themselves Reges Hominum, the Kings of Men. They were twelve immensely wealthy shadow families who, in league with one another, had discreetly controlled the fate of men for centuries, moving them like pieces on a chessboard. While the Great Disruption had loosened their tight grip on humanity by diminishing their wealth and mechanisms of power,
The Chronicles of Satraya
had forced them to let go entirely.

“What
way
can there be, Simon?” Catherine replied in an agitated voice. “Your father was a founding member of the Council of Satraya, working alongside Camden and Cassandra Ford, distributing throughout the world those insurrectionist books that did so much damage. I never understood how the great Fendral Hitchlords could commit such a foul deed and betray our trust. Perhaps you should start by explaining that, and then move on to how we can restore the old order.”

“We all know that my father joined Camden and the others after finding his own set of the books,” Simon replied, glaring at Catherine. “I assure you he did so only in order to channel the Satraya movement in a constructive direction, a direction that would have benefited us all. But when it became evident that this was not possible, he left the Council. Be assured, my father did not betray any of you.”

Simon, now forty-three years old and the only son of Fendral Hitchlords, moved forward in his chair and placed his hands on the books, his glossy black hair reflecting the light from the chandelier high above. His dark brown eyes contrasted starkly with his alabaster complexion, physical traits that had been passed down to him from his forefathers, whose portraits hung on the chamber’s walls. Simon could trace his lineage back to the fourth century, the time of Constantine and the first popes. The ten other people seated at the table were from similar dynasties, many of which had once been equal in worldly power, wealth, and influence to the Hitchlords family, although none was as old. Nor had any of them found an original set of
The Chronicles of Satraya.
Like his father, Simon was a student of the
Chronicles,
but he studied the books for a different purpose from that of the rest of the world.

In an effort to defuse the tension between Simon and Catherine, Dario said, “We have all been through a great deal over the last many years. Catherine, please, let us listen to what young Hitchlords has to say. We owe his father that much. We can see that Simon possesses his father’s passion. Now let us also see if he possesses his father’s vision.”

Simon nodded in thanks, letting his dark gaze leave Catherine to roam over the group seated before him. “The time has come for us to emerge from the shadows. As my father predicted, the world is beginning to forget the lessons of the past. He told me long ago that the
Chronicles
would share the same fate as other influential books throughout history such as the Bible, the Vedas, and the Kabbalah: they would lose their allure, and their lessons would be forgotten. My father was right. Look at the world now. People take their freedom for granted. They are giving up on self-reliance and are opting for the conveniences provided by governments and corporations.” Simon pressed down on a hidden compartment in the table, revealing a control pad. With the swipe of his hand, a three-dimensional image of the world was displayed over the center of the table, surrounded by various graphs and charts. “See for yourself how people’s consumption of food, energy, and drugs has increased exponentially in just the last three years. Thanks to some special work that I commissioned, we now have access to some secured government data. In particular, the financial and medical records of most of the people on the planet.” Simon continued to navigate the controls until he isolated a particular piece of information. An image of Catherine appeared on the display. “Oh, Catherine, I’m sorry to see that you have a thyroid condition.”

“That is quite enough, Simon,” Dario said. “Shut that thing down.”

Simon did as Dario requested, and the image disappeared.

“Simon, please understand that I want to support you,” Catherine said, her tone noticeably more conciliatory now. “We all do. But my question still stands. What of those books there in front of you? What
of the
Chronicles?
How do you plan to reverse the damage they and that Council have done?”

“The original Council of Satraya disbanded years ago,” Simon answered, “and the current one has been castrated to nothing more than a quaint political organization.”

“I also see that people are growing lazy again,” a German man wearing wire-rimmed glasses interjected. “Yet the books still have a following, however small. They have empowered individuals, encouraged people to resist control and not rely on others. There are still people today who follow those precepts. Remember the Financial Reset of 2025 that was caused by Crowd Twelve? Remember how people banded together and launched the boycotts that were adopted worldwide, shriveling the bottom lines of several multi-national corporations? Remember how people protested en masse against the financial institutions, refusing to repay their loans or pay their credit-card bills? Many of our colleagues lost everything. Even your father suffered losses, Simon. I dare say C12 would have succeeded in bringing down the world’s economy had the Great Disruption not done it for them. How can we be assured that something like that will not happen again? Those who still follow the philosophies of the
Chronicles
are as recalcitrant as the members of Crowd Twelve.”

“I will answer your question, Klaus, but before I continue, I must be certain of everyone’s support.” Simon leaned forward and placed his right palm on the table. “If anyone here does not wish to be a part of this vision, please leave now. You will not be judged for your choice.” Simon’s tone was steady, the expression in his eyes serious. He exchanged a cool glance with the woman to his right, who was cloaked in a crimson hood. There was silence in the hall as a few people looked at one another and at the black rose in front of the empty twelfth chair. No one took up Simon’s offer to leave.

“Very good,” Simon said. “We have found a way to rid the world of rebellion once and for all. The next Freedom Day celebration will mark the end times of the
Chronicles
and the beginning of a new era for
humanity. We will once again be able to provide the world with stability and a sound financial system that restores our wealth and influence.” Simon paused to look around the table. Catherine, his most vocal critic, now sat silent. “And yes, some will die. But unlike the plagues of the Dark Ages or the many wars that have engulfed the world or even the chaos caused by the Great Disruption, our method will be more merciful; those who perish will suffer no pain, and their passing will be instantaneous.”

“The promise of having our rightful place in the world restored is attractive, indeed,” said Dario. “But you still speak vaguely, my friend. And who is
we
?”

Andrea Montavon, who was seated to Simon’s right, pulled back her crimson hood, revealing ash-blond hair and an exquisite face that showed few signs of her sixty-eight years of age. She turned her topaz-brown gaze from Simon to Dario. “I and my late husband have been assisting Simon in this quest,” she stated. “I know that Simon’s plans sound vague, but I assure you that the details have all been worked out meticulously. Over the last eight years, while some of you may have resigned yourselves to your fate, we have been proactive. Just as the
Chronicles
would advise us to do.” She said this with a sly smile. Derisive laughter could be heard around the table.

“I was sorry to hear about your husband, Andrea,” a bald man with a Japanese accent said. “I was told that Lord Benson’s death was sudden and most unexpected.”

“Thank you, Yinsir,” Andrea said. “The black rose on the table honors him. He died in support of our efforts. He is terribly missed.”

The German man cleared his throat and shifted in his chair impatiently. “Simon, if this plan of yours is some kind of population control, it has been tried before, and it didn’t work. Why should we think it will work now?”

“No, this is not population control, Klaus,” Simon retorted. “That has never worked. My great-grandfather learned long ago that humans have an unquenchable desire to live. Kill several million of them, and
others will just propagate more rapidly. We are taking an alternative approach—let us call it population grooming.”

“I prefer to refer to our plan as the Purging,” Andrea added with a smile. “Simon, I think it is time for you to provide a few specifics.”

Simon once again activated his holographic projector and set about presenting the details of his vision.

He spoke for a long while, and afterward there was silence in the hall. But the people seated at the table were not startled by the ruthlessness of his proposed solution. For centuries, their families had secretly manipulated world affairs in ways that would have appalled humanity.

“Brilliant,” said a classically handsome middle-aged man with dark hair who was seated to Andrea’s right. He clapped his hands together three times, the large black diamond of his gold ring catching the light of the torches behind him. “Absolutely brilliant! The two of you have been busy, indeed . . .”

“Thank you, Victor,” Andrea said, acknowledging the praise. “Your family always did appreciate innovative solutions to problems . . .”

“In order to enact this vision, we will need to rely on the expertise several of you possess,” Simon said. “Do I have your support?”

Dario pounded his cane on the floor three times. “Young Hitchlords, you have my support. I long for the day when we might rule again. It has been a long time since I have tasted that wine. Come now, and graciously tell us what name you have chosen for us.”

Simon paused a moment. One by one, the eleven people in the hall tapped the table three times with their hands, an ancient code symbolizing their support. According to tradition, once named, the group would be forever bound to secrecy. “Era,” Simon announced with great pleasure. “We shall be called Era.” He picked up a golden incense burner resting on the floor next to his chair. “Let the lighting of this urn bind us,” he said, as he struck a piece of flint to ignite the contents. “Let its smoke be the cloud that blinds our enemies and cloaks our passions. Inhale, my friends. We are now one.” Simon took a great whiff of the smoke and passed the urn to Andrea, who inhaled deeply before passing
it to the man seated to her right. One by one, each of the other nine people did the same. A slight smile came to Simon’s face as the urn was passed back to him.

“In front of each of you,” Simon said, “you will find a small tin container. Heed well the instructions you find inside.”

The great bell sounded again. The eleven people grabbed the small wooden mallets resting on the table in front of them and with a single stroke smashed their golden masks. The shards slid across the polished tabletop, some falling to the stone floor. Their masks were no longer needed. As Era, they would act as one. “It is done,” Simon announced. “We are united! Long live Reges Hominum, the Kings of Men!”

“Long live the kings of men!” the others repeated in unison.

2

Everything that we are looking for is right in front of us.

The sages of old put their messages in plain sight. Just stop and look; life will have no choice but to reveal itself to you.

—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

NEW CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, 3:00 P.M. LOCAL TIME,

JULY 15, 2069, 6 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

Logan Cutler had been restoring the same painting at the Art Institute of Chicago for six months. The last few details were the most difficult, and the fast-approaching deadline was making the work stressful. Logan loved to paint and enjoyed working on his own creations far more than he enjoyed restoring other people’s work. He had always dreamed of having his own studio, where he could dedicate himself to his own work and teach others how to express themselves through art. But in order to do that, an artist had to gain recognition and the support of gallery owners who could sell his work for fantastic amounts of money. Logan hadn’t yet produced a masterpiece or even a painting that had attracted the attention of the critics and the gallery owners. He hadn’t had the time. He needed to earn a living. The best he could do was stay close to his passion by restoring other people’s paintings.