The Seekers: The Children of Darkness (Dystopian Sci-Fi - Book 1) by David Litwack

men of the Ponds stood a good hand taller than the people
of Temple City, and Nathaniel stood a hand taller than them, so he towered over
the deacons.
    They wavered, looking to the clerics
for guidance.
    The vicar on the right waved them off with a flip of is hand.
“What now?”
    “My request is urgent. I want my friend relieved of her teaching
at once, or my offer will not stand.”
    The vicar in the center stared at him, stroking his beard, and
an impish expression stole across his face. “Your friend has only arrived this
morning. We’ve just finished with her, and will deliver our pronouncement soon.
Now with your permission....” He waggled his thick brows and pointed using only
his eyes. “Follow these gentlemen to your... guest quarters.”
    He gestured for the leader of the deacons to approach, leaned
in and whispered a few words. The deacons reformed and guided Nathaniel away.
    As he walked out, he glanced back over his shoulder.
    While the two younger vicars stared
in bewilderment, their superior gazed after him, deep in thought.
    ***
    The deacons led Nathaniel down a narrow stairway to an
underground hall. On one side, the wall bore no markings other than the etched
decay of years. As his boots echoed on the stone floor, his imagination turned
these scars in the stone into images—demons with exposed skulls or shrieking
birds of prey. He turned away. On the other side stood a more ominous sight, a
row of stout doors, each with a tiny window concealed by a metal slat
controlled from the outside—and each anchored by an iron bolt.
    Nathaniel understood the true purpose of this place—not a
guest house but a prison. They’d keep him locked up here until they handed down
the judgment. He prayed he hadn’t condemned both Orah and himself to a teaching.
    One of the deacons opened the door and escorted Nathaniel inside.
The room was not the cramped cell he feared, with a wide floor and headroom to
spare. A serviceable cot lay to one side and a table and chair to the other. Though
windowless—the walls were below ground—a tarnished brass receptacle on the
table held a lit candle. At least he’d have light.
    He settled on the cot and stared at the walls as the deacon
shuffled out and locked the door behind him. Years of decay had worn down the
stones, leaving a layer of dust on the floor and a stale taste on his tongue. Yet
he refused to be discouraged, still determined to save Orah. He hoped the vicars
would accept his offer.
    As for his notions of Temple City, he’d been deluded. This
place had not a whiff of ancient greatness. Men of honor would never build such
a prison.
    “So this is the great Temple City,” he said with a sneer.
    “Not quite.”
    Nathaniel froze. Had someone actually answered, or had he
already gone mad? A grating came from the opposite wall, like the gnawing of a
rat on stone. He grabbed the chair for defense, but what happened next took him
by surprise.
    A flicker of light filtered through a hole in the wall,
followed by a muffled voice.
    “You see, they built many Temple Cities. This is only one.
Not the biggest either.”
    Nathaniel set the chair down and edged toward the wall. “What
did you say?”
    “Not the biggest. I’ve seen only three, but one was bigger, at
least as far as I can recall. They brought me here so long ago.”
    Nathaniel came closer. “Who are you?”
    The voice on the far side of the wall gained strength. “You
see, the Temple designed their world on a grid—east to west, north to south—a Temple
City every six days, each location responsible for children of light within a
three-day-walk. Do you know for what purpose?”
    Nathaniel had no idea how to respond.
    “Control, of course. To control you and me and everyone
else.” The voice became deep and mocking. “So the darkness shall never return.
Why else do you think we’re here in these cells? To protect the world from the darkness?
No. To control our thoughts.”
    Nathaniel had never heard