Pittacus Lore - The Power of Six (Lorien Legacies)

THE POWER OF SIX

BOOK TWO OF THE LORIEN LEGACIES

PITTACUS LORE

Contents

THE EVENTS IN THIS BOOK ARE REAL.

NAMES AND PLACES HAVE BEEN CHANGED
TO PROTECT THE LORIEN SIX,
WHO REMAIN IN HIDING.

OTHER CIVILIZATIONS DO EXIST.

SOME OF THEM SEEK TO DESTROY YOU.

MY NAME IS MARINA, AS OF THE SEA, BUT I WASNT called that until much later. In the beginning I was known merely as Seven, one of the nine surviving Garde from the planet Lorien, the fate of which was, and still is, left in our hands. Those of us who arent lost. Those of us still alive.

I was six when we landed. When the ship jolted to a halt on Earth, even at my young age I sensed how much was at stake for usnine Cpan, nine Gardeand that our only chance waited for us here. We had entered the planets atmosphere in the midst of a storm of our own creation, and as our feet found Earth for the very first time, I remember the wisps of steam that rolled off the ship and the goose bumps that covered my arms. I hadnt felt the wind in a year, and it was freezing outside. Somebody was there waiting for us. I dont know who he was, only that he handed each Cpan two sets of clothes and a large envelope. I still dont know what was in it.

As a group we huddled together, knowing we might never see one another again. Words were spoken, hugs were given, and then we split up, as we knew we must, walking in pairs in nine different directions. I kept peering over my shoulder as the others receded in the distance until, very slowly, one by one, they all disappeared. And then it was just Adelina and me, alone. I realize now just how scared Adelina must have been.

I remember boarding a ship headed to some unknown destination. I remember two or three different trains after that. Adelina and I kept to ourselves, huddled against each other in obscure corners, away from whoever might be around. We hiked from town to town, over mountains and across fields, knocking on doors that were quickly slammed in our faces. We were hungry, tired, and scared. I remember sitting on a sidewalk begging for change. I remember crying instead of sleeping. Im certain that Adelina gave away some of our precious gems from Lorien for nothing more than warm meals, so great was our need. Perhaps she gave them all away. And then we found this place in Spain.

A stern-looking woman I would come to know as Sister Lucia answered the heavy oak door. She squinted at Adelina, taking in her desperation, the way her shoulders drooped.

Do you believe in the word of God? the woman asked in Spanish, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes in scrutiny.

The word of God is my vow, Adelina replied with a solemn nod. I dont know how she knew this responseperhaps she learned it when we stayed in a church basement weeks beforebut it was the right one. Sister Lucia opened the door.

Weve been here ever since, eleven years in this stone convent with its musty rooms, drafty hallways, and hard floors like slabs of ice. Aside from the few visitors, the internet is my only source to the world outside our small town; and I search it constantly, looking for some indication that the others are out there, that theyre searching, maybe fighting. Some sign that Im not alone, because at this point I cant say that Adelina still believes, that shes still with me. Her attitude changed somewhere over the mountains. Maybe it was with the slam of one of the doors that shut a starving woman and her child out in the cold for another night. Whatever it was, Adelina seems to have lost the urgency of staying on the move, and her faith in the resurgence of Lorien seems to have been replaced by the faith shared by the convents Sisters. I remember a distinct shift in Adelinas eyes, her sudden speeches on the need for guidance and structure if we were to survive.

My faith in Lorien remains intact. In India, a year and a half ago, four different people witnessed a boy move objects with his mind. While the significance behind the event was small at first, the boys abrupt disappearance shortly thereafter created much buzz in the region, and a hunt for him began. As far as I know, he hasnt been found.

A few months ago there was news of a girl in Argentina who, in the wake of an earthquake, lifted a five-ton slab of concrete to save a man trapped beneath it; and when news of this heroic act spread, she disappeared. Like the boy in India, shes still missing.

And then theres the father-son duo making all the news now in America, in Ohio, who the police are hunting after the two allegedly demolished an entire school by themselves, killing five people in the process. They left no trace behind other than mysterious heaps of ash.

It looks like a battle took place here. I dont know how else to explain it, the head investigator was quoted as saying. But make no mistake, we will get to the bottom of this, and we will find Henri Smith and his son, John.

Perhaps John Smith, if thats his real name, is merely a boy with a grudge who was pushed too far. But I dont think thats the case. My heart races whenever his picture appears on my screen. Im gripped with a profound desperation that I cant quite explain. I can feel it in my bones that hes one of us. And I know, somehow, that I must find him.

I PERCH MY ARMS ON THE COLD WINDOWSILL AND watch the snowflakes fall from the dark sky and settle on the side of the mountain, which is dotted with pine, cork oak, and beech trees, with patches of craggy rock mixed throughout. The snow hasnt let up all day, and they say it will continue through the night. I can barely see beyond the edge of town to the norththe world lost in a white haze. During the day, when the sky is clear, its possible to see the watery blue smudge of the Bay of Biscay. But not in this weather, and I cant help but wonder what might lurk in all that white beyond my line of sight.

I look behind me. In the high-ceilinged, drafty room, there are two computers. To use one we must add our name to a list and wait our turn. At night theres a ten-minute time limit if somebody is waiting, twenty minutes if there isnt. The two girls using them now have been on for a half hour each, and my patience is thin. I havent checked the news since this morning when I snuck in before breakfast. At that time nothing new about John Smith had been reported, but Im almost shaking in anticipation over what might have sprung up since then. Some new discovery has been uncovered each day since the story first broke.

Santa Teresa is a convent that doubles as an orphanage for girls. Im now the oldest out of thirty-seven, a distinction Ive held for six months, after the last girl who turned eighteen left. At eighteen we must all make the choice to strike out on our own or to forge a life within the Church. The birthday Adelina and I created for me when we arrived is less than five months away, and thats when Ill turn eighteen, too. Of all whove reached eighteen, not a single girl has stayed. I cant blame them. Like the others, I have every intention of leaving this prison behind, whether or not Adelina comes with me. And its hard to imagine she will.

The convent itself was built entirely of stone in 1510 and is much too large for the small number of us who live here. Most of the rooms stand empty; and those that arent are imbued with a damp, earthy feel, and our voices echo to the ceiling and back. The convent rests atop the highest hill overlooking the village that shares the same name, nestled deep within the Picos de Europa Mountains of northern Spain. The village, like the convent, is made of rock, with many structures built straight into the mountainside. Walking down the towns main road, Calle Principal, its impossible not to be inundated by the disrepair. Its as though this place was forgotten by time, and the passing centuries have turned most everything to shades of mossy green and brown, while the pervasive smell of mildew hangs in the air.