Destruction's Ascent, page 21
part #3 of Dragon Ridden Chronicles Series
"Wait a minute," Tate said. "Your own man said he saw us come out of that thing. We're not lying."
"Save it, thief. You can plead your case in front of judgment tomorrow," the well-dressed man said.
"Tomorrow?" Tate's voice rose. "I don't have that kind of time. That mirror’s a relic; you should know as well as I do that crazy things are capable of happening around them. Look, we were in the tunnels and then somehow ended up back here."
"The tunnel." The man's expression turned victorious. "Then that means you're a criminal. Anyone in the tunnels has ties to the Night Lords. It's my job to stamp out their ilk."
Tate's jaw dropped, and she was rendered speechless. Who the hell was this guy?
Night's tail flicked angrily behind him as he kept his gaze focused on the man. Tate, be careful. He's the Basalt Olar, second in command in the Black Order. He answers directly to the Obsidian Lord. He could very well throw us in the Deeps or worse and I doubt the guardians will do anything to stop him.
That explained it. Of course, he was with the Order. Only they had such a fluid definition of justice. Plus, he was a jerk, something all those who worked for the Order seemed to take lessons in.
It was on the tip of her tongue to demand that they get a hold of Thora or Ryu. Either of them could backup her story about the mirror being a gateway. The only thing preventing her from doing so, was the fact that both Thora and Ryu had explicitly forbidden her from bothering the guardians.
The threat of being stuck in isolation for the next decade was enough to keep her quiet. She wanted to reserve that option as a last resort. If push came to shove, she'd do it, but until then, she was stuck trying to talk her way out of this.
"Linc, call for your fellow guardians," the head guardian said, stuffing his hands in either of his sleeves, his face grave.
He gave the appearance of being wise, but given with whom he chose to hang around, Tate had to question that. Anyone who willingly dealt with the Order—or worse, seemed to consider them friends— in her estimation, didn't strike her as too bright.
As Linc left, a thought occurred to her.
"Wait, you have a disciple by the name of Grimsly," Tate said, seeking a way out of this that didn't involve the dragons. "He can verify my story."
The guardian looked like he was considering her words.
The man from the Order scoffed. "Don't listen to her, Grand Master Keel. She's trying to save her own skin."
Keel looked unsettled, watching Tate like she was something he half-expected to attack at any moment. She didn't anticipate good things in persuading him out of this madness.
We can take them, Night offered, his body tense and on guard. Now, before they summon help.
Tate hesitated, unsure. While that was tempting, it might backfire. She could pretend to be any person in the city. A woman of average height, with red hair and gray eyes was relatively common. Night, on the other hand, was nearly one of a kind.
It wouldn't take much for a description to implicate him. In such an event, he could kiss any success with his application good bye.
"Let's wait and see," she said in a low voice meant only for his ears.
They might still be able to turn this to their advantage. The need for action burned at her, especially with Jack and the other children's fate hanging in the balance. Having to wait and play nice made her skin itch. Ilith, pacing up and down her arm, didn't help calm her.
The door on the other side of the chamber opened and five men, all clad in similar robes strode in. At least two looked like they'd spent part of their lives mining rock in the work camps up North, their arms as wide around as Tate's head.
What sort of religion required—what could only be enforcers—to guard their temples? Because that's what these men were, unless Tate had misplaced part of her brain cells when she traveled through that mirror. They had the look of warriors, there to guard and protect.
One of the smaller men appeared familiar. His mouth parted as recognition crossed his face. He shot a look at Keel before turning back to her, his thoughts carefully concealed.
Tate frowned, trying to place that face. Her eyes widened as it came to her. The first time she'd gotten lost in the tunnels—the trip where she'd met Night and saved Dewdrop—they'd surfaced in the temple and it was this man who'd offered them help.
She'd been somewhat out of it at the time, which would explain why she hadn’t placed him right away.
"Tate," Grimsly said, his voice surprised. "What are you doing here?"
In her distraction, she'd missed another familiar face, this one much more recent than the other.
"Just who I wanted to see. Perhaps you can clear this up. I tried to tell them that we came through the mirror, but they didn't believe me." Tate slid a vexed look at the two men.
Grimsly blinked at her in surprise, his eyes shifting to the head guardian and his companion. He grimaced before giving a small bow and making a gesture of honor toward the head of his order.
"She's not lying," Grimsly said in a regretful voice. "I filled out a report and placed it on your desk, Grand Master. Several days ago, the mirror in Lord Thora's study proved itself capable of such feats."
Keel bent a cool look Grimsly's direction. "Are you sure of this?"
"I am. I witnessed the events myself."
"Lord Thora," the man from the Order said, a thoughtful note in his voice.
Tate fought against a wince. The very person she'd tried to avoid being tied to, somehow managed to insinuate himself into the conversation regardless of her efforts.
Basalt Olar looked at her with fresh consideration, his gaze going to Night for the first time. Until then he hadn't even looked in her friend’s direction.
"Dragon-ridden. You're that woman they insist is one of them."
Tate shifted under the scrutiny she suddenly found herself subjected to. Left with no choice, she confirmed what they already knew. "That would be correct."
She didn't like the avarice she saw in his gaze—something that seemed to indicate she had just handed him the key to his wildest dreams.
"If she is dragon-ridden as you say, perhaps we should get Lord Thora down here to confirm matters," Keel said in an authoritative voice.
Tate's shoulders bowed. Damn. This was going to get a bit tricky.
"Until then, please escort her to one of the penitence cells," he said, his face serene.
"Of course, Grand Master." Both Grimsly and the familiar guardian bowed their heads as the two boulders behind them lumbered toward Tate and Night.
"We'll follow you. No need to touch," Tate said, jerking her arm away from one of them as the other bent to Night.
He backed off quickly when Night rounded on him with a silent snarl, his lips curled up and his ears pinned flat. Warning given, Night prowled toward the door, Tate next to him as the two men kept a safe distance between them.
They were escorted to a chamber bare of any luxuries—even the most basic ones. No bed, chair, or even a rug to protect them from the hard floor. It was cold and dank. Tate could see why they called it the penitence room. She felt sorry for any guardian sentenced to its desolate embrace.
Night roamed the cell, walking its circumference as Tate leaned against the wall.
I still say we should have taken our chances.
"And we would have regretted it eventually," Tate said, tilting her head back against the wall.
There was nothing to do but wait. It was an effort to keep her mind from venturing down all the scenarios of what Jack and the rest might be going through right now—each more nightmarish than the last.
"What was that thing chasing us?" she asked. Anything to keep herself occupied.
Night's progress checked as he swung his head around to look at her. He turned forward and resumed his path. A monster. You saw it.
"You have nothing else to add?" she pressed.
There was a long silence, and she thought he might ignore the question.
I've encountered such a creature before. He turned and sat with his back to her, his head drooping forward. The picture of a man bereft. It cost me dearly.
Tate pressed her lips against any further questions she might utter. It was clear the story was not a happy one, and if Night didn't want to share, that was his choice. She wouldn't force him to delve into memories that pained him—not when there was no benefit to it.
She had to wonder if his story had anything to do with what had happened to the twins’ mom. He never spoke of her, and Tate never pushed—because it could be that he simply didn't remember that time in his history, as was the case with her, or that their story had ended in tragedy.
The door to their cell unlocked and one of the guardians, his hood pulled up and his face in shadow, pointed at Tate and gestured for her to follow.
"That didn't take long," Tate said.
I don't trust this. Not enough time has passed. There's no way Thora or Ryu could have gotten down here so soon. Night's mental voice was suspicious.
"Maybe they were in the area," Tate suggested in an uneasy voice. She didn't know if she believed that either.
Night started to precede her out of the room and stopped when the guardian held out a hand and pointed emphatically at her again.
"I think he only wants me," Tate guessed.
I definitely don't like this, Night declared. I don't think you should go with him.
"I don't see much of a choice, do you?" she asked. All the hooded guardian needed to do was summon the two oversized boulders to force the issue, and what Tate had been trying to avoid would become a moot point.
He must have agreed because he plopped down and glared balefully at the door.
"If I don't return in a timely fashion, you're free to go looking for me," Tate offered in a conciliatory voice.
He perked up at those words but still looked no less put out at being left behind.
You'd better come back, Night said.
On both of their minds was the uneasiness the Order's presence gave them. The man making decisions was the second in charge of an organization that had made clear its dislike of them. Tate prayed this wasn't a ruse to separate and eliminate each of them while they were alone.
The cell door clanged shut behind her and the hooded guardian strode past her without a word, his head down and face still concealed.
"Where are we going?" Tate asked.
His head turned slightly so she knew he'd heard her.
"You take a vow of silence or something?" she asked, giving him a look filled with unease.
He hesitated then inclined his head in a nod.
She narrowed her eyes at him as they turned down another hallway that had been carved into the cliffs. How many of these were there? They really were trying to imitate the Saviors if this was how they spent their time, carving endless passages in a pale imitation of the tunnels below.
Again, Tate was left questioning why they had chosen to show their devotion in this manner. It made no sense to her.
Just when Tate had had enough, when she had decided he really did intend her harm, he turned to a wall and stepped through, passing through the solid surface as if it wasn't even there. She stopped short where he had disappeared and examined the rock facade closely. It looked like any other wall they'd passed, nothing to distinguish it or indicate there was an empty space here.
Whoever had crafted it was a genius. It was comparable to what the Saviors had created. Tate had encountered its like more than once in the tunnels; however, she'd never expected to see it up here.
An arm appeared from the wall and the pointer finger made a come-hither motion.
Tate stepped back and eyed the wall. She'd survived trips like these before. Just today she'd gone through a mirror that transported her miles underground. Twice. This should be nothing. So what, if it wasn't constructed by someone who knew what they were doing?
Either way, she needed to follow, and soon. If an arm could have an emotion, this one would be screaming its impatience.
She took a deep breath and stepped forward. It was like trying to walk through honey, cloying and clinging. Had she never met Ai or experienced a similar kind of illusion, she would have been even more disconcerted. With Ai, stepping through was like stepping into a slight breeze, easily done and over before you had much time to think.
Not this. It was slow and required effort, leaving her with the unsettling feeling that she was about to get stuck in the wall.
Finally, Tate was through, feeling about ten years older, and like she'd just escaped with her life by the narrowest margins.
The guardian hadn't waited for her, continuing into the room and to the far side. Tate didn't hurry after him, figuring he could deal with it as she took her time examining their surroundings.
It was smaller than the treasure room, though not by much. Where that room had been littered with priceless items, this one was almost bare. The only things in it were brilliant tapestries and paintings—unlike any she'd seen before—hanging on the walls.
They were different than the ones in the hallway, which mostly depicted stylized battle scenes well after the fact. These were more intimate, the subjects relaxed and smiling, not staring grim-faced out of the painting as if they wanted to murder the viewer. Whoever had created these caught these people when times weren't so tough or grim, perhaps in the quiet before battle. The brush strokes appeared nonexistent. It was like someone had taken a moment in time and frozen it. Not a painting exactly, but something else. Something more lifelike.
She recognized the faces in some of them. These were from the same era as the Saviors, somehow preserved through time. No wonder the likenesses of the icons in the alcoves were so striking. The artists had had a place to start.
What sort of magic was needed to make these appear as they must have appeared on the day they were created? The colors hadn't faded, and the paper wasn't discolored. She peered closer, noting the slightest hint of reflection. Glass?
Sometimes, she almost understood what so fascinated others about these people. This was beyond anything Tate had ever seen.
The subjects looked light and carefree, not the hard-bitten warriors they were remembered as. Young, but not innocent. They hadn't seen the worst this world had to offer. They still had hope. It was odd, but they seemed more human here, not the stiff symbols of victory portrayed outside this room.
Tate moved through the space, soaking each painting in, examining it and the subjects before moving to the next, until she worked her way around the room to where the guardian stood in front of a painting hidden in the corner.
His back was to her, his hands clasped behind him as he tilted his head up at the forgotten painting. Shadows clung to it since this part of the room wasn't as well lit.
Tate ground to a halt, her face stricken as she took in the subject matter. This one was different than the rest. It was posed, all the subjects looking at the painter. Their postures were relaxed, smiles on their faces. A few had paired up, their body language making Tate think of couples. That wasn't what caught her. No, it was the face belonging to the main statue outside, his face illuminated by a wicked smile directed at a woman who was a dead ringer for Tate.
"How is this possible?" Tate asked, not really expecting an answer. That was good because the guardian didn't offer one.
He gave her a slight bow before walking away, leaving her standing, staring up at the picture as her entire world tilted on its axis.
That woman was her. She knew it like she knew her name was Tate. It was her shoulder the man's arm lay on. Her sly, knowing look as she stared out of the painting. She was the focus around which the group revolved, a few caught in mid-laugh as they turned to her—as if she’d just made a remark they were reacting to. It should have been impossible.
Only, it wasn't.
It was a confirmation of a thought she'd buried deep, unwilling to explore or articulate. Brown Eyes had been right. She wasn't just a sleeper from some time long ago. She'd been a Savior, someone responsible for the current world.
It was a punch to the gut. Not just because of the mind-boggling nature of it, but because it was undeniable proof that everyone she once knew was dead. There would be no reunion with a family—no parents, no sister or brother. No friends to reunite with. Not even hope for a past lover who'd searched for her.
She was alone. The last survivor from a time when the world had gone crazy and monsters were created for the amusement of others. Hell, she was probably one of those monsters. Maybe that's why they'd stuck her in that glass cylinder and let her sleep away the ages.
This explained why the works of the ancients had such odd reactions to her. Why she could open things others couldn't, and why their relics seemed to wake up around her.
The guardian let her soak it in, not disturbing or rushing her. She'd find it in herself to be grateful later.
For now, her eyes greedily devoured the faces of the other people in the painting. These were her friends, now removed by time and death. Forgotten, along with the rest of her memories.
If she thought being able to see her past would help jog something loose, she was wrong. Try as she might, everything remained locked behind an unsurpassable wall.
She didn't know whether to be happy at proof of her past or devastated. This wasn't something she could tell people when they met, when they listed their ancestors of note. She had none. She was the ancestor. What was she supposed to say, Tate Fisher, aka Tatum Allegra Winters, Savior, dragon-ridden, sleeper? She could see that being received well.
Tate lost track of time, standing in front of that picture. Finally, when she couldn't take it anymore, she stepped back, making her way toward the fake wall in a daze. The guardian had waited for her and stepped through as soon as she headed toward him.
With one last lingering look at the gallery, she stepped through. She had questions. So many questions.
Their return was quiet. When they stood in front of her cell again, she turned to the guardian. "Why did you show me that?"
