The Quest (39 page)

Alia lay down beside me on top of my blanket.
“We almost didn’t make it, Addy,”
she said, staring up at the little chandelier.
“I didn’t think I’d see you again. But I guess you guys had it pretty rough too.”

“You could say that,” I said, putting an arm around her and patting her side. “How long was I sleeping?”

“Only about a day. Terry, James and I got here yesterday evening. You and Ed were brought in a few hours after us, at night.”

“So have you already talked with the Historian?” I asked.

“No, Addy. We didn’t bring any gifts, remember? The Historian hasn’t decided if he’ll actually talk with us yet.”

“But didn’t you meet him when he pulled you down here?”

“We were teleported straight into this guest house,”
explained Alia.
“The servants told us that we’d have to wait for the Historian to decide what he’s going to do with us.”

“I see.”

“But teleporting really hurt. It was like we were frozen all over.”

That part I remembered.

“You said James and Ed Regis were shot,” I said. “How bad?”

“James got one through his arm, but I took care of it then and there. Ed was shot in his shoulder and leg, but he didn’t lose as much blood as you did. He was up from this morning.”

“You know, you’re really amazing, Alia,” I said. “Thanks for bringing me back from the dead again.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that, Addy,”
Alia said quietly.
“You’re my brother. I’m just happy you’re alive.”

“I’m hungry,” I said, noticing my empty stomach for the first time.

“I think it’s almost dinnertime. The servants will call us when it’s ready.”

“One more question,” I said, gingerly pulling myself out from under the blanket.

“What?”

“Where are my clothes?”

Alia laughed.
“Over there, by the table.”

I discovered that I could stand without feeling too dizzy. I carefully walked over to the plastic picnic table where a neat stack of clothes lay on a marble chair. Resting next to the chair was a rolled-up sleeping bag. I guessed that Alia, not wanting to bother me, had slept on the floor last night.

Alia had gotten up off of my bed too, so I politely shooed her out of the room and changed out of my robe. There was a pair of cotton underpants and trousers and a thin but comfortable long-sleeve shirt. The clothes had no metal buttons or zippers anywhere, nor any tags or markings of any kind. They fit me as if they had been tailored precisely to my measurements.

My bedroom had a second door which led to a toilet, sink and bath, just like in a hotel. Seeing my own weathered face in the mirror above the sink, I almost gasped in surprise. Whoever had cleaned me up had even given me a shave, but it was still the face of a stranger. My long hair covering my ears had become dry and brittle, and I had lost so much weight that my features looked borderline skeletal. I had since long gotten used to my disparately colored eyes, but now they seemed to sit deeper in my eye sockets, more severe and hawk-like, uncomfortably reminding me of Dr. Denman. Alia had apparently healed my sunburns, but the result made my skin pale and lifeless. In short, I looked like a vampire.

Turning the faucet on and filling the sink, I splashed some cold water onto my face. Then I cupped my hands under the stream of water and took a sip. It was wonderfully refreshing. I didn’t wonder too much about how there could be electricity and running water down in the center of the middle of nowhere. It was the Historian’s home, after all.

As I studied my face in the mirror again, a strange feeling came over me. It was a combination of wonder and relief, with a touch of grim satisfaction mixed in.

I’m here,
I thought to myself quietly.
I’m at the Historian’s mountain.

Or rather,
in
the Historian’s mountain. But it was the same. My hope of ever getting this far had been gradually eroding away ever since we had jumped from the crippled airplane. When the Angel telekinetic blasted a hole in my chest, I had given myself up for lost. But once again I had survived. Just as I had somehow survived the Psionic Research Center. Just as I had survived the raid on the towboat. And the Slayers’ basement. And Randal Divine. I had survived them all, and here I was, still alive. Alive in the Historian’s mountain.

I’m here,
I thought to myself again.
I’m here and I’m alive.

What next? The answer was surprisingly simple: my stomach was beginning to growl.

Opening the door to the common room, I was met with cheers and applause from James and Ed Regis, who knew from Alia and Terry that I had regained consciousness.

“Good to see you alive, Adrian,” said Ed Regis, standing up to greet me.

“You too, Ed Regis,” I said, shaking his hand. “Thanks for carrying me all the way out here. I hope I wasn’t too heavy.”

Ed Regis shook his head. “You were actually walking for almost half of it, but I guess you don’t remember.”

That wasn’t very easy to believe, but now that he mentioned it, I did remember a few moments of stumbling along on my own feet.

James said, “We didn’t expect you up so soon.”

Ed Regis nodded. “You were white as a sheet when we arrived. I was almost certain you were dead.”

“He still looks pretty dead,” commented Terry.

I agreed, but it wasn’t just me. Now that I saw James, Ed Regis and Terry together, I realized that they all looked quite thin and weathered. Though noticeably skinnier, Alia was nevertheless the healthiest among us, probably because back when we were rationing our food supplies, she was given equal-sized portions. I supposed that if we could all get a few days of healthy eating and rest, we would soon return to our normal selves. I wondered how long the Historian would let us stay before sending us on our way, though, especially since we had nothing to offer in return for his hospitality.

“Alia mentioned dinner,” I said hopefully.

“Probably in a few more minutes,” said Ed Regis, and then gestured to one of the sofas set around a low table. “Why don’t you sit down?”

We all sat, and I looked around the common room in wonder. The long rectangular room was at least four times the size of our old living-room dojo in Walnut Lane. Along the walls I counted ten doors which probably led to individual bedrooms. Alia’s mention of “servants” and this being just a “guest house” made me wonder how big the Historian’s underground compound was. Perhaps it was even larger than the PRC.

Terry had warned me, but I was still shocked at the chaotic interior decoration. The common-room walls were, like my bedroom, each painted a different color. There were three large tables surrounded by chairs and couches, and not one of them matched any of the others. The low square coffee table where we were sitting was made of black marble. The next one over was an old oak dining table, while the farthest one belonged in a school cafeteria. The chairs and sofas were all different sizes and colors, some made of wood or stone or plastic, others covered with leather or various types of cloth. At the far end of the room stood three massive grandfather clocks, side by side. The place was a cross between a museum and a showroom. Each of the bedroom doors was of a different style and color. Mine was painted dark blue with a large red circle in the center. On the walls between the doors hung several landscape and portrait paintings, but not only were these paintings each following very different artistic styles, their frames were all slightly crooked, tilting to the left or right. I could only assume that this was deliberate.

“So what do you think?” asked Terry, clearly amused at the look on my face as my eyes wandered around the room, stopping at a bright green grand piano in the far corner.

“I’m trying not to,” I said. It wasn’t my place to judge the tastes of a 3000-year-old man.

“That’s my room,” said Terry, pointing to a green door with a vertical yellow stripe down the middle. Then she pointed to two more, explaining, “That’s Major Regis’s and James’s. There are no other guests here at the moment except us.”

“So I guess Merlin never made it this far,” I said quietly.

Terry silently shook her head.

Ed Regis said, “If Merlin had been traveling alone and undetected, he could have arrived much sooner than us. But without supplies…”

I nodded. I had already assumed that Merlin was either dead or captured, so I hadn’t expected to find him here anyway.

But that isn’t to say I didn’t care. I would never forget the words Merlin had spoken to Mrs. Harding when he chose to side with us. Merlin owed us nothing, and yet he gave us everything. He was a true friend, the truest kind possible. But we never did find out what really happened to him.

To keep my mind off of my hunger, I asked James and Ed Regis about their injuries.

Helping Terry hold back the Angels, James had taken a round in his right forearm. The bullet hadn’t hit his bone, but from the scarring on his skin, I could tell that a fair chunk of flesh had been torn off.

“Congratulations, James,” I said wryly, looking at his scar. “You’ve survived your very first bullet. Not many people do.”

James smiled. “I still have a long way to go before I catch up with you.”

“If you have any sense at all, you won’t try,” I said seriously.

Ed Regis didn’t show me his scars, but according to him, two Angels caught up with us within hours of my passing out. Ed Regis had taken a round to his right shoulder fighting them off. I still couldn’t remember it, but apparently I had offered to walk as much as possible after that. The Seraphim that had failed to stop Alia’s group met us on the Historian’s doorstep. Still bent on capturing us alive, they shot Ed Regis in his right leg as he carried me up the slope, causing him to drop me onto the ground, but moments later we were whisked away into the mountain. Ed Regis refused to describe in detail what the Historian had done to the Angels, stating simply that, “They died horribly.”

“I still think it was stupid of you to take me with you, Ed Regis,” I said.

Ed Regis shrugged. “You would have done the same for me.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

We laughed loudly and without reservation. I was wrong earlier when I said to Alia that Ed Regis and I might never be friends. It might only be until our missions ended and Ed Regis returned to his Wolf unit, but here and now, we were friends. It was impossible to come through what we had and not be.

Though we had all done our parts to get this far, it was mostly thanks to Alia that we actually made it to the Historian’s mountain. The Angels had issued their ultimatum with what they believed to be plenty of distance to spare, but if it hadn’t been for their desire to take my sister alive, they could have killed us all much earlier.

Sitting next to me on the sofa, Alia was leaning her back against my side and giggling annoyingly every time my stomach moaned. I was contemplating giving her a good whack on the head when the door at the far end of the room opened and an elderly man wearing a dark suit entered.

The man gave a little bow and said, “Master Regis, Master Turner, Master Howell, Mistress Henderson and Mistress Gifford, dinner is served.”

As we approached him, the servant bowed to me and said, “Master Howell, it is good to see you back on your feet so quickly. Benjamin Havel, at your service.”

Something about his name seemed strangely familiar to me but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Havel,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Just Havel if you please, Master Howell,” the servant corrected gently. “If you are ever in need of anything, call my name or think it loudly, and I will come.”

It felt odd being called “Master Howell” by this old and dignified man, but I suspected that it was part of his job. I bowed my head and mumbled awkwardly, “Thank you.”

The servant gave me a warm smile. “You must be hungry, Master Howell. We have prepared a special meal for you to help you recover your strength. Good masters and mistresses, please come with me.”

As we followed the servant down a corridor lined with more crooked paintings, I asked the man, “How did you know to prepare a meal for me, Mr. Havel? I only just woke up.”

“It is our honor and pleasure to care for the guests here. I try my best,” the servant replied, and then politely reminded me again, “Just call me Havel, Master Howell.”

I whispered to Terry through the corner of my mouth, “How
did
he know?”

Terry shrugged. “The servants here usually know everything that’s going on, so watch what you say and do.”

Terry’s warning made me more self-aware, and I suddenly realized that I was running my right hand along the corridor wall. Ed Regis laughed as I shoved my hands into my pockets.

A few twists and turns later, we arrived at a massive dining room with enough tables and chairs to seat fifty people. I was used to the chaotic decor by now, so it didn’t bother me that we were seated at a table shaped like a giant guitar.

We had no sooner sat down than a team of servants entered the room carrying large wooden trays of steaming hot dinner. The servants, I observed, were all different ages: one was a girl who looked only a little older than Terry, while the oldest was a man with a wrinkled face and a long gray beard. They looked and spoke like they came from all different parts of the world, but they nevertheless worked quickly and efficiently together. Our guitar-shaped table was soon overflowing with platters of every evening dish known to man.

I stuck to what looked familiar: diced steak, fried chicken, baked potatoes, bread and salad, keeping clear of the mysterious-looking stews, pâtés, and anything I couldn’t identify or pronounce the chief ingredients in. As a semi-professional cook, I would, under more normal circumstances, have jumped at the opportunity to try out new and interesting tastes. But at the moment, I wasn’t feeling very adventurous and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to eat very much on a shrunken stomach anyway, so why take chances? My sister took a bite of just about everything on the table and reported that it was all perfectly delicious.