The Quest (40 page)

“I’ll take your word for it, Alia,” I said, backing away from her recommendation of what appeared to be tiny purplish raw fish eggs. “I really don’t want to have an upset stomach when we meet the Historian.”

“If we meet him,” corrected Alia.

“If,” I repeated, smiling. “But he saved our lives. Even if he won’t give us information, I’d still want to thank him.”

As I expected, it didn’t take much to fill me up, but I felt immensely better for it. And with my senses running on a full stomach, I also finally realized something about this whole place that I had been feeling ever since I had woken but couldn’t quite identify, being too distracted by all the ridiculous furniture and paintings: there was absolutely nothing underground-ish about the Historian’s home.

I had been underground a lot, and in many places. This wasn’t like any of them. It wasn’t stuffy, claustrophobic or unnaturally wet or dry here. The air was cool and fresh, not the kind you could get from a mechanized ventilation system, and there always seemed to be a gentle spring breeze blowing from somewhere. The lights were a combination of modern electric lights, oil lamps and candles that were neither too bright nor too dark, didn’t cast uncomfortable shadows, and reminded me of sitting in the shade of a tree on a lonely hill. It was as if time itself had frozen at that precise afternoon moment when everything about the day is perfect.

And then there was the Historian. Not the man, but his power. I had felt it strongly from miles away, but here it permeated every room and corridor, seeping through our bodies, an almost tangible flow of psionic energy. I could only sense his destroyer powers, of course, but I nevertheless felt the combined effect of his many others. It soothed my mind and body. My own psionic power seemed to be resonating with the Historian’s, feeding off of it, and I strongly suspected that this was the reason I had regained consciousness in but a day after being so close to death.

As we continued our meal, I suddenly felt the Historian’s energy surge through my body, making me gasp in surprise.

Ed Regis put down his fork and smiled broadly. “Is this the Historian?”

“You feel it too, don’t you?” said Terry. “He’s happy about something. When you’re this close and he’s excited, you don’t have to be psionic to feel the Historian’s powers.”

“This is amazing,” James whispered in awe.

Alia had her hands pressed to her chest as if she was having some trouble breathing. Catching my concerned look, she said, “I’m okay. It’s just a little too much.”

In a moment, the Historian’s power flow returned to normal, and Alia and I breathed our sighs of relief.

“What happens when he gets angry?” I muttered.

Terry laughed. “You don’t want to know.”

We had eaten almost to the bursting point when the servants next began bringing in trays of fruit bowls, ice cream, cookies and cake.

One female servant had come without a tray, though. She looked about thirty years old and spoke in a slight Swedish accent, saying carefully, “Master Howell, Mistress Henderson, if it pleases you, the Historian will meet with you now.”

Everyone looked surprised except Terry, who calmly stood up and said, “It would please us greatly.”

“This way, please,” said the woman.

“What about us?” asked James.

“Eat your dessert,” suggested Terry.

Alia looked even more upset than James at not being invited, but Ed Regis kept a politely unconcerned expression as the woman led Terry and me out of the dining room.

“Why only us?” I asked Terry as we followed the servant, weaving our way through a maze of rooms and corridors.

“We’re about to find out,” said Terry. “Just remember, Adrian, the Historian is a very fickle person. Try to stay on his good side.” Terry’s voice seemed to have a touch of – was it fear? No, it was more like apprehension or nervousness, but it still didn’t suit Terry at all.

After a few more doors and corridors, Terry informed me that we were already inside the Historian’s residence, but I couldn’t tell when we had officially left the guest house. The Historian’s mansion was no different: a deliberately outlandish combination of colors and styles.

We passed through a room full of shelves and showcases crammed with ancient-looking pots and small stone figurines. The servant’s pace was quick so I didn’t get a good look, but I guessed that most of the artifacts here were at least a thousand years old.

The woman brought us to a small waiting room. There was a pair of closed double doors on one wall and a few couches along another.

“Please remain here,” she said, gesturing to a couch. “The Historian will be with you shortly.”

The servant bowed herself out of the waiting room through a small side door. Terry didn’t sit down, so neither did I.

Glancing at the double doors, one green, the other blue, I said nervously to Terry, “I feel like I’m about to get a tooth pulled or something.”

Terry grinned. “Anything can happen.”

The side door opened again. I was expecting the Historian, but instead another servant came in. I nevertheless stared at him in surprise: This servant was a very young blond-haired boy, even smaller than Alia. Wearing a light blue tunic that matched his baby blue eyes, he looked only about six or seven years old. I guessed that he was the son of one of the other servants, perhaps even the child of the woman who had just led us here. Did the Historian’s many servants live here all their lives, taking care of this underground mansion one generation after the next?

The servant boy silently opened the double doors for us and stood to the side, gesturing us to enter. We did, and the child followed us in, quietly closing the doors behind him.

Aside from the predictably colorful walls and mismatching furniture, the Historian’s office looked fairly ordinary, with a large wooden desk at the far end, several exotic-looking potted plants in the corners, and two long sofas and an armchair set around a rectangular coffee table near the entrance. Never mind that the desk was bright orange.

“So where’s the damn Historian?” I whispered to Terry.

Terry promptly smacked me over the head.

Then she bowed low to the child and said, “It is an honor to see you again, Mr. Historian.”

I finally got the joke.

Like Alia and me, the Historian had gained his first power, complete physical regeneration, at an age much younger than normal for psionics. He then spent the next three thousand years in his little body, not only unable to grow old, but unable to grow at all. And yes, he was very cute.

Terry looked like she was about to formally introduce me, but the Historian spoke first. “Adrian Howell, it is a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” he said in clear if somewhat accented English. “I see your vision is fully restored.”

“It is an honor, Mr. Historian,” I said humbly. “Thank you for helping Terry find a cure for my blindness.”

“Thank Terry,” said the Historian. “She paid quite dearly for my help that time.”

The Historian’s accent was impossible to place. I could only guess that he had moved from language to language over the millennia, resulting in a combination of hundreds of styles and dialects.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Historian,” I said uncomfortably, “but we lost the gifts we had meant to bring you.”

“Yes, I know,” said the Historian. Then he turned to Terry and, telekinetically levitating himself up so that he was eye level with her, said with a frown, “Teresa Henderson, you have returned to me through many dangers to learn about the Angels’ new master, but I fear your journey may have been in vain. Once again you stand before me bearing nothing to exchange for my services. There will be no deals or promises with you this time.”

Terry roughly poked my side with her left stump. “I brought Adrian, didn’t I?”

I stared at Terry and silently mouthed, “What?!”

Terry ignored me, saying to the Historian, “I offer one Adrian Howell in exchange for your assistance in destroying King Randal Divine, or at least information leading us to him.”

I looked back and forth between Terry and the levitating Historian, feeling confused and embarrassed. What the hell was Terry doing?!

The Historian waggled a finger at Terry. “Now, now, Teresa. You know perfectly well that I will never fight for either side in this pointless conflict. As for your offer, young Adrian here is not really yours to give, now is he?”

Terry countered, “I’m the one that convinced him to come here and meet you, Mr. Historian. My training and my team kept him alive. I think that makes him mine to offer.”

“What is going on here?!” I demanded.

“Negotiation,” Terry replied playfully. I glared at her.

Gently touching down onto the floor and looking up at me, the Historian explained, “I wanted to meet you, Adrian Howell. I have been following your progress through the mountains, and I was afraid that you would not survive your journey. I had so very much wanted to speak with you, and that would have been impossible had you arrived as a corpse.”

“
You
wanted to speak with
me?”
I asked incredulously.

“I did indeed,” the Historian replied with a smile. “Your visit just might be the highlight of the year for me.”

At the moment, I had no interest in why the Historian wanted to meet me as opposed to the other way around. Suddenly I was too angry to care. “We lost half of our team on the way here, Historian!” I said, my temper and tone rising rapidly. “I almost died too. We all did! You could have helped us! If you really wanted to meet me so much, why didn’t you help us?!”

“It was my choice not to,” the Historian replied icily. “Just as you are now choosing to bark at me in my own home.”

The little Historian’s baby blue eyes were suddenly cold and menacing. His power had grown again, but this time the energy flowed erratically, making my head throb.

I quickly checked myself and took a few controlled breaths. Then I said in a subdued tone, “I’m sorry, Mr. Historian. I know you are sworn to neutrality. I am just frustrated after our long journey.”

The Historian nodded, and then smiled, his power instantly returning to normal. “No matter, Adrian. I am hopeful that our meeting will be mutually beneficial.”

“Thank you for killing the Angels in the end, by the way,” I said.

The Historian shook his head. “They were needlessly on my mountain.”

Then, after a sidelong glance at Terry, the Historian said lightly, “Still, at least your combat instructor can indeed claim some credit for your presence here today. You, on the other hand, have arrived without any gifts at all.”

Except myself
, I thought wryly.

“Are you making an offer?” asked the Historian, apparently delving my thoughts.

“I don’t know what I’m offering,” I answered honestly. “What do you want with me?”

“It is my belief that you may be able to help me fill in a gap in my knowledge that has been troubling me for the last two hundred years.”

“I’ve only been alive for sixteen,” I reminded him.

“It matters not,” said the Historian. “You have come with questions you wish me to answer, yes?”

“I have come with one.”

“Cindy Gifford?” asked the Historian, still delving my consciousness.

“That’s right.”

“I shall answer your question, Adrian. But only if you allow me to read your history.”

“My history?”

“Your memories, your thoughts, your very essence,” said the Historian, levitating himself off of the floor again and looking me in the eyes. “Everything about your sixteen short years of life, from the moment of your birth to the moment you stepped into this room and shouted at me.”

I frowned. “I’m guessing that if you wanted, you could read these things without my consent.”

“Of course,” said the Historian, gliding slowly backwards and setting himself down onto the armchair facing the coffee table. “But once again, I choose not to. Allow me to look inside you for the answers to my questions, and you may consider yourself to have paid for my help in full. The Angels have been so generous of late that I am in no real need of material gifts anyway. I am far more interested in what may be locked inside you.”

“What about Terry’s questions?” I asked. “What about the location of the Angels’ master?”

“I don’t think so,” said the Historian, shaking his head. “Your history for the answer to your question, nothing more.”

I bowed my head and said quietly, “Then, Mr. Historian, I must respectfully decline.”

Though he remained sitting, I felt the Historian’s anger surge up again. “Not very wise, young Adrian,” he said in a chilling voice.

“Perhaps not,” I said, still looking down at my feet, “but my information has a price too.”

I had no doubts about his claim that he could read me without my consent, and perhaps I was a fool to parley with the notoriously fickle Historian. But I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for Terry and Ed Regis, and their questions were just as important as mine. I was still angry at Terry, of course, but not enough to betray her.

“This is your last chance,” the Historian said warningly. “Your history for the location of Cindy Gifford.”

“I am deeply sorry to have wasted your time,” I said, turning to leave.

Suddenly the Historian laughed loudly. “You are quite a negotiator, young Adrian!” he said jovially, lightly hopping down from his armchair. “It is not often that I must submit to someone else’s demands, but in this case I shall have to agree to your terms.”

“Thank you, Mr. Historian,” I said, breathing a deep sigh of relief as I realized that the Historian’s power was once again at peace.

Terry nudged me with her stump, saying happily, “You’re better than a bag of gemstones, Adrian.”

I replied frostily under my breath, “We are going to have words later, Terry.”

I still had no clue what the Historian hoped to gain by reading my history, but it sounded harmless enough, and if that was what it took to get the answers to our questions, then I would happily give him everything I had.

Just to be extra sure, I pressed the Historian, asking, “You will answer all of our questions about Cindy and about the Angel king? And you’re not going to mess up my mind or anything when you read it?”