Raven Rise (8 page)

When he saw that he wasn't alone. Graviot stood at the mouth of the mine, along with four other Bedoowan knights. Alder pulled up short, his hope of survival quickly evaporating.

“What has happened to you, Alder?” Graviot asked sadly. “Have you lost your senses?”

Alder didn't answer. He had to buy time. Did the knights know that fuses were burning a hundred yards into the tunnel?

“You are right,” Alder said, trying to sound troubled. “I do not know what has come over me. Perhaps I fear war more than I ever imagined. I believe I should throw myself on the mercy of King Rellin.”

“What is that smell?” Graviot asked quizzically.

All five knights went on alert. If they didn't realize a fuse was burning, they would soon. Alder didn't make the first move. He would leave that to the other knights.

“There is a fire in the mine!” one of the knights shouted, horrified.

“What have you done?” Graviot exclaimed.

All five knights took off running into the mine. Alder had a brief thought that these were good men. Their first thought wasn't to save themselves, it was to put out the fire. He respected them for that.

But it didn't stop him from taking them apart. The knights weren't as experienced as Alder. Alder flung himself sideways at the first two, knocking them back. He kept moving, rolling off them and unleashing a barrage of punches and kicks to keep the others back. Graviot struggled to crawl deeper into the mine, but Alder was on him before he could stand. He lifted the young knight into the air, spun, and flung him toward the others. His strength was impossible. He was possessed. He knew the future of Halla might be decided by this one, brutal fight. There was no way he could keep all five back for long; he could only hope that it would be long enough.

One of the knights charged him. Alder turned his back to the knight and drove his arms forward, making an impossible target. The knight bounced off him as Alder spun and nailed him with a roundhouse kick to the jaw. It was the last kick he would throw.

He felt a sharp blow to the back of his head and fell forward. The world began to spin. He knew he had been hit by something harder than a fist or a foot. Where had the weapon come from? The knights weren't armed. Alder hit the dirt floor and rolled onto his back. He was losing consciousness. He looked up to see if the knights were sprinting into the tunnel. They weren't. He hoped to see a white flash that would signal the beginning of the end of the tak mine. He didn't. What he saw instead was a sixth man standing in the center of the tunnel—a miner. In one hand he held a pickax used for digging through rock. At least Alder knew what had hit him. It was what the miner had in his other hand that crushed Alder.

The miner held four three-foot lengths of partially burned rope. There would be no explosion. The tak was safe.

The war would begin.

Alder's eyes opened cautiously. Where was he? His head hurt, no big surprise. Getting hit with a pickax will do that. He squinted against a bright light that shone directly into his eyes. Though it hurt to move, he held his hand up to shield the light. As his focus sharpened, he saw that the light was blasting in through a small window halfway up the wall. A closer look told him the truth. Across the window were bars. Prison bars. He was being held captive. He wasn't surprised. He tried to destroy the mine, the village, and Rellin's aspirations for conquering Denduron. Of course they threw him in jail. The only surprise was that they hadn't executed him before he had the chance to wake up.

He was alone in the cell, lying on the floor. He took a breath and coughed. It was a dirt floor and he had sucked in a lungful. He wiped his mouth…and saw his ring. His Traveler ring. Alder brightened. There was still a chance. He could contact Pendragon through the ring. Why hadn't he thought of that before? If he could get a message to Pendragon and let him know what was going on, the lead Traveler might take up the fight. He could come back to Denduron. With Siry. And Loor. They could take up the fight for Denduron once again, but that couldn't be unless they knew what had happened. But how? He had no paper to write a message and didn't think the guards would give him any. No, he had to send a sign. Something. Anything that would make Pendragon think. He stared at the ring, desperate for an idea.

The answer was right in front of his eyes. Literally. Alder's sleeve was covered with blood. He wasn't sure if it was his own blood, or from one of the other knights. It didn't matter. His sleeve was soaked. The blood was already drying and turning brown. It looked as if someone had been seriously injured. It was exactly what he needed.

Alder was dizzy. He had to force himself to focus. He reached out, grabbed his sleeve with his other hand, and pulled, trying to rip off a bloody piece of fabric. He didn't have the strength. He brought the bloody sleeve to his mouth and bit, gnawing at the fabric, tasting the blood. After several minutes of chewing on the grisly material, he finally tore a small hole. It was plenty. Once the tear started, he was able to rip it farther and eventually pull off a piece of fabric about six inches long. It was perfect. Alder rolled the gruesome swatch of fabric into a tube, took off his ring, and placed it on the ground next to his face. He didn't care if a guard saw what was about to happen. There was nothing he could do to hide the show of light and music.

“Ibara,”
Alder called.

The ring didn't move.

“Ibara!”
he called again, louder.

It didn't matter. The ring didn't respond.

Alder remembered the silent flume when he'd tried to rejoin Bobby on Ibara. For the first time in his life, he cried. Tears of frustration ran down his dirty cheek, stinging his open cuts. His warning would not find its way to the lead Traveler.

“What has happened to you, Pendragon?” he sobbed. “What has happened?”

Patrick Mac desperately needed to see something familiar.
Something he could wrap his mind around that would allow him to start rebuilding his sanity. He chose to go to the library—his refuge. His fortress of solitude. Things always made sense to him when he was in a library. Libraries were orderly and structured and filled with the knowledge of the ages. He always found answers in the library. He hoped that would happen again on the new Third Earth.

He hoped the library still existed.

He walked through the destroyed streets of New York City in a daze. There were plenty of people, but to Patrick they seemed more like rats. They scurried in and around the derelict buildings, grubbing through garbage cans for food or crouching down on all fours to slurp water that dripped from rusted, leaking pipes. It was like walking through a dream. Or a nightmare. The world he knew was gone. He wasn't so sure he wanted to get to know this new one.

Nothing looked familiar and he quickly got lost. Where was the library? He knew that his beloved refuge was built on the same spot where the library had always been, as far back as the nineteenth century. Where was that? On the old Third Earth it was a short walk across a grassy plain, over a footbridge that spanned a clean brook, and a few hundred yards along a pathway made of sparkling, crushed quartz.

Now he was faced with a sea of crumbling buildings. He wasn't even sure where he was starting from. Did he still live in Chelsea even if Chelsea was no longer underground? He desperately looked around for something that would give him his bearings. This was still New York City. Obviously something had changed in the past that sent it on a very different path from the history he knew, but it was the same city. There had to be something he would recognize. He was a historian, after all.

He passed several storefronts. Most were shuttered, but a few were open for business, selling cans of food or bottled water. To Patrick it seemed as if this were a city trying to recover from the ravages of a war. The thought made him shudder.

He stumbled a few more steps, rounded the corner of a building, and smiled. The sight was so obvious it actually made him laugh. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Looming over him was a huge skyscraper. On his old Third Earth it had a shiny silver skin. On this transformed territory it looked more like the ancient, historical version he had seen in holograms. It was the Empire State Building. This huge, majestic structure was one of the few historical buildings that had been retained when the move underground began. However, this didn't look much like the building he remembered. Instead of the gleaming steel tower, this ancient structure was pitted and sad. Giant holes were peppered through its walls, as if monster moths had eaten their fill. The majestic antenna that topped off the structure was long gone. Patrick feared that a strong wind would topple the once-mighty building like a rotted tree. As sad as this sight was, it lifted his spirits. He had his bearings. His beloved library wasn't far away.

The closer he walked toward the Empire State Building, the more crowded the streets became. Some people actually seemed to be walking with purpose, as if they had places to be and people to meet. This was once a center of business for the city. Patrick wondered if these were people on their way to or from work. Most wore nondescript clothing that looked old and worn. Still others had on old-fashioned business suits, complete with neckties. The clothing looked tired though. And dirty. And sad. Still, the people walked with their heads up. Whatever had happened to them, they were resilient. It actually made him smile.

“Typical New Yorkers,” he said to himself.

As he walked, he kept glancing up at the skyscraper to judge where the library might be. It wasn't easy. The sidewalk was full of gaping holes. Many streets were closed off altogether because of buildings that had either collapsed or were about to. It was frustrating. As soon as he felt he might be getting close, he would have to detour around debris that sent him in the wrong direction. Finally Patrick saw a sight that brought tears to his eyes. It was a stone statue of a lion. This lion and his matching partner still guarded the front steps of the library, both on his Third Earth as well as in its past. He was home.

It wasn't the home he remembered though. The other lion lay on the ground near the first one, crushed. Only its face was recognizable. The stone steps led up to an austere building that in Patrick's time was only a facade. The interior of the old library had been torn down to make room for the high-tech structure that housed the powerful computers containing the history of Earth. What Patrick saw when he climbed these familiar steps was that the old library building was still there. It gave him mixed feelings. He was glad to see the library, but he had held out hope that he would be able to access the computers that would tell him what had happened to Earth. Seeing the ancient, crumbling building told him that there would be no computers inside. He hoped there would still be books.

Entering through the front door, Patrick was faced with an alien sight. This was the library. The
old
library. He stepped into a grand hall with large windows that were rounded on top. This was only an entryway. There wasn't a book in sight. He walked to his left, down a wide corridor that led him into a large room, the sight of which made him smile. Patrick was a teacher, a librarian, and a historian. What he saw in that room was like stepping into Earth's past. Not a hologram depiction. The real deal. Patrick saw with his own eyes what an old-time library was like.

Long wooden benches stood haphazardly in front of shelf after shelf of books. Old-fashioned books. Patrick had never seen so many books. He had barely seen
any
books. On his Third Earth the accumulated knowledge of the ages was stored on computers. Books were more likely to be found in a museum than in a library. He had the brief thought that if he weren't out of his mind, he might actually have enjoyed this trip into the past. The only problem was, it wasn't the past. It was the present. Things weren't right.

Another reality struck the Traveler. The library was empty. Had people given up reading? Patrick was both fascinated and horrified. He didn't know where to begin. How would he learn of what had happened to Earth?

“Can I help you?” came a thin voice from deep in the shadows.

Patrick turned quickly to see an elderly man shuffle into the room from the corridor he had just left. As he moved, he kicked up pools of dust that swirled through the filtered light. He was bent at the waist, as if the weight of his years had proved to be too much for him. The man was stick thin, with gray hair and even grayer skin. He wore thick glasses that made his eyes look twice their size.

“I said, ‘Can I help you?'” the man said earnestly.

Patrick had to keep his wits about him. He needed answers, and it wouldn't help if he started blathering about how horrified he was that Earth had changed.

“Where is everyone?” Patrick asked.

“Who?” the man asked back.

“Readers. You know. People using the library. Nobody's here.”

The old man chuckled. “You are my first visitor today. Why does that surprise you?”

Patrick wasn't sure of how to answer. “I don't know. This is a big library in a big city. You'd think a couple of people would drop by.”

The old man shrugged the kind of resigned shrug that could only come from an old guy who had seen it all. “Life is short,” he said with a sigh. “Nobody wants to read about why.”

“My name's Patrick. I'm a teacher.” Patrick held out his hand to shake. The old man took it. Patrick felt as if he were holding the limb of a fragile bird.

“My name is Richard. I'm a dinosaur.”

Patrick laughed. The old guy had a sense of humor.

“I guess you're a librarian.”

“I am
the
librarian,” was Richard's quick answer. “For the entire city. Possibly the whole state. As libraries close, the books are sent here. This is the last stop. Once this place turns to dust…” He shrugged, and didn't finish the sad sentence.

“Can you help me do some research?” Patrick asked. “I'm not familiar with how the library works.”

Richard's eyes lit up, as if this were the first time somebody needed his expertise in a long, long time. Patrick sensed that the man stood up a little straighter.

“Are you preparing a lesson?” Richard asked with professional authority. “Or is this for your own interest?”

“A lesson,” Patrick answered quickly, jumping on the idea. “I need to fill in some details about a period in history, and I want to be accurate.”

Richard shuffled off, heading deeper into the room full of books and waving for Patrick to follow. “What period would that be?”

Patrick wasn't sure of how to answer. He wanted to find out when things had gone wrong. What was it that had changed Earth's destiny? Where had it begun? When had it begun? He wished he had given a little more thought to that before talking to the old man. What should he say? Once he turned his mind to it, the answer was obvious.

“Early twenty-first century,” he declared. He then took the chance and added, “I want to know what went wrong.”

The old man stopped and glared at Patrick. “What do you mean?”

Patrick wanted to say that he felt sure that whatever had happened, it was on Second Earth. Third Earth had fallen into decay, and that decline hadn't happened overnight. It had to have been a gradual process. From what Patrick knew about Saint Dane's quest to control Halla, it might very well have begun on Second Earth. All the territories had a turning point. Patrick realized that there was a good chance that Second Earth had reached its turning point and things had gone horribly wrong. It was as good a guess as any. Of course, he couldn't say any of that.

Instead he shrugged and answered, “Just a hunch.”

Richard glared at Patrick. Patrick sensed a change in the old man. A wall had gone up. Had he said the wrong thing?

“Is there a problem?” Patrick finally asked.

“I don't know,” Richard answered coldly. “You tell me. Am I being observed?”

“I don't know what you mean,” Patrick answered, puzzled.

Richard snapped, “You're testing me again, aren't you? I'm tired of you people suspecting me of mischief just because I'm a librarian. I'm too old to put up with it anymore.”

“What are you talking about?” Patrick asked, genuinely confused.

“Show me your arm,” Richard barked.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Show me your arm!”

Patrick had no idea what the old man was fired up about. Before he could ask again, Richard reached out and grabbed Patrick's right wrist. The fragile old man wasn't so fragile anymore. He held Patrick's arm with one hand and shoved his shirtsleeve up to the elbow with the other, revealing his forearm. Richard yanked Patrick's arm closer, scrutinizing the skin. Patrick didn't resist. He was too confused to do anything but stare at the old man who was staring at his arm.

“What are you looking for?” was all he could manage to mumble.

“Don't insult me,” Richard snarled. “You know as well as I do.”

“Actually, I don't,” Patrick shot back.

“Scars,” Richard barked. “I can tell when it's been removed. You can't fool me.”

Patrick pulled his arm away. He had had enough of being manhandled.

“I'm not trying to fool you. What do you think's been removed?”

Richard squinted through his thick glasses at Patrick, sizing him up. “You know that all records from that period were destroyed. Did you think you could trip me up by asking for them? How stupid do you think I am?”

“Look, Richard,” Patrick began patiently, “I don't know who you think I am, but I am not spying on you or trying to trip you up. All I wanted was to see some records that had to do with that time in history. That's all. There's nothing sinister about it.”

Richard seemed to soften. “Let me see your arm again.” He added, “Please.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and shoved his arm out. The old man took another close look while rubbing his thumb over the skin, feeling for scars.

“I believe you, son,” Richard finally said. “There's nothing here. Never was.”

Patrick took his arm back and rolled his sleeve down. “What did you expect to find?”

Richard gave Patrick another curious look. “You really don't know, do you?”

“I'm sorry,” Patrick said. “Maybe I should, but I don't.”

“Maybe you don't want to,” Richard added.

Patrick agreed completely. Maybe he didn't want to know. But he had to. “Is it true?” Patrick asked. “Have all the records from the early twenty-first century been destroyed?”

Richard took a tired breath. “You'll forgive me for being cautious, but to hold any pertinent records from that time is a crime punishable by death. They have spies everywhere, rooting out anything that remains. They've been here before, asking the same questions. But they had the mark. It's part of them. They usually don't try to hide it, unless they're looking for trouble.”