A chipped and hairlined marble sculpture of the god Aeryc cradling the crescent moon stood beside a handsome desk. At first she took the sculpture for granted because she was used to seeing such iconography in her own Sacoridia, but then it occurred to her she’d heard no reference to Aeryc or Aeryon or any other gods since her arrival in this time. She remembered Mornhavon the Black and his Arcosians had worshipped only one god and thought the Sacoridians heathens for supporting an entire pantheon.
As if one god could take care of an entire world’s needs, she thought with derision.
Did Mornhavon require his empire’s citizens to worship the one god, or did he allow them to choose? She couldn’t imagine he would allow choice in religion or in any other matter of importance.
She released the professor’s arm and limped to the shelves which rose from floor to ceiling, with a rolling ladder to reach the uppermost heights. Unlike the library in the house, she found some titles she recognized, such as Lint’s Wordage and The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland, the latter an old favorite of hers. She pulled down another book, The Sealender Legacy, and found the book largely charred. In fact most of the books she checked were damaged and had the look of age upon them. Unlike the carpet she stood on, they had not done well through time, though it looked like someone had taken care to clean and mend them as much as was feasible.
These were all Sacoridian titles, at least as far as she could see, including its history and fictional works. She even spotted several volumes of census reports. She turned around trying to take it all in—the extensive library of damaged books, the huge mill building, the Durnesian carpet, and a professor in formal evening attire.
“Ah,” Professor Josston said. “Here is Cade with some tea.”
The professor had allowed her time to try and absorb it all, but now Cade strode toward them bearing a silver tray service from the opposite corner where a small kitchen was set up with a stove, cupboards, and table. He’d since put on a white shirt and waistcoat, but he still wasn’t quite up to gentlemanly standards with his sleeves rolled up and his collarless shirt unbuttoned at his throat. He set the tray down on a low table and stepped back.
“Shall we sit?” the professor asked. He gestured at a chair and Karigan sat, glad to get off her leg.
“You, too, Cade.”
The younger man’s arms were folded across his chest, and he opened his mouth as if to protest, but the professor cut him off.
“Sit.”
Cade sat. He did not look very happy. He continued to look unhappy while the professor served tea and poppy seed muffins. Karigan thought it an odd time for tea, as she reckoned it must be past the midnight hour, but she welcomed it nonetheless. Tea made everything better.
The professor seemed to agree. “Nothing like tea,” he said, “when in unfamiliar or confusing circumstances, eh?”
He did not sit behind the big desk, which, Karigan noted, was immaculate. There were no piles or stacks or mess here. Everything was neatly arranged. Instead, he sat with them around the small table and its tea service.
“Ah, yes,” he said, “tea warms the spirit, does it not?”
She and Cade nodded.
“I would guess, my dear, you have many questions. But first, I need you to tell Cade your name—the name you gave me. Not the one I gave you.”
Karigan narrowed her eyebrows. “Why? You believe I’m mad.”
“It was the only rational explanation I could accept at the time.”
“But now you believe that I am who I said I am?”
“I believe that I do believe so,” the professor replied. “I do not know how it is possible, or why you’ve come to be here, but the evidence supports your . . . assertion. I told Cade who I believe you to be, but I’d like him to hear it from you.”
Karigan glanced at the glowering Cade, now unsure if she wanted them to believe her, to know her true identity. Still the professor had gone to some lengths to protect her.
“I am Karigan G’ladheon,” she said, challenging Cade with her gaze.
“Rider Sir Karigan G’ladheon,” the professor added.
Cade lowered his cup, slowly and with control, until it settled gently onto its saucer with a soft clink, as though he was suppressing an outburst of denial.
“It cannot be true.” He swept his hand through his hair. “It is not possible. You can’t make me believe that a historical person is sitting in this room now.” It did not sound like the first time they’d had this particular discussion.
“Like I said,” the professor replied, “I don’t know how it’s possible that someone from so long ago could be here now, living and breathing among us, but the evidence . . . from her clothing to the brooch she wore. The textiles were of a time when cloth was hand-woven.”
Early on in this world, Karigan had noticed the extremely fine, almost perfect weave of her nightgown and bed clothes. Not even the best textiles her father traded in were so intricately woven. She had wondered how it was accomplished, and now the professor implied it was not by hand.
“The details were right,” the professor said, his gaze settling on Karigan. “The dye of the green, the embroidered gold winged horse on coat and shirtsleeve. But Cade asks a legitimate question. How did you get here to this time? In our first conversation, you mentioned something about a mask bringing you forward. Can you explain this?” Both men sat there staring hard at her, waiting.
“I—I don’t know exactly how or why it happened,” she replied. “We were in Blackveil and—”
The professor blanched. Cade raised an eyebrow, his large hands gripping the armrests of his chair until Karigan thought he’d puncture the leather.
“What did I say?” Karigan asked.
“Blackveil,” the professor murmured. “It is not spoken of. We are unaccustomed to hearing it named.”
Karigan sighed. Here they go again, she thought, with the secret histories versus “true history.”
“We did not mean to interrupt, my dear,” the professor said. “Please continue.”
She did and found herself explaining how she and a party of Sacoridians and Eletians crossed the D’Yer Wall into Blackveil to observe the status of the forest after a thousand years of being closed off from the rest of the world and subject to the influence of Mornhavon the Black. Eventually they found themselves at the forest’s heart, in the deserted Castle Argenthyne, legendary bastion of the Eletians who were conquered by Mornhavon long ago. She did not speak in great detail of the trials she and her companions endured, for it would require more than one night in the telling, but she told enough that Cade’s and the professor’s expressions were rapt and suffused with amazement.
When she reached the part about finding the looking mask in the nexus of Castle Argenthyne, she said, “It was a true object of magic. Beyond magic even.” A thing of the gods, she thought with a shudder, remembering how she’d raised the mask to her face and looked through it and saw the strands of time and the heavens intersecting, diverging; weaving and unraveling. She’d held a million, million possibilities in her hands, the power to manipulate the fabric of the universe. She’d rejected that power and smashed the mask on the floor to prevent Mornhavon the Black from seizing it, and the next thing she knew, she found herself trapped in a sarcophagus at a circus, from which she escaped into Mill City and Cade Harlowe’s hands.
“So that’s why you asked me if I was one of those clowns,” Cade said.
“And it enlightens me as to how Rudman Hadley ended up with a live body in his sarcophagus,” the professor mused, “which he accused me of planting to discredit him, by the way.”
The two men quieted, seemed lost in their own reveries, perhaps trying to digest Karigan’s story. She plucked nervously at the hem of her nightgown awaiting a more definitive response.
Cade was the first to react. He turned to the professor and said, “You
can’t possibly believe all this.”
“Part of me finds it extremely difficult,” the professor admitted. “But the past was filled with wonders that defy rational explanation.”
Cade snorted. “And you believe this thing about the mask?”
“Looking masks are part of our heritage, Cade, perhaps trivialized in the latter part of Sacoridia’s history but derived from ancient rituals when magic was as rife in the land as water in the ocean. Who is to say that true looking masks did not hold power? And as you may recall, we found all those broken pieces of a mirror embedded in our young lady’s flesh when she arrived.”
“Which could have been just an ordinary broken mirror,” Cade said. “It’s not proof.”
Karigan’s heart pounded, hearing of the shards. Had they saved any? If so, would any power remain in them? Then she dismissed the idea, remembering that magic did not seem to work in this time.
“Perhaps not,” the professor said, “but like the uniform, the brooch, it all supports what she says. I’m pretty good at detecting liars, and I don’t think she has fabricated this story. There are too many precise details, and she did not bungle them, trip herself up, as a liar would have.”
Karigan was not sure it mattered if they believed her—she would find some means of reaching home one way or the other. But if they did believe her, it would ease the way for her to find out the information she wished to take back to King Zachary about the defeat of Sacoridia and the rise of the empire. On inspiration, she said, “Test me.”
“What?” Cade asked.
“Test me. Ask me questions that only someone who lived during my time, or scholars like yourselves, would know.”
Cade wasted no time and jumped in with the first question. “What is the Order of Black Shields?”
“Easy. They guard the royal family, living and dead. Usually we just call them Weapons.”
Cade sat back, rubbing his chin. “Perhaps easy for someone who studies history, but not generally known. What was the succession of Clan Hillander on the throne?”
Karigan started with the Clan Wars and Smidhe Hillander, down the line of succession to King Zachary. Thus began an exhaustive period of eager questioning by both Cade and the professor about Sacoridian history, as well as facets of everyday life. Early on, they tried to slip her up with false or very specific questions. She could not answer all they asked.
“Who was Lady Amalya Whitewren?” Cade asked.
“I have no idea,” Karigan replied.
“She was only one of the most popular poets of your time.”
Karigan shrugged. She’d never heard of this person, but it wasn’t surprising since she did not follow what was happening in poetry.
The professor cleared his throat. “Cade, if I’m not mistaken, Lady Amalya came into prominence after Karigan G’ladheon left for Blackveil.”
“That could be,” Cade said, nodding thoughtfully. “Then tell me—”
And so the questioning went on. At times the two men seemed to forget they were testing her, more interested in confirming or debunking theories about customs, dress, architecture, arts, and politics. Karigan had to sip her cooling tea to moisten her throat.
“Enough,” the professor finally said. “For now, anyway.” He smiled. “Are you satisfied, Cade?”
“Either she is unusually well-tutored and a good actress, or she is speaking truth.” He sighed heavily. “I concede that by some miracle, whether by this magical mask or other means, she has come to us through time. The evidence supports her.”
“But you still doubt?” the professor persisted.
“You know me, Professor, I always question.”
“That’s a fine attribute in an archeologist.” The professor turned back to Karigan. “My dear, despite my own doubts, I began to believe you rather early on, after our initial chat. I had come across the name of ‘Karigan G’ladheon’ in some of my books. One mentions how you saved King Zachary’s throne from his usurper brother.”
Karigan squirmed in her chair, thinking it very odd to be mentioned in any book.
“I’d also seen your name listed in various roll calls that have survived to this day, and the one in which you suddenly became Rider Sir Karigan G’ladheon rather than just Rider G’ladheon. There is an account of how a Rider G’ladheon had rescued King Zachary’s betrothed, though the telling of it is maddeningly lacking in details. In any case, if I am correct, it is after this rescue that you were anointed to knighthood.”
Karigan nodded, squirming some more.
“I hope you will tell me that story sometime, yourself, but not tonight as we’ve already asked much of you.”
She sighed in relief and relaxed.
“There is another G’ladheon mentioned in passing in some of the histories, a prominent merchant.”
“Yes,” Karigan said, “my father.”
The professor brightened. “Ah, I had hoped so. It’s just so very exciting to make connections. I mention all this because after your arrival, I sought to confirm your identity, or at least that of whom you claimed to be, so I took to doing research on the G’ladheon name. I once again came across those references I mentioned before, and found new ones, including a roster of those Sacoridians going on the expedition to Blackveil. It included details about how the expedition was provisioned and outfitted, which I found very interesting. You see, one little detail had nagged me about the garb you were wearing when you arrived here. Everything was right but the boots. You were not wearing riding boots as a Green Rider ought.”
“No,” Karigan agreed. “We were issued infantry boots because we’d be on foot in Blackveil, not riding.”
“Exactly! And it was the detail of those infantry boots that clinched it, that made me believe absolutely that you are who you say you are. They matched the roster. How could you have known such a fine detail if you hadn’t been there, or read the reference only I own, which is stored here in my secret library?”
“You did not tell me any of this,” Cade said, and now he looked at Karigan with perhaps more belief in his eyes.
“I am telling you now. I’ve kept you busy watching the students while I researched.” He gestured with an expression of pride at his shelves of books. “I did find something intriguing, my dear,” he said, turning back to Karigan, “and about Blackveil. It seems you entered the forest and never returned. And if I may leap to a conclusion, you never returned because you ended up here.”
Karigan now found herself gripping her armrests. “You mean I never returned home? Not even from here?”
“The records, scant as they are, reveal nothing.”
A scream of despair welled up in Karigan’s chest.
MISSING
“It does not mean you never returned,” the professor said, his expression kindly. “It just means I never found a record of it.” He stood and started scouring the bookshelves, muttering to himself.
For Karigan, it was as if a trapdoor had flung open beneath her, revealing a yawning chasm. She did not want to be stuck here—she wanted to go home to her friends and family, the world she knew. His pronouncement had defeated any hope that she would find a way back. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to recall the words the Berry sisters once told her about the future . . . It is not set in stone. That’s what they had said. Even the looking mask had shown her the infinite possibilities, the variations of the world’s time threads. But if she were already in the future, could her past now be set in stone?
When she opened her eyes again, the professor was rolling the ladder along the bookshelves until he found whatever section he wanted and climbed. He reached for a volume on the top shelf. “Ah, yes,” he said muttering to himself. “This one.”
Cade Harlowe simply stared at her, immovable. She stared back, refusing to be intimidated.
“Here we are,” the professor said. He clambered back
down and handed Karigan the book before retreating to his chair. “The last evidence.”
She examined it. It was ledger size, bound in plain leather, so like the many others she had handled; but the leather was worn and damaged by moisture, and the pages within as delicate as fallen autumn leaves. She carefully flipped through a few of the pages, gazed at the precise handwriting within, set in columns listing payroll by the week. Some of the ink was smeared, some pages torn or too stained to read, but she knew this ledger, had handled it in a different age. And she knew the handwriting well, for it was her own.
She caressed the familiar names listed in the columns: Mara Brennyn, Ty Newland, Alton D’Yer, Osric M’Grew . . . A few more pages in, and she saw where she had written, Deceased next to Osric’s name, and the time-in-service pay he had not lived to collect. A notation showed that the pay, and a death benefit, had been forwarded to his mother. She wiped a tear from her cheek before it could besmirch the ledger.
She had not been happy to take on the duty of keeping the Rider accounts, but with her merchant background, Captain Mapstone had thought her the best one to handle them, and rightly so. Maintaining the ledgers for the business ventures of Clan G’ladheon had been her least favorite duty when she worked with her father, but she’d been good at it. She’d thought it a terrible irony when she ended up having to do it for the Green Riders.
Now as she looked upon those names, no few marked Deceased as Osric’s had been, she realized it had been an honor to keep the ledgers. And what a marvel to have such a connection to her own time, something as mundane as this. It was almost like, she thought, peering out of one’s own grave. No, better to think of it as a window to her own time.
She continued looking, oblivious to the two men who watched her intently. Of course she saw her own name listed and rate of pay. There was that snarl she’d made of Rider accounts at the end of winter. Well, the end of winter back in her own time. She smiled, remembering the mess, spending such long hours trying to untangle it that she’d forgotten the payroll. Here her handwriting grew less tidy, as though she’d been frantic to fill in names and numbers in record time. Unpaid Riders were unhappy Riders.
Mirror Sight Page 9