Journey Through the Mirrors Page 6

  Jordan shook his head, picking up a lantern. “I’m going with you,” he insisted.

  Logan and Jordan joined Mr. Montez in front of a wall of murals depicting six marching men in colorful regalia. “They look very similar to the statue you found,” Logan observed.

  Mr. Montez pointed to the head of one of the figures. “Look at their headbands.”

  “The symbols of Satraya,” Logan said, startled to see the symbols in another ancient work of art. “And there’s that snowflake again. Similar to what we saw on the statue.”

  Mr. Montez nodded his head.

  “What is that smoke coming from their mouths?” Jordan asked.

  “I do not believe that is smoke,” Mr. Montez said. “I think these men are priests, and the wavy lines represent the prayers they are reciting. This mural is similar to others found in the compound of Tepantitla here at Teotihuacán. But none of the other murals includes the depiction of the symbols.”

  Mr. Montez held his lantern above his head and moved to the center of the room, pointing to a number of small, half-meter-square openings in the rounded ceiling. Jordan started to count them. “Twenty-one of them,” he reported.

  “They’re way too small for anyone to climb through,” Logan said, “and definitely too high for anyone to get to without some kind of ladder.”

  “They seem to dart off in every direction,” Mr. Montez observed. “Very interesting.”

  Logan and Jordan walked over to another section of the chamber, and on their way, Jordan tripped over something on the floor. Logan caught him by the arm before he fell. Looking down, he saw a dark circular platform on the ground. He called to Mr. Montez, “Isn’t this similar to the base of the kneeling man statue in the research center?”

  Jordan bent down and brushed the dust off the surface, revealing a carved image of a coiled serpent at its center. A small red stone served as one of the serpent’s eyes.

  Mr. Montez walked over and examined the platform, which rose to ankle height off the ground. “Yes!” he said excitedly, running his fingers over the etching. “It is made out of mica, like the one I showed you. And with another coiled serpent,” he added softly.

  As Jordan continued to clean the surface, he inadvertently dislodged the red stone. “Sorry!” he said, trying to put it back into place. “I didn’t mean to.”

  Mr. Montez gently grabbed Jordan’s arm, and before the boy could replace the stone, he bent down and placed his ear over the hole where it had been set. He smiled and looked at Logan. “You must hear this.”

  Logan joined him and listened. “It sounds like trickling water.”

  “Yes. Because of the volcanic activity that once occurred here, there are many deep lava tunnels below Teotihuacán. At one time, water flowed through them, a natural irrigation system.”

  “I wonder if this tunnel is linked to the river we crossed over earlier.”

  “Perhaps. Do you remember what I said about electrical transmission and conductivity?”

  Logan’s eyebrows rose. “Water is an excellent conductor of electricity.”

  Mr. Montez nodded thoughtfully.

  “What are these things?” Jordan asked, squatting next to seven small, oddly formed ceramic objects. “It looks like a different animal is painted on each one.” Jordan held one up to show Logan.

  Mr. Montez turned to see what he had found. “Those are whistling vessels. You can tell by the double-chambered barrels. They are similar to ones found in Peru.” Mr. Montez picked one up and dusted it off with a handkerchief. “These were used by shamans and priests. You blow into the shaft attached to the back chamber. It is said that their sound produced miraculous healing and visions for those who knew how to play them properly.” He placed his lips around the end of the shaft and attempted to demonstrate, but he was only able to manage a few broken sounds. “Well, something like that.”

  “The skeletons are over here by the archway,” Jordan said, grabbing Logan’s arm and leading him under an archway that was almost twice as tall as Logan and wider than his outward reach. On the ground leaning against each side were the skeletal remains of a body. In the corner near the archway was a small wooden cart with a single wheel. It looked like a wheelbarrow.

  Logan squatted down, his lantern casting an eerie shadow on the skeletons. He blew the dust off something resting on the nasal bone of the skull. It appeared to be a headband made from a narrow strip of copper. “It’s similar to what the figures in the murals are wearing.” Logan looked around, trying to spot anything that resembled a door. “How could they have gotten down here?”

  Mr. Montez inspected the wall set into the inner portion of the arch behind the skeletons. He ran his hands along the smooth surface. “A façade of some kind. This is the only portion of the walls that doesn’t have any paintings on it. I wonder if this used to be a doorway.”

  “Are you saying that someone entombed these men in here?” Logan asked.

  Mr. Montez shook his head. “If this was truly the only door to this chamber, then its smooth-finished surface suggests that these two entombed themselves.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  Even if Mr. Montez had an answer to Logan’s question, he didn’t have a chance to offer it. Valerie was calling out to Logan. He turned and saw her kneeling next to Jamie with a concerned look on her face. He rushed over and realized why: Jamie had fallen unconscious.

  6

  It may take but a second to change, but it will take a life time to prove it.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  NEW CHICAGO, 5:05 P.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 20, 2070

  The sound of crumpling packing paper filled the northeast work room of the Camden and Cassandra Ford Studio of Art in New Chicago, which Logan had established in honor of his parents. Valerie’s father, Mr. Perrot, and the studio’s gallery manager, Jasper Jones, were busy preparing items for shipment for the upcoming commemoration of the founding members of the Council of Satraya in Washington, D.C. Logan had decided to show some of his mother’s artwork at the commemoration and to donate one or two pieces for permanent display at the Council headquarters as a tribute to his parents.

  Logan had recently hired Jasper to assist him in managing the gallery. An extremely energetic twenty-four-year-old, Jasper spoke in short bursts of sentences and rarely stood still. He was thin, stood more than two meters tall, and always wore colorful clothing and high-top black canvas shoes with bright white laces. No one ever knew what color his hair would be on a given day. Over the past three months, Logan had been pleased to see that Jasper’s eccentricity was matched by his extreme efficiency.

  Mr. Perrot, himself a founding member of the Council of Satraya, was delighted to have just learned that the wooden box in which the late Deya Sarin had found her set of the Chronicles, known as the River Set, had arrived at the Council headquarters the day before. Deya’s husband, Babu Sarin, had sent it from his home in Banaras, India. The Council’s attempts to locate Madu Shata, the finder of the Pyramid Set, had been unsuccessful, which surprised no one, since Madu hadn’t been seen in close to forty years. Even though Mr. Perrot was one of the few people in the world who knew the true account of the discovery of the fourth set of the Chronicles, known as the Train Set, he reluctantly supported the Council’s attempts to contact the executor of the Hitchlords estate. As it turned out, the estate would contribute nothing to the commemoration, because the World Crime Federation had seized all of Simon Hitchlords’s assets.

  “It is going to be a fabulous event!” Jasper said excitedly, handing a shipping label to Mr. Perrot. “The Council is lucky to be getting a few of Cassandra’s mosaics for the exhibit and all those photographs from your album.”

  Mr. Perrot secured the label to a shipping box. “All of these photographs certainly bring back some good memories,” he said with a smile. Alain Perrot had been Camden Ford’s closest friend. Camden had rescued him from marauders at a safe house near the Ozark forest forty years ago, when he was still k
nown as Robert Tilbo. He changed his name when he, Camden, and Cassandra fled from Washington, D.C., with their children for New Chicago after the splintering of the original Council. To this day, the circumstances surrounding the Splintering had never been fully revealed to the public.

  Mr. Perrot looked at a few of the photos they had decided not to send. There was one of him holding his baby daughter, standing next to Camden and Cassandra at the hospital just after Valerie was born. Logan, almost a year old at the time, was sitting in a stroller. Valerie’s mother, Andrea Montavon, was still in the intensive-care unit, recovering from the complications of her long and arduous labor. Mr. Perrot took a deep breath and slowly shook his head. “Beauty can truly have thorny origins,” he whispered.

  “What was that?” Jasper asked.

  “Nothing,” Mr. Perrot replied. “Just some old memories.”

  Jasper gave Mr. Perrot a curious look but did not press. “Have you heard from our world travelers today?”

  “No, not yet. They must be having too much fun in Mexico. But come now, we still have more of Cassandra’s things to rummage through.” Mr. Perrot felt his PCD vibrating and quickly checked his pockets. “Where did I put that thing?” He reached inside his tweed jacket and, fumbling, located his PCD and took it out. “This might be them,” he said, as he looked at the PCD number, and then he thought otherwise. “Actually, I’m not sure who this number belongs to.” The main line to the studio had started ringing, and Jasper ran to the front to answer it, as Mr. Perrot tried to project a 3-D image of the caller. He didn’t recognize the face of the well-groomed man with graying hair and sad eyes that was finally projected. “This is Alain Perrot,” he said.

  “I am looking for a Robert Tilbo,” the man answered. “I was told he could be reached at this number.”

  Mr. Perrot’s heart began to beat faster. While his true identity had recently been made public, he was hesitant to speak with an unknown man calling from an unknown number. “Who should I say is calling?” Mr. Perrot asked.

  The man didn’t immediately answer, adding to Mr. Perrot’s tension. “Tell him that his past has finally caught up with him. Tell him that I am the man who taught Camden Ford the King’s Gambit and the one no one could take in a chess match.”

  Mr. Perrot thought for a moment and then squinted, trying harder to recognize the man in the projection. “Madu?” he finally asked in a low voice.

  The man began to laugh heartily. “Yes, Robert. It is me,” Madu confirmed. “You were always so easy to play with.” His laughter continued.

  “Where . . . What have you . . .” Mr. Perrot stammered, his heart still racing, now with excitement. “I am at a loss for words.”

  “What, Robert Tilbo at a loss for words? How can that be? You could never stop talking when we were together on the Council.”

  Mr. Perrot joined in his laughter. “I am not sure what my first question should be. I have so many to ask.”

  “I am certain we both have many stories to share and questions to pose,” Madu replied.

  “Yes,” Mr. Perrot said. “To begin with, how did you find me?”

  “Not very difficult after you and Logan emerged from hiding,” Madu said. “That was a great surprise to both my wife and me.”

  “How is Nadine?” Mr. Perrot asked.

  “Well, very well,” Madu said. Then he continued in a more serious tone, “Robert, is it true that Camden and Cassandra were murdered? It was reported that the killer was never caught. We wondered if their deaths had anything to do with their past dealings with Fendral and Andrea.”

  “Yes, Camden and Cassandra were killed, by whom we do not know.” Mr. Perrot sighed. “Much has happened over the last few years, in particular the last nine months. Simon and Andrea returned and attempted to pick up where Fendral had left off. It forced Logan and me to come forward.”

  “Yes, Simon and Andrea. Is the news of their demise accurate? It was reported they died in an accident along the Ganges River?”

  “The story spun by the authorities conceals most of the facts. But yes, they are both gone,” Mr. Perrot said. “My daughter and Logan witnessed the death of Andrea, and all three of us watched Simon die.”

  “And does your daughter know the truth? That Andrea was her mother?”

  Mr. Perrot sighed deeply. “She knows the complete story now.”

  Madu took that in before asking, “What happened to Fendral’s set of the Chronicles? Have they been bequeathed to anyone?”

  “No,” Mr. Perrot answered. “In fact, before he died, Simon possessed three of the sets.”

  “Three?” Madu seemed stunned at the news.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Perrot. “The Train Set, left to him by his father; the Forest Set, which Logan unwittingly auctioned off; and . . .”

  “My set,” Madu said regretfully. “It was Simon who stole it from the Cairo Museum, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “What has happened to the River Set? Does Babu still possess it?”

  “No,” Mr. Perrot answered. “Logan has Deya’s books under lock and key.”

  “Good,” Madu said. Both men were quiet for a moment. “Camden once told me that all four sets of the books should never be possessed by one individual. He never elaborated. Neither did Deya when I asked her. She only confirmed what Camden had told me.” Mr. Perrot knew the reason behind Camden’s warning, but he remained silent. “I see now that I was wrong in thinking that donating my books to the Cairo Museum would keep them safe.”

  There was another pause, and then Mr. Perrot continued. “Madu, why have you come forward? Why now?”

  “I have only come forward to you, Robert,” Madu replied, “and I would appreciate it if we kept it that way for now. My story is a long one, and I will need a good deal of time to relate it to you accurately. Unfortunately, I can’t do it now. But I will call you again soon.”

  “When?” Mr. Perrot asked. “There is a commemoration in honor of the original members of the Council. You must attend! Come to Washington with Nadine, and make a grand entrance. People will be shocked by your emergence.”

  “That may not be possible,” Madu said. “My work requires me to travel the world. But we will consider it. Until then—”

  “Journey with care, Madu,” Mr. Perrot said.

  The call ended, and the image of Madu disappeared. Mr. Perrot stared into space. He wasn’t sure what to think about the sudden reappearance of Madu Shata after forty years. “Is it really so shocking?” he whispered to himself. “You, too, had to disappear for that long.”

  “Mr. Perrot!” Jasper called, running into the work room. “That was Logan on the phone. There was a terrible earthquake in Mexico.”

  “What?” Mr. Perrot’s thoughts immediately turned to his daughter, Logan, and the children. “Is everyone all right?”

  “Logan said that Jamie fell and may have hit her head inside a pyramid at Teoti—” Jasper had trouble pronouncing the name. “Wherever they are. Jamie’s in serious condition; they are at the hospital now. Logan said that Mexico City is a mess. The earthquake caused a ton of damage to the outskirts of the city. The hospitals are flooded with wounded people. They’re going to get back as soon as they can once Jamie’s condition is stabilized.” Jasper pulled out his own PCD and brought up and projected a news report.

  “Reports of earthquakes are still coming in from around the world,” the news anchor said. “Thus far, twelve reports have crossed our desk here at the studio. Scientists are baffled by the sudden quakes and are unable to identify their magnitudes and the locations of their epicenters. An inside source is telling us that the E-QON II system, which was put in place after the Great Disruption to predict seismic activity, appears to have failed. President Salize of the NAF urges people to remain calm, despite speculation among local authorities in the hardest-hit areas that these quakes are a precursor to another Great Disruption–class event.”

  Mr. Perrot watched the report in disbelief. He was well aware of t
he events leading up to the Great Disruption and the enormous pain and suffering it had imposed on the world. It can’t be happening again . . .

  7

  Believers are in a perpetual state of anticipation. Stop believing, and know.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  CHTEAU DUGAN, SWISS ALPS, 1:08 A.M. LOCAL TIME, MARCH 21, 2070

  “Any word on how much longer we need to stay here?” said a young WCF agent, as he zipped up his jacket. “This is not what I expected on my first assignment.”

  “Don’t complain,” an older agent advised. “At least you’re not sitting behind a desk. This is how many of our assignments go. You’ve been watching too many HoloPad dramas.”

  The younger agent looked out over the large lake, which bordered the north side of Château Dugan. He and his partner stood on a wooden dock that stretched twenty meters into the water. A thick, chilly fog hovered over the surface of the lake. Their only companions were a band of coyotes howling in a dense forest to the west and an owl that hooted occasionally as it searched for a midnight meal. The young agent turned and gazed at the grand stone stairway that traversed four terraces and led to the main house at the top of a hill. “How does someone get so rich?” he asked, as he adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder.

  “It’s all family money,” the other agent replied. “The Hitchlordses were rich before the Great Disruption, and somehow they stayed that way.”

  “I heard Simon Hitchlords gave a lot of money to charities and foundations.”

  “Yeah, that’s the story.”

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “If he was such a good guy, why are we guarding his estate? I heard that members of our NAF team were after him in India, and before they could arrest him, he fell into some kind of fire pit.” The agent shook his head. “I think he committed suicide.”

  “Now, see,” the young agent said, “that’s a good assignment. Why can’t we do something like that instead of standing out here?”