Pendragon - The Soldiers Of Halla Part 10

I also felt that along with those answers, we'd find Saint Dane.

Chapter 11.

We took the elevator back down from the first observation level of the Eiffel Tower and started walking in the direction of the Taj Mahal.

How bizarre a sentence is that?

We walked among the people who were enjoying the day, seemingly unfazed by the fact that they had just witnessed a swift, grisly execution. Or maybe they were in denial. A few guys threw a Frisbee. A family had a picnic on a flowered blanket. A couple sipped wine while laughing at some secret joke. It was all so creepy. Seeing such normal activity after what had happened was almost as chilling as the execution itself. Did they truly not care? Or was it an act they put on for the Ravinians, to avoid stepping into their sights as well?

"The Taj Mahal is set up to be the center of this strange Eden," I said to Patrick. "I'm thinking we'll find answers there."

After walking quickly (but not so quickly as to attract attention) through the winding paths, we found the train that had been our vehicle into this world. It was stopped at a small building that looked like a replica of an old-fashioned brick train station, complete with a green-shingle roof and a wrought-iron fence around it. Like the rest of the place, it was immaculate. The paint sparkled like new, as if the station had just gotten a fresh coat that very morning. An overhead sign ran the length of the shelter roof. In elegant golden letters were the words "Taj Mahal."

"I guess we're here," Patrick declared.

"Where?" I asked. "Disneyland?"

A flagpole rose up next to the building, holding a flag that fluttered in the breeze. Looking up I hoped to see an American flag. Or a New York State flag. Or any flag other than the one that was there.

It was a red flag with the Ravinian star.

The train was parked on the far side of the station. Beyond that was a row of tall, thick trees that blocked our view of what lay beyond. Patrick and I walked past the train and onto a platform on the far side. We followed a brick path that left the station and snaked through the tall trees to reveal a The Taj Mahal. As with the Eiffel Tower, I'd never seen the real thing, but I'd seen enough pictures to know that this was either a pretty good replica, or the real deal. You couldn't miss that single, huge onion-shaped dome that crowned the gleaming white building. Smaller domes surrounded the center one, while four circular towers stood tall like sentries, one on each corner of the foundation. A long reflecting pool stretched out before us, leading to the grand structure. To either side of the pool was gra.s.s and trees and more sculpture gardens. Lined up in rows to one side, it looked like hundreds of statues of life-size Chinese soldiers.

"I've seen those before," I said. "Like in National Geographic or something."

"It looks like some of the Terra-cotta Army of Emperor Qin," Patrick answered. "They were created to guard him in the afterlife. I think it was in something like two hundred BCE."

I gave him a sideways look. The guy knew his stuff.

People strolled around the statues and enjoyed the gardens here as well. But I noticed something a little different. There were more Ravinian guards hanging around. Each had a silver weapon strapped to his back. They walked in pairs, which said to me they weren't out to enjoy the day. They were working. They were there to provide security.

That meant we were in the right place.

Patrick and I walked casually, trying to look like we had no purpose other than to check out the statues and enjoy the day.

Patrick spoke softly. "Is it possible that the Ravinians transported all this from around the world?"

"I don't know" was my answer. "I guess they could have built their own. Either way, this place is all about living large. I haven't seen a single house that isn't like, awesome."

With each step we took toward the ma.s.sive domed structure, my feeling grew stronger that we were getting closer to Saint Dane. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Or maybe I was beginning to consciously tap into the whole spirit of Solara. I can't say, but I felt sure it wouldn't be long before we once again faced the demon. Our goal was to find out what he was up to on Third Earth.

When we reached the high platform that the building stood on, we saw that the Ravinian guards had increased. Instead of patrolling randomly, they were stationed at entry-ways built into the box.

"Do we turn into birds now?" Patrick asked.

The solitude was broken by the sound of a helicopter. We turned to see two tailless choppers heading our way. They descended quickly and landed near one of the archways that led into the base of the building. No sooner did they touch down than several Ravinian guards sprinted for them. Two left their post at the entrance to the building, directly in front of us.

I looked to Patrick. "Could it really be this easy?"

We walked quickly for the building. Before ducking under the arch, I took a look back to see that the Ravinian guards had opened the side doors of the choppers and pulled out four people who seemed to be prisoners. The guards grabbed them by their arms and dragged them toward the building. In that brief instant I recognized one of them. It was the powerful guy with the long black hair, who had helped all those people out of the building at the zoo. My stomach sank. He was a hero. Now he was done. At least he was still alive. For the time being, anyway.

"C'mon," I ordered, and we ducked inside.

All I knew about the Taj Mahal was that it was built by some emperor in India to be a mausoleum for his wife back in the day. Not that I know much about mausoleums in India. Or mausoleums for emperors. Or their wives. Or anything about any mausoleums, for that matter. But what we saw inside looked nothing like a place for the dead.

It was a palace. Seriously. The walls were lined with ornate tiles that depicted all sorts of detailed scenes of idealized countrysides. Hanging in what would be the sky of these scenes were paintings. Paintings that I recognized. Again, I don't know much about art, but in the fourteen years I lived on Second Earth, you kind of couldn't miss seeing the big, famous paintings of the world. I didn't know any of their names or who painted them, but they sure looked familiar.

"Van Gogh," Patrick uttered. "There's a Degas. And a Pica.s.so. Those two are by Cezanne. Dali, Matisse, Lautrec, and Jackson Pollock. My G.o.d, Pendragon, these are some of the greatest paintings of all time."

I guess Patrick knew art, too. Heck, he was a teacher.

"I know that one," I said. "Mono. Lisa, right?"

Patrick nodded, dumbfounded. "They can't all be replicas. They're too a too a good."

"So maybe that big statue we saw outside really was the original David. And those soldiers really were pulled out of a tomb in China."

"And maybe these buildings aren't replicas, either."

The idea was staggering. Did the Ravinians steal great artworks from around the world for their own personal collection?

"There is something odd, though," Patrick commented, frowning.

"Gee, you think?"

"All the artwork we've seen dates from the early twenty-first century and before. I haven't seen a single piece of notable art that was made in the three thousand years since then."

"And you'd know it if you saw it?" I asked. He gave me an impatient look. Of course he would. I shrugged. "Okay, genius, what do you think that means?"

"It could mean that from the time the Ravinians took power on Second Earth, no notable art was created." "That's kind of, I don't know, scary," I said.

Patrick nodded. It was a sobering thought.

We heard the sound of a heavy door being thrown open, followed by the scuffling of feet. The sounds were coming from deeper in the building. There was a small forest of tall pillars ahead of us. Patrick and I used them to hide behind as we made our way toward the sounds. We only had to move a few yards before we came upon the dead center of the Taj Mahal, directly under the ma.s.sive dome. The central area was open, with ornate mosaic tile work on the floor. The whole area was ringed by marble columns. I nudged Patrick and pointed to the floor inside the ring. He looked, and winced. The tile pattern formed a giant, red Ravinian star. To our left was a wide set of stairs covered with rich red carpet. On top of these stairs was a platform, upon which was a heavy golden throne. The detail on it was incredible. There were intertwining vines and flowers that looked to have been molded from solid gold. On the seat and the back were rich red cushions.

"So who's the king?" Patrick asked.

I didn't know. But I had a pretty good idea.

Opposite the throne, across the center area, light blazed in from the doors that had been thrown open. A group of people hurried ina"the Ravinian guards with their prisoners from the helicopters. The poor guys weren't putting up a fight. They looked too beat up for that. The guards dragged them inside the ring of marble columns, but stopped before entering the circle that contained the Ravinian star.

I heard a woman's voice call to them. "Stop there!"

It made the hair go up on the back of my neck. I knew that voice. My first reaction was to scream. I didn't, because it was also good news. Sort of. It meant that we were in the right place.

"Bring their leader forward," the woman commanded.

Patrick and I carefully maneuvered around the pillar where we were hiding to see her. She stood next to the throne on top of the platform, looking down on the guards and their victims. She wore a long, deep red robe with golden trim. Her dark brown hair was piled up on top of her head like some kind of fashion model, as opposed to the way she normally wore it, which was straight down. Under other circ.u.mstances, I'd say she was beautiful. These weren't other circ.u.mstances.

I wanted to leap onto that platform and strangle Nevva Winter.

Two Ravinian guards stepped forward, holding one of the victims. It was an older guy with s.h.a.ggy gray hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. His face looked swollen. A trickle of blood oozed from the side of his mouth. He'd been beaten. The red-shirt guards dragged him to the center of the Ravinian star and pushed him down onto his knees. He didn't resist. Of the four prisoners he looked to be the weakest. The other three each had two guards holding them. One of them was the powerful-looking hero guy with long black hair. His head was down, his chin against his chest. He may have been beaten up, but he was alert. I saw him stealing quick glances, sizing up the situation. I guess he didn't want the Ravinians to know that he wasn't done yet. It made me like this guy even more.

Nevva drifted down the stairs and approached the man on his knees. Her eyes were locked on him. He didn't lift his own eyes to meet her gaze. When Nevva spoke, she actually sounded as if she had sympathy for the guy. I knew better. Nevva was heartless.

"It would be better for all of you if you told us what you know," she said softly, as if trying to put him at ease.

The guy took a deep, pained breath and twisted his head to look up at her.

"Better?" he rasped. "Are you saying that Ravinia will show compa.s.sion?"

"I'm saying that if you refuse to speak, things will go badly for you. For you all."

The guy chuckled. It made him cough. It was a sickening, gurgling hack. There was blood down there. I could feel his body tense in pain. I thought back to the guy at the zoo that the Ravinian guards were kicking. These guys must have gotten the same treatment.

"I don't see how things could get much worse than they already are," he wheezed.

A voice boomed from on top of the platform. "Believe me, things can always be worse."

I felt Patrick tense up. I must have done the same. That voice always had that kind of effect. My instincts were right. We were definitely in the right place. We both looked up to the platform to see the proof.

Saint Dane stepped in front of the throne.

It was definitely the demon, but I had to do a double take. He didn't look the same. He was still thin and stood very tall. He still had those cold blue-white eyes. His voice was the same. But the guy standing there looked more like Saint Dane's younger brother than Saint Dane.

His hair was back. It was as long as I remembered from when I first met him, before it burned off, leaving a bald, scarred dome. It was parted in the middle and fell straight past his shoulders. But it wasn't gray. It was black. Jet-black. He wasn't wearing that familiar black suit, either. The cut of the suit he now wore was the same as the old one. It still b.u.t.toned tight under his chin, but it was deep red with golden braids around the cuffs and collar. The strangest thing of all was that he looked younger than I remembered. If I were to guess, I would have said that Saint Dane always looked like he was in his fifties. He now looked to be in his thirties. He didn't seem to be playing a role, either. It was definitely Saint Dane as himself. But it wasn't. I hate to write this, but I have to be true to what I saw. This new and improved Saint Dane actually looked a yikes a handsome.

Patrick was every bit as stunned as I was. He looked at me as if to ask, "Is that really him?"

I nodded. It didn't matter what color his hair was or what kind of silly suit he wore; it was him.

The demon walked casually down the stairs, headed for the kneeling man.

"You are quite brave," Saint Dane said to the man. It was a compliment, but it was cold. "You are all brave. I commend you. However, you must know that your cause is lost. How many of your rebel band are left? A few dozen? How many have you seen die? Too many. Such a waste. Don't you want that to end?"

The guy on his knees was breathing heavily. He kept his eyes on the ground.

"Look at me," Saint Dane said softly. The guy didn't.

"I said look at me!" he bellowed while grabbing the guy's chin and forcing his head up.

Nevva took a step back. I wasn't sure if she was bothered by this or she didn't want to get in the way if Saint Dane started swinging.

"You have a choice," Saint Dane said, once again calm.

"You always have a choice. You can tell us what you know. A simple answer. One word. That's all I need, and your suffering will end."

"I don't know what you're asking me," the guy seethed. He was holding back anger. I knew the feeling.

"Of course you do," Saint Dane said jovially. "When you entered the flume, you did not come here. That much I know for certain."

I grabbed Patrick's arm. What was Saint Dane talking about? Who were these guys?

"I'm not sure how you ended up here," Saint Dane continued. "Obviously it was before the flumes were destroyed. That is of no interest to me. What I want to know is where you were sent when you first entered the flume. Is that so much to ask?"

My heart raced. These guys weren't Travelers. But who were they? My heart leaped. Was it possible? Could these guys be the very people we were looking for? Were they some of the enemies of Ravinia who were sent into exile? I was excited and terrified at the same time. Excited that we may have found them. Terrified because Saint Dane had found them too.

"So tell me, my friend," Saint Dane said to the man on his knees. "All I need is a word. The name of a territory. Where is it that you ended up when you entered the flume? Tell me and your suffering will end."

"All right," the guy wheezed. "I'll tell you."

I saw the other victims tense up. The Ravinian guards held them tight.

"Wonderful," Saint Dane exclaimed.

"Come closer," the guy said with a raspy voice.

Saint Dane walked up to the guy and towered over him.

The guy whispered something so softly that I couldn't hear. Neither did Saint Dane, for he bent over to get closer. When Saint Dane was down on the same level as his prisoner, the guy spit in his face. Even from where we were, I could see that there was more blood than saliva. Saint Dane didn't flinch. The Ravinians started to pull the guy back, but Saint Dane held up his hand.

"Leave him be," he said calmly.

The demon got right back in the guy's face. He didn't even wipe off the blood and spit that dribbled off his chin. He locked eyes with the poor guy. I knew what that felt like. The guy was in serious trouble.

"I will kill your three friends first," Saint Dane said icily. "It will be slow. It will be painful. I will break their bones with my own hands, starting with their feet and working my way up their spines. They will bleed. The best they can hope for is that the pain will cause them to pa.s.s out, for drowning in your own blood is a horrible way to die. Is that the fate you wish to condemn them to? The choice is yours, my bold friend."

The guy didn't look away from Saint Dane, though I felt his fear. He wasn't being bold; he was desperately trying to hold on to his sanity. He started to whimper. His body shook as he was overcome by emotion. Still, he didn't break eye contact with Saint Dane.

"Tell me," Saint Dane said with mock kindness. "Tell me. The truth will be your salvation."

Finally, in a haunted voice that seemed to come from a tortured place, the guy muttered the single word that Saint Dane was looking for.

"Cloral."

"Cloral?" Saint Dane repeated.

The guy nodded and dropped his head in defeat.

The other three prisoners seemed to deflate.