Journey Into the Flame: Book One of the Rising World Trilogy

by T. R. Williams

  Mr. Perrot sat perfectly still, watching Logan as he stopped squirming, as his breathing slowed, with his chest expanding and contracting less often. Several long moments passed. Mr. Perrot also started to focus on the flame, trying to recreate his focus from long ago. But then, suddenly Logan began to shake his head. The calm was broken. Logan rubbed his ears fiercely.

  “What’s wrong?” Mr. Perrot asked as he jolted back from his own meditation.

  “The ringing is back, worse than ever. It’s almost unbearable.”

  Mr. Perrot sighed. “And for a moment there, it looked like you had achieved it.”

  “Things got better once I started focusing on my children. But . . .” Logan looked up and braced himself with determination. “Let’s try again. I doubt even the great Camden Ford got it the first time.”

  “Maybe you can do as Baté instructed,” Mr. Perrot suggested. “Allow yourself into the sound. Remember to embrace it as if it were a piece of music.”

  “Right—a piece of music.”

  Logan once again adjusted his body and began to refocus on the burning flame. It did not take very long for the ringing to start again. He remained steadfast this time, trying not to move. The more he attempted to dismiss the ringing, the louder it became. Embrace it like music, he thought. Like music . . . He brought to his mind the melody of a lullaby his mother used to sing to him. The ringing got louder, but so did the melody he was remembering. Soon the ringing sounded like a high-pitched whistle. He was fighting and struggling, caught up in a battle between the whistle and the song. It was becoming more and more unbearable, more and more impossible. But his eyes remained fixed on the flame, ever on the flame. He was about to give up, when the ringing suddenly stopped, the ghostly image of Mr. Perrot disappeared, and the slowly wavering flame faded into blackness.

  18

  Empty space exists because you believe it is real. What if the space between your assumptions was filled with real and tangible things?

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  WASHINGTON, D.C., 10:50 P.M. LOCAL TIME,

  5 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

  “We are standing outside the Council of Satraya offices,” a reporter announced in a live broadcast. “Late last night, three Council members and a young woman identified as the niece of one of the members were found dead. Details are still limited at this time, but a source has told us that the deaths are being investigated as homicides. The source, who did not want to be identified, also confirmed that lead investigator Valerie Perrot of the World Crime Federation has been assigned to this high-profile case. Ms. Perrot began her meteoric rise in the WCF six years ago, when she cracked the Double-R kidnapping case involving six-year-old twin sisters in a suburb of New Chicago. Last year, in a raid she coordinated and led, she took down a global prostitution cartel based in Singapore. Ms. Perrot has been unavailable for comment, but we expect to hear from her shortly.

  “People are asking if the killings at the Council offices were politically motivated. One of the victims, Cynthia Brown, the head of the Council, was no stranger to controversy. Some security professionals are speculating about the involvement of the Sentinel Coterie, a radical organization that has been at odds with the Council of Satraya for many years. The Sentinel Coterie has accused the Council of slowing down progress and denying society its right to advancement. A Coterie spokesman told me today that while they disagreed with Ms. Brown on a variety of issues, the Coterie does not condone the use of force.

  “Many are asking if this tragedy will mark the end of the Council of Satraya. Sadly and ironically, Freedom Day, a day on which we celebrate freedom and peace, is only five days away. Now, back to you in the studio and an update on the streak of mysterious disappearances in the southern region of the former U.S.”

  Valerie clicked off the 3-D image of the news broadcast being projected from her PCD.

  “Hey, don’t you want to keep watching?” Charlie teased with a smile. “You’re a super sleuth!”

  “No,” Valerie grumbled. “Those reporters just make our jobs harder.”

  Valerie and Charlie were still in the basement of the Council of Satraya offices. More site investigators had arrived and joined the others who were still processing the newly discovered tunnel. “Anything from the Central Crime Lab on cause of death?” Valerie asked.

  “Nothing yet,” Charlie said. “They said there are no apparent wounds on the bodies.”

  “Let’s go over the time line again.”

  Charlie brought his notes up on his PCD and relayed the victims’ activities from the night before. Valerie was most interested in the HoloPad malfunction in New Chicago at 9:45 p.m. Central time, which ended Cynthia Brown’s participation in the auction, and the cleaning crew’s discovery of the victims’ bodies in the second-floor meeting room of the Council building at approximately 12:10 the next morning.

  “Do we have any video of the auction in New Chicago?” Valerie asked.

  “We sure do.” Valerie moved closer to Charlie as he brought up the video feed. “The auction was covered by the local press. I didn’t see much when I looked at it earlier. The camera angle is from the back of the hall facing the auctioneer’s podium.” Charlie played with the video until he got to the part where the Chronicles was up for bidding.

  “Stop—back it up,” Valerie said. “Looks like this is where Cynthia starts to bid on the books. And is that who I think it is?”

  “Yep,” Charlie responded. “That’s Andrea Montavon.”

  “I haven’t heard her name in a long time,” said Valerie. “She is certainly a beautiful woman.” She stared at the image for a moment. “Any other bidders for the books?”

  “We are getting a list from the auction house.” Charlie resumed the video, and they watched the events unfold, intently looking for meaningful details. The camera panned the crowd as the bidding intensified. “I didn’t notice that before,” said Charlie, as he suddenly paused the video and backed it up a few frames. “Chief, isn’t that your friend Logan?” Charlie zoomed in on the image.

  Valerie groaned. “Looks like Logan and my father have a bit more to explain than just the tunnel.”

  Charlie resumed the video. A few seconds later, Valerie gasped at the flash of green light, the loud noise, and the sound of people screaming.

  “We have our team in New Chicago checking out the data traces from the HoloPad to see what caused the malfunction and that flash,” Charlie said.

  Valerie stood pensively for a few moments. “Does this office building have any security cameras?”

  “There are three,” Charlie said. “One at the front door, one at the back entrance, and one outside the meeting room where we found the bodies. But I’ve looked at their files and didn’t see anything interesting. Once the auction started, we didn’t see anyone go in or out.”

  “Bring up the files from the camera outside the meeting room,” Valerie said. “Can you put the two videos up side-by-side? Line them up so they start two minutes before Cynthia disappears. And roll slowly.”

  With a few strokes on his PCD, Charlie brought up the surveillance video outside the meeting room and projected it next to the video of the auction. “Looking for anything in particular?” he asked, as he started them rolling.

  Valerie was silent for a minute, then said, “Pause it—right now! Let’s move it frame by frame. Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “Back up a few frames, and look at the closed door of the meeting room. See there—at the exact moment that Cynthia’s image disappears in a green flash in New Chicago, there is a simultaneous flash of green light coming from under the door.” Valerie continued to advance and rewind the frame so that Charlie could see what she was describing. “So the question is what caused the green light. The door was closed the whole time, and no one came in or went out.”

  “Whatever caused the light was probably already in that room when they arrived,” Charlie said.

  “Or one of them brou
ght it in with them,” Valerie added. “Knowingly or unknowingly.”

  “Hey!” a voice called out. “We have something over here.”

  Charlie shut down his PCD, and he and Valerie walked over to an investigator standing by a desk a meter or so from the tunnel’s entrance.

  The investigator spoke quickly. “There’s a strange burn mark on the top of this desk. Looks like something really hot was placed on it. It must have been recent—you can still smell the odor of scorched wood if you get real close.”

  “Whatever it was, it certainly left a strangely shaped mark,” Valerie said, as Charlie took a picture of it with his PCD. The mark was three concentric circles with a cross in the middle.

  “Any idea what caused the burn?” Charlie asked.

  The investigator shook his head. “But check this out.” He pointed to the ceiling. There was a hole in it, about one centimeter in diameter. “The hole goes up into the conference room where we found the victims.”

  “Let us know what you find,” Valerie said, turning back to Charlie. “What about the Federation banquet—do we have any video of it?”

  Charlie nodded and brought up a projection of the hall. “The press was all over the event. I’ll start it with Cynthia’s speech.”

  “Isn’t that the head of the Sentinel Coterie sitting at that table?” Valerie asked as the video started.

  “The one and only Mr. Randolph Fenquist,” Charlie answered.

  “The press may be right on this one,” Valerie said. “We need to bring him in for questioning.”

  “We’ll try,” Charlie said. “Usually, when we try to speak to anyone in that group, they lawyer up. But I’ll get someone to check them out.”

  The video continued to roll, now to Cynthia’s speech. “Who’s that girl at the side of the stage hugging Cynthia?”

  “That is Monique Sato, Cynthia’s personal assistant,” Charlie answered. “She stayed at the banquet after the speeches. Witnesses said that Cynthia asked her to remain there to assist the other Council members as they met with the muckety-mucks.” Charlie gave a short laugh. Then he switched to another camera feed. “Here is where Cynthia and the three others leave the hall. That’s the last we see of her until the auction.”

  “Stay with Monique,” Valerie ordered. They watched as she walked over to an older man with long, stringy brown hair and started talking to him. It was Randolph Fenquist.

  “Why is Monique talking to the leader of the Sentinel Coterie?” Valerie asked. “What in the world could the assistant to the leader of the Council of Satraya possibly have to say to him?”

  “Well, it’s a political banquet. Everyone’s your friend. Wait—what’s he giving to her?”

  “Pause the video,” Valerie said. She and Charlie both tried to see what Fenquist had handed Monique, but she put it into her purse so quickly it was hard to tell. Charlie tried to adjust and pane the video but to no avail.

  Something else had caught Valerie’s eye, though. She zoomed in on the lower part of Monique’s image, then angled her head a moment to examine it. Valerie smiled. “Look at her shoes. They’re Pierre Masus.” Charlie gave her a blank look. “The same brand of shoe that left the prints in the tunnel. Charlie, I think we’ve found our number one suspect.”

  Charlie gave an admiring nod. “And I bet you she’s working for Randolph Fenquist.”

  19

  What are you willing to do with what you know?

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  WASHINGTON, D.C., 11:55 P.M. LOCAL TIME,

  5 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

  Logan reached out and attempted to grab one of the many iridescent clouds that were floating by him. The ringing sound in his ears had stopped. He felt as if he were standing in the middle of a field in the frosty stillness of winter when a heavy snowfall hindered one’s vision. No two clouds were the same, each boasting its own color, shape, and size. A soothing electrical current entered Logan’s body as his hand passed through the clouds, as if he were a ghost walking through a wall. No matter how hard he tried to grasp a cloud, it would slip through his fingers and float away. A soft crackling sound came as the clouds, which were traveling in many directions, passed through one another. Where am I? Logan thought. What is this place? The clouds faded away, and the crackling sound diminished.

  Logan found himself in the familiar restoration room of the museum where he worked. He was standing in front of the Michelangelo fresco that he was restoring. He looked closer at the space between the finger of God and the finger of Adam; there seemed to be some kind of static electrical discharge passing between them. It was like watching a lightning storm disturbing a once-peaceful prairie. Suddenly, the faces of the angels surrounding the image of God began to change. Thorny vines grew up around their heads. Thick old iron collars with broken chains materialized around their necks. The thorns continued to grow, piercing the angels’ skin, causing them to bleed profusely. The largest and heaviest collar of all appeared around the neck of God. Eventually, the entire image of God himself began to blur into a pool of blood. Only the image of Adam remained untouched. But the bloodied finger of God could not reach him. As Logan stepped forward and reached out to touch the painting, to determine whether what he was seeing was actually blood, the painting disappeared, and the restoration room faded.

  Logan’s extended finger was now touching wallpaper that was peeling off a plaster wall. He retracted his finger and quickly spun around to view his surroundings. He was in an old Victorian-style room with a large four-poster bed. He was not familiar with this place. A hooked rug covered a good part of the wood floor, and a fireplace occupied a corner of the room, its ornate mantel barren. The antique chair in front of the fireplace was pockmarked from sparks and embers. A strong wind blew through the room, seemingly coming from nowhere.

  Logan moved to a set of heavy drapes that were drawn. He pulled them open and saw two iron-barred windows that looked out only on darkness. Logan grabbed the bars and pulled on them, trying to remove them, but he couldn’t. He felt trapped. Panic rose in him as he looked around the room, which seemed to be getting smaller and closing in on him. With one last effort, he pulled on the bars with all his strength.

  He fell backward and landed heavily on a dirt path. Wherever he was now, it was sunny and extremely hot. He quickly rose to his feet and found that he was standing about thirty meters away from what appeared to be a Buddhist monastery. There was no one else in sight, so he walked down the dirt pathway leading to the entrance of the temple. Inside, two monks were working on a mandala, carefully pouring dark sand onto the ground. They didn’t seem to notice Logan as he walked around them. They were completely focused on their task. Logan tried to speak to them, but they seemed deaf to the sound of his voice. He paused and moved closer to see the design they were creating. He had seen many mandalas before, but this one was different. He stepped back as the monks rose to their feet and bowed to it. A strong wind blew through the open windows. Logan watched as the monks faded from his sight and wind scattered the sand of the mandala. As the wind grew stronger and stronger, the sand swirled around the room faster and faster, until Logan was caught up in it like a piece of debris snatched up by a tornado.

  When the spinning stopped, Logan found himself in the old study, which looked different from how he had imagined it. Camden’s written description did not do it justice. The shelves that surrounded the desk seemed to rise into infinity, full of books and old, tattered scrolls. The study was illuminated by a dim light whose source Logan couldn’t identify and was scented with susinum, an ancient Egyptian fragrance derived from lilies. Logan ran his hands along the shelves and attempted to read the titles imprinted on the books’ spines, but the writing was in a language he could not comprehend. He turned and looked at the large, ornately carved desk. There were two neatly stacked piles of paper on the surface, which was inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. He leaned over and tried to read what was written on them, but again, he encountered the lang
uage he didn’t understand. All he could determine was that each pile contained eleven notes.

  Logan felt something in his right hand. Yes, he thought. This is why I came. He was holding the note that he and Mr. Perrot had written for Baté. Uncertain about where to leave it, he gently placed it between the two piles of paper. Someone, or something, had meanwhile started to appear before Logan, the vapor of some shadowy figure. As he tried to make sense of it, the study faded, the shelves disappeared, and the desk vanished.

  Logan found himself standing behind a minister performing a wedding ceremony. I know where I am, he thought. This is the wedding of the Magician and the Scholar. He recognized the setting from the photograph he had seen in Mr. Perrot’s album. He stepped out from behind the minister and was shocked by the faces he saw.

  Immediately, everything went black. Then fragments of images flashed before his eyes: a blue candle, Mr. Perrot’s face, Valerie’s apartment. He wondered where he would go next.

  20

  Are your dreams real? Are the visions of a child real?

  When you are in your dreams, do they not feel real to you?

  What is the difference between your real world and the world of your dreams? Every dream, every vision you have, matters.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  WASHINGTON, D.C., 1:00 A.M. LOCAL TIME,

  4 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

  Logan opened his eyes and inhaled sharply, feeling as if he’d been startled out of a nightmare. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. It took a moment or two before he recalled the candle and the flame. He remembered the box and the pages from Camden’s journal. As he looked to his left, he saw the shadowy figure of Mr. Perrot seated on the couch and someone else seated next to him. Valerie had come home.