Mirrored Time (A Time Archivist Novel Book 1)

by J. D. Faulkner

  “Why not stay and tell her yourself?”

  “No.” Rafe shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could face her, not when the unfamiliar sting of guilt was so strong. “After tonight, the last thing she needs is to see me. Ease her into it, you said. I’m sure you’ll do a more elegant job of explaining this whole mess to her than I could. Besides, there’s something I need to do.” He left without a backward glance.

  Gwen curled into the blankets. From a distance, she heard a gentle rumbling noise. Too tired to care what it was, she burrowed deeper into the pillow and drifted back to sleep.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when she next woke up. There was an uncomfortable pressure in her head, although it was nothing too terrible—easy enough to ignore. Instead her focus was on a pair of large yellow eyes.

  A fluffy, brown and white cat sat on her chest, staring at her with an unblinking gaze. The low rumbling purr made the earlier events seem less horrible. Plus, the warmth and comfort of the bed was too far removed from her moonlight escape for her to feel any real terror.

  She eased the cat off her chest, getting an irritated meow in response. Sitting up, she rotated her neck, pleased when no muscles protested the movement. The room was warm and homey, if plain. A beautiful mirrored dresser sat to her right, free of decoration except for a stunning bouquet of flowers.

  A single picture decorated the walls. It showed an old abandoned temple lit by fading sunlight, delicate shoots of green climbing up through the crumbling ruins. Although lonely, the scene was oddly comforting. The warm quilt covering her was done in jeweled shades of green to match the color of the picture.

  Another twist of her neck increased the pressure and brought with it a slight jab of pain. She touched the small bandage covering her temple. The first ripple of unease ran down her spine when she remembered the sickening thud of the guard’s fist against her head. Frowning, she moved her feet over the edge of the bed, testing her weight.

  She was dressed in a large shirt that hung to her knees. There was a vague memory of gentle hands easing her out of her wet clothes and into something warmer. That will be embarrassing later. Her clothes, clean and folded, sat next to the bed. With a thankful sigh, she shrugged out of the shirt and into the more familiar clothing.

  The cat meowed at her, twirling between her legs in twisting figure eights. “I know, I know.” The room was warm and comforting. Still, she couldn’t hide there forever. Time to face the music, Conway. Her body felt as heavy as lead, but she forced herself to leave.

  Alistair sat in front of a flickering fire, his gaze moving over her as if he was looking for injuries. “How are you feeling?”

  She didn’t answer him. Instead, she took in the light of the fireplace, the two crimson wingback chairs, and the walls covered with rows upon rows of books. She could be happy never leaving this room. It was safe. Her gaze wandered back to Alistair.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” My, my, Miss Conway. So formal, considering he’s seen you less than fully dressed. The thought brought her little concern. She was mesmerized by the flickering of the fire. She sat down in one of the chairs, tucking her feet under her.

  “Rafe is fine?” Her voice sounded like a stranger’s.

  Alistair gave a soft noise of confirmation. “I can’t speak to his emotional well-being, but he is in one physical piece, at least.”

  “I went and saw my aunt.” Her words surprised her. “I didn’t tell her what happened. I followed Rafe and saw him disappear—into the mirror. I thought it was just a giant joke. She still knew I was upset. She always knows.”

  Her voice stumbled, and she twisted her fingers together. “She’s sick, and the doctors don’t have much hope for the newest round of treatments. But after everything she has gone through, and with everything that she still faces, she is so brave.” The tears started to fall. “I wish I had half her courage.”

  Alistair let her cry, handing her a plain white handkerchief from his pocket. He didn’t give her any trite platitude or make any overt move to calm her. His solid presence was comfort enough.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  GWEN DUCKED HER HEAD, hair swinging forward to hide the last of her tears. “I’m sorry. What good do tears ever do?” Life threatening situations or no, she never cried. Never. Now she was crying all over the place. First Maggie, now Alistair? Underneath a curtain of hair, her cheeks burned.

  “Besides reminding us we are human?” His voice was gentle. “You’ve gone through quite a shock. Not responding with a few tears would be unusual.”

  Gwen puffed out her cheeks, straightening up when she knew her tears were dry. “Quite a shock, is that what we’re calling it?”

  His head tilted. “How would you describe it?”

  Gwen shrugged. She wasn’t sure she wanted to describe it. Finding out she wasn’t crazy was all sunshine and butterflies. All the same, the alternative was a bit bizarre. Hoping for magic was one thing. Actually dealing with it? “I don’t know. I’d maybe use a description like life-altering? Completely insane?”

  “If it helps, Miss Conway,” his voice was soft, “your whole world hasn’t changed—only how you view it.”

  Back to Miss Conway, was it? Her lips pursed and she leaned her head against the back of the chair. She hoped Alistair wasn’t going to argue semantics with her. She wanted answers. Needed them. She touched the bandage at her temple. It reminded her of pain, of her mortality. It grounded her.

  “I’m not sure how that’s supposed to help. Maybe it’s the head wound, but I don’t remember ever having to run away from would-be murderers before.”

  Alistair didn’t react to her sarcasm. “I meant to suggest the Archives have existed without you for a long time. There might be comfort in the idea that for all its years of existence, it hasn’t caused any harm to your life. And while tonight may have changed that, you faced no more danger in the Archives than you would walking down a city street.”

  Crossing her arms across her chest, she stared into the fire. Anger and fear raged hot and cold inside her. Talk about a rollercoaster of emotion. “You’re being awfully cavalier about the whole thing.”

  His face softened and warmth bled into his eyes. “Please don’t assume I don’t care about what happened tonight, Miss Conway.”

  Her gaze darted to his face. Maybe Alistair’s formal, stilted air had more to do with the fact that he was worried and less to do with any lack of feeling. Everyone had their own defense mechanisms—sometimes sarcastic anger, sometimes cold formality.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not being very fair, am I?” She waved her hand in the air. “It’s not like it’s your fault I went rushing into something I didn’t understand.”

  He leaned forward in his chair again. “You owe no one an apology, most of all me. If I had told you about the Archives from the beginning, I would have been spared the sight of my assistant lying bloody and unconscious on the floor.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. Few people cared about her well-being. The idea Alistair was now one of them was an idea to be savored. In with the good, out with the bad. It was an old saying Maggie used to tell her as a child.

  Following her aunt’s often repeated advice, Gwen took a deep breath. “Maybe we should both accept blame and move on. I think we are stubborn enough to spend the night arguing fault with each other.” After everything that had happened, Gwen figured she had the right to speak to him as an equal.

  A spasm of grief ran across his face. Clearing his throat, he handed her a small bottle from the table next to him.

  Gwen took the water and aspirin. “Oh, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He relaxed back into his chair. “I thought aspirin would be necessary if we want our conversation to be constructive.”

  Brow furrowed, she swallowed the pills with a sip of water. “What conversation?”

  “I think it’s time for you to ask your question.”

  At first she was at a loss as to what he meant. Then it was clear.
“Alistair?”

  “Yes?” He waited for her to continue.

  I would live, my girl, live. “What are the Archives?”

  “Very good, Miss Conway. Very good.”

  The girl next to him was putting on a brave show of courage. Alistair could still detect the hint of panic underneath everything she said. Her acceptance of the Archives and what they meant depended a large part on what he said next.

  He found the burden unsettling. Gwen played such a pivotal role in the future of the time streams that the idea of failure threatened to render him speechless, yet he knew he wouldn’t fail—he couldn’t. He stood up and paced around the room, hands clasped behind his back.

  “Throughout history, each society has created a hierarchy of the divine. Before the domination of Christianity and other monotheistic religions, pantheons were the norm. Think of the Greeks, who had Zeus and the other Olympians. Each were developed to explain certain mysteries of life. Norse mythology had Odin and his Aesir. In Egypt, Ra ruled over his fellow deities. For all of human existence, we have sought to explain the world around us with the divine.”

  “Ok. Mythological hierarchy. Got it.” The look on her face said just the opposite.

  He swiped his hand through his hair. Why was this so difficult? Since he’d met her, hadn’t he been trying to construct the perfect explanation to give Gwen?

  “Eventually, we come to the Archives. Granted, this story isn’t universally believed by the scholars who have studied here. However, it is the story passed on to those who take guard of the Archives, and the essential elements always remain the same.” Returning to his chair, he perched on the edge of the seat. “The myth begins with the Archaics, an extraordinary family who were blessed by time and raised to the level of divinity because of their gifts. It’s a standard enough story with all the usual elements: power, corruption, and ultimately, tragedy. The Archaics were torn apart by their own gifts.”

  “What kind of gifts? I’m sorry, but I don’t really see the link between a mythology lesson and magic mirrors.” At his look, she dropped her gaze. “Sorry. Patience is a virtue, right?”

  He cleared his throat. “Whether by a divine intervention or through genetic anomaly, each of the seven Archaic siblings were born with a certain power. Most versions of the myth say a war broke out between the seven siblings, six banding together to defeat one. Through the sacrifices of each of the six, the final sibling was defeated and his power to change time, to destroy time, conquered. The other siblings, troubled by what had occurred, agreed no one person would ever again hold such power.”

  Gwen finally started to look more interested than impatient. “What happened?”

  “They sacrificed their own power by granting their gifts to others. Over time, travelers have been born with skills mimicking the original six Archaics. Some can walk the boundaries of time and visit whatever time or place they wish. Others can see the time streams and predict the future with stunning accuracy. Whatever the skill, they all pointed to one special truth about our world—or perhaps worlds would be more accurate.”

  He shifted forward, voice low and intense. “The truth of the matter—the heart of the myth—is that time is more fluid and shifting than the majority of humankind is led to believe. Granted, if they knew the truth, it wouldn’t matter to most. The large majority of mankind wouldn’t be able to see the time streams even if told of their existence. Very few are born with the ability.”

  He rubbed a hand over his face, searching for the right words. “We are led to believe that time occurs in a linear progression. We live; we die; and we exist in whatever afterlife we imagine. For most, that’s the end. Yet for a chosen few, it is much more expansive. Think of time as a circle, not a line. A circle repeating on itself again and again, a dazzling brilliance of intersecting spheres never ending in possible connections with each other. Then you would have a more precise idea of what time is.” He paused, to allow the image to settle in her mind.

  “You can’t change the past, so time remains static. Still, the possibilities of the universes are never-ending. Just think, in this universe, you chose to stay here and listen to me. You can’t change that now; the decision has been made. But there were hundreds of options available to you. Each of those options had the potential to spark an entirely new universe, like ripples in a lake growing wider from the point of impact.”

  “So you’re saying there could be thousands of Alistairs and Gwens having this same conversation?”

  “And now for a complication.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “And before you say it, yes, I know. It was complicated enough.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he rotated his stiff shoulders. She hadn’t run off screaming yet. “As I said, there are individuals born who echo the original powers of the Archaics. While ordinary people may exist in multiple forms throughout the streams, these travelers are different. Throughout all of time, there exists only one of them.” He rubbed the bridge of nose.

  “What does that have to do with me? You said people marked by time. I’m not … I mean … I’m just … me.” She shrugged.

  “Gwen, there is one explanation for why you were able to go through the mirror tonight.” She has to see it coming.

  “Then I … I’m …”

  He closed his eyes again. “Yes, Gwen, you are one of the few. Although depending on your reaction, perhaps I should hold off on the congratulations.”

  Her head spun with the possibilities. All she wanted to do was go find somewhere soft to lay her aching head. But she wouldn’t run and hide. Alistair’s words were too important to ignore. First thing first.

  “The mirrors? I don’t understand the role they play in all of this.” If the mirrors proved she was different, then it was the mirrors she wanted to learn about.

  Alistair watched her, as if looking for any signs the conversation was becoming too much to handle. Apparently, he was convinced she was handling the new revelations well enough for him to continue speaking.

  “The Archives are not synonymous with the mirrors. While they play an important role, the collection of artifacts in the Archives is much more vast and comprehensive.”

  “So why the mirrors?” Gwen said.

  Again, he folded his fingers under his chin in a pose that Gwen was beginning to identify as his “thinking” pose. “The mirrors allow for a physical manifestation of the time streams. They also allow the Archives to take up more space than the spatial limitations of this building would permit.”

  “But what are they? How do they work?” There was a definite whine in her voice. She bit her lip.

  Alistair’s mouth turned up. “Patience. I was getting there.” He paused long enough for her to huff. An amused smile curled up the corner of his lips. “The mirrors, for all their apparent mystery, function as little more than doorways.” He pointed to the closed door. “Where would you go if you opened that door?” At Gwen’s raised eyebrow, his smile returned. “Humor me.”

  “It leads to the bedroom.”

  “Yet, while the door is closed, you can’t see the bedroom. How do you know it is there?”

  This time her eyebrows furrowed. “Because I was there and … I just know?”

  “You know the bedroom is there because, while you cannot see it, you’ve been inside that room, correct?”

  “Yes.” She was beginning to anticipate his conclusion.

  He continued. “How much different is the principle that the mirror is a gateway to a room you haven’t seen? Yes, the theory is more complicated. The room may be in a different time or place; still, the theory behind it is the same, yes?”

  “So the mirror allows you to travel across spaces. Just instead of physical distances, we are talking about temporal distance?” It was too crazy to believe. Time travelers gifted with impossible powers by a mythical family? But it wasn’t crazy, was it? She had touched the mirror. She had gone to a place so far removed from her ordinary life that she was forced to recognize the truth in Al
istair’s explanation.

  “Exactly. And the Archives, in part, are a collection of gateways linked to important times. A network, if you will, allowing travelers to weave in and out of time.” He picked up a glinting object from the table, holding it so she couldn’t see what it was. “I know my brief explanation hardly answers all the questions you must have.” He nodded at the item in his hands. “However, the testing must be completed before we can go any further. It will be difficult, but I ask you to trust me. Do you think you can do that?”

  A testing? Her stomach rolled. Alistair had never done anything to prove he was less than trustworthy. Still, the idea of trusting him was terrifying. Maggie’s words came back to her, and she rubbed her eyes. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. “I can do that.”

  “Thank you.” The tolling of the clock echoed in the quiet room. Alistair looked startled by the noisy reminder of time and frowned down at his wristwatch. “Time has slipped away from me,” he laughed. “And yes, I understand the irony there. Shall we postpone this conversation until tomorrow?”

  Gwen wanted to argue, but her growing headache convinced her otherwise. Part of her didn’t want to end the discussion, as if they stopped speaking, it would all become nothing more than a fantastic dream.

  Alistair must have sensed her uncertainty. “I promise the answers will still be here in the morning. However, there is the test. It is required of all new travelers. And it is better met with a clearer head.” His expression dared her to argue.

  Gwen doubted she would sleep with so many questions whirling through her head, but she knew the wiser course was to agree. She could use the sleep—and a familiar place to think through all this new information.

  “You’re welcome to remain here.”

  Gwen shook her head. She wanted her little apartment—a place to get away from all this new strangeness.