The Silent Guardian — Chapter 10, Part 1: Sachu

This installment continues The Silent Guardian Series. Previous: Chapter 9, Part 2: Desert Camp.

No matter how much I wish otherwise, time travel has two unbreakable rules. The first rule is that my ability to move through time takes precisely three years to recharge, down to the second. We all have the same limitation, except for the Archon. I’ve tried countless times to break that limit. Every attempt has failed.

I came here two years, two months, and three days ago. If I could have left earlier, I would have. Especially when that soldier’s sword was poised to end me. I couldn’t pull myself through time.

When I move through time by my own will, it feels controlled, like flipping through the pages of a book. Being pulled through by someone else is disorienting. The world yanks me off my feet, leaving me with no sense of control.

I’ve experienced it twice before, both times with Philip. The first was when he took me to the Acropolis, introducing me to time travel. The second was three years later when we went to ancient Egypt. Each time, I was nauseous.

This was different. No one was with me when the pull stopped. Whoever did this had enough skill to eject me from the flow of time while continuing on their path, leaving me stranded. I didn’t know such a thing was possible. If they were here, I might thank them for saving me. They’re not, so I’m left alone to understand where and when I’ve landed.

I need to take stock.

The man who tried to kill me claimed the Phylax contracted him. The mark on his arm suggests he might have been one of us, yet his speech hinted otherwise. Could the Phylax really have hired him? If so, the implications are troubling. I am a dead man. However, I’d expect the Phylax to demand every detail of what has happened, not end me in the middle of nowhere.

There are other explanations. His dark armor suggests he is associated with the Chinese army. The new emperor probably wants me dead. It would help prove his loyalty to the former regime and deflect any suspicion that he played a role in its downfall. Or he might work for someone else, reducing his costume to confusing theater. If that’s the truth, then who could it be?

Assuming the soldier isn’t with the Phylax, I have an even more significant problem: reporting these events. The Phylax expected me to return within a year of completing my mission. By all indications, I am now centuries late. The hard-packed road beneath my feet and the larger city of Sachu on the horizon suggest I’ve traveled at least four hundred years forward from my starting point. It could be even longer.

Despite everything, Athens remains my destination. While reporting this to the Phylax is risky, it’s still the safest course of action for now. I must admit, it’s not a plan I’m particularly fond of.

It is difficult to adjust to the scorching sun after being ripped out of the cold night. I pause for a rest before making the final push to Sachu. As I set my satchel down, the picture I took from Xia slips into view. I pick it up, thinking briefly about Xia and the woman in the image. There isn’t anything new to consider, so I put the picture back. I have more urgent concerns; Xia’s mystery can wait.

I take a long drink of water, savoring the relief as it slides down my throat. It’s enough to steady me, to keep me moving toward the city on the horizon.

My footsteps are slow while my senses adapt to Sachu’s atmosphere. This place has changed significantly from when I first passed through. Before, the buildings were simple homes with some merchant activity. Now, imposing structures with curved roofs loom against the skyline. Their silhouettes provide a welcome contrast to the flat desert I have traversed. Wooden beams lined with ornate carvings and doorways flanked by stone guardians point to the Northern Dynasties period. Yet, I am unsure how far into the future I’ve traveled.

I advance onward into Sachu. The streets bustle with activity. Merchants peddle their goods, their voices rising in a cacophony of haggling. Shoppers move between the market stalls. They speak Middle Chinese.

I scan the crowd, cataloging people and noting exits. Stay focused, I tell myself. Every step through this maze of people makes me feel vulnerable. In the wilderness, I can move unseen.

I pass a stall draped in silks that boasts a vibrant rainbow of colors. Another vendor displays metal that gleams on a weapons stand. As I weave through the throng, I feel the undercurrent of unease grow stronger.

A particular stall draws my interest. Unlike the others, it is cluttered with various relics, including tools, trinkets, and scrolls. Each seems plucked from history’s grasp. A rusted blade lies atop a pile of leather-bound scrolls, while strange gemstones with faded carvings glint under the light. It is a collection gathered from the corridors of time.

There is something about these items that I find provocative. The merchant watches me intently from under the privacy of his stall’s tent. He juts his head forward, tilting it at an awkward angle, tracking my every move.

“You seek what is lost,” his gravelly whisper chills me. “To find it, you must embrace what you fear.” The words hang in the air, cutting through the market’s noise. I stop. His tone has a malevolent edge.

I move closer, gesturing for something to write with. I need to ask a few questions.

The merchant looks down at my hand, a hint of a smile curling at the edge of his lips. It is not warm or friendly.

He reaches into the folds of his coat, producing a small brush and a scrap of parchment. “Ah-ha, a silent guardian,” he says, “that always makes for an interesting conversation.”

I ignore his comment, taking the writing instruments from him. I scribble my question: What is the date?

He takes the parchment back, reading it with amusement. “Why do such things matter to one like you?” He waits for a reaction. Is he goading me into revealing something about myself? If so, I do not give him the satisfaction.

He answers, “The third year of Xiaochang, the year of Dingwei. We are in the second month, on the fifteenth day. A time when much is in motion, and the past is eager to change.”