The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) (11 page)

“I understand,” she said, brushing a fly from her shoulder. “Is that all?”

Walter nodded, blowing out his cheeks, unsure of what else to say for fear of making a bigger ass of himself.

“Please do consider the notion,” Baylan pleaded. “The fate of the realm may depend on it,” Baylan said quietly. Tamia bristled with a sniff, though she seemed like the type to scowl at honey candy and elixir.

Had he said too much? Was he revealing who he was? What he knew?

“I should be getting these new recruits into their appropriate houses,” Baylan said hurriedly and aligned with Walter’s thoughts, beckoning for the other’s to start moving. Walter rubbed Marie’s neck and led her to a horse pole.

“I wish you well in your training, apprentices. I’m sure we will speak again,” Bezda said, sending a sly smile to Walter, who reddened, knowing there was no way Nyset would have missed that. He couldn’t help it, could he? Did he do something to ask for her affections? No, he was just over thinking the situation as he always had. Bezda was simply welcoming them to the Silver Tower in her own strange, wizarding way.

Walter watched as the women glided away with the most regal pomp they could muster. They started speaking to a merchant selling herbs, as submissive as he could be as a man in his profession. Walter had to forcefully remove his eyes from Bezda’s round backside.

He started to think how great it would be to tell his parents about this place, but caught himself in the foolish thought. Glass windows of various colors reflected the shifting light up and down the Tower, inlaid with bronze around the frames. Black clouds drifted in front of the sun, draping the mouth of the Silver Tower in gray shadows. He stared at its blackened entrance, wondering what adventures would come with this new chapter of his life.

B
aylan breathed hard
as a line of sweat trickled its way down his back and into his smallclothes. Time was a cruel bastard, no doubt about that. Ten years ago, he was able to dash his way up this endless staircase without breaking a sweat. He stopped, taking a heaving breath, sagging against the wall and brushing his hand over his shaved head, sweat misting in the air.

Bromley was one of his friends, not a wizard but was employed by the Tower for his unrivaled skill in Falconry. Bromley had believed in him when he told him about the seal of the Age of Dawn being broken, one of the handful that did. Bromley encouraged him to do what he thought was right, even if it would cause a stir in the Tower. It had caused a lot more than a stir. It had cost Lillian her life and Baylan his pristine reputation. Life was full of choices, each leading to unforeseeable paths.

He had to figure out a way to use the Phoenix to get rid of the stairs. Why the Falconer’s tower had to be built so high was beyond his comprehension. Wizards were much like men, only their foolishness was of grandiose proportions. He could hear the screeching of the hawks and rustling of avian nails on wood from the bend in the spiraling staircase. He pushed himself off the wall and started up the last leg of the Falconer’s spire.

He reached the top, the same rickety wooden door, always ajar like it used to be. “Bromley?” Baylan called, then knocked on the door at the same time as it opened from the force of the knocking. “Bromley?” A spotted hawk shrieked as he walked in, staring at him with its yellow eye.

“There ain’t no Bromley here no more,” A dull voice said from beside a desk, speckled white and green with turds.

The circular room was revolting, the smell was worse than the rotting bird one of the other apprentices had put in his bunk as a prank. He remembered the floor being a polished walnut, now it was white with shit, hardly a sliver of the old wood showing through.

“What happened to Bromley?” Baylan asked at the turned back.

The stocky man slipped a scroll around a hawk’s leg and it darted through the window, flapping hard in the warm air. The man turned to Baylan, hair wild and unkempt, feathers sticking out and a line of green shit rolling down on one side. Bromley was a disciplinarian, this man was as wild as a Northern man that had crawled from his home in the latrine. He wore a corroded breastplate that looked to be made for a boy half his size over a filthy shirt dangling by a few threads. He had a rash that crawled up the side of his bare arm, crimson with scabs and scratches.

“The Tower isn’t as scrupulous with their hires as they once were, I see,” Baylan muttered.

“What’s that?” the Falconer said.

“I’m sorry,” Baylan said, peering up at the dozen birds perched along a rafter wrapped in heavy rope.

“Whatcha sorry for?” the man barked, filling a bowl of water, tattered feathers still floating in it.

“It’s no matter. Bromley, what happened to him? He formerly worked here.”

“Ah, yeah, him. Bromley died bout a couple weeks ago. Maybe ended himself is a better way in puttin’ it.”

“What do you mean ended himself?”

“Come here,” the man beckoned. Baylan wrinkled his nose at the idea, and drew closer, but far enough to avoid any potential body contact. The man shuffled up to a window and stuck his head out, then pointed down. “He went down there, the fastest way possible,” the man chuckled.

Baylan knew what was there: the Tower’s market. He couldn’t help but look anyway. He poked his head through when the Falconer stepped away from the window and back to his desk. From up here, he could see the open market tables were covered in heavy cloth to block the elements. There was one table, closest to the spire window that inched away from the others beside it, making room for other bodies plummeting to their death. Baylan felt dizzy and wanted to dump the cream and elixir from his stomach he had for morning supper. He pushed himself back into the sordid room, grabbing an empty bucket and holding it for the inevitable.

He gagged into the bucket, coughing out some gelatinous spittle. “So Bromley killed himself, did he?” Baylan said through heavy breaths.

“That’s what the armsmen say,” the Falconer said.

Baylan doubted he would get anything useful out of this cretin. He had sent hawks to Bromley from Midgaard to report his findings in Midgaard and the west. He thought he was keeping his allies in the Tower informed, those that believed in the demon god Asebor’s return. Those that had believed in what he and Lillian discovered. Had Bromley been discovered and been replaced? Coincidences are rarely true. He didn’t consider himself much of a betting man, but that he would bet on. What about the other allies? He would need to arrange a meeting soon. Hopefully, they didn’t conveniently end themselves either.

The infestation spread deep into the Tower’s bones, maybe no longer a simple boil in need of lancing. He would have to be very careful as it seems there were eyes and ears everywhere. He might be making leaping assertions, but something wasn’t feeling quite right here.

He started down the spire’s stairwell, a welcome relief to be descending, knees popping and muscles disconcertingly twanging on every other step. He wasn’t looking forward to going through Apprentice School again. The boring lessons, endlessly practicing levitations, minor shields, and other less practical spells to develop one’s bond with the Phoenix. He missed his research laboratory. It had taken ten years of service until he finally had his own office, only to be wiped away with an act of honest discovery. His heel slipped off a step and he grabbed at a crag in the wall, catching himself before tumbling head over ass. A small bird sitting on an open window below leaped into the blue, squawking with annoyance.

Baylan walked up to the window, staring out at the Far Sea, stretching endlessly to the east. The sun rose with the color of bad blood. It streaked across the water, staining the sky in a deep red, glittering with pieces of gold. Underneath it, the road leading to the harbor twisted towards the Tower, black against the wounded sky.

He had to prepare the boy as well as he could and learning the basics in Apprentice School would surely help with that. Fate always seemed have a knack for crashing down upon you when you were least ready. He had to hope that the wave would hold a bit longer.

“
N
ew apprentices
, welcome to the House of the Phoenix. I am your teacher, House Master Grozul. We have much to learn today and I hope you have all purchased the required reading from Katra’s Book’s at the market,” said the wizened man. His garb was straight out of the stories, long white beard, pointy hat, dusty blue robe, and wrinkling eyes. Walter kept waiting for the moment when he would reveal the beard was fake, like the actors wore in Midgaard. He leaned on a cane for so much support that without it, Walter thought he’d topple right over.

Shit. How long are we going to keep this charade going? He really didn’t want to be in school again. The endless days baking on tables, working on brain wrenching math and reading about boring dead people. He’d rather be fighting Cerumal, or any Death Spawn really, not stuck in here with this old bastard.

There were eight apprentices in all, including himself and Baylan, sitting beside him on a long spotless table. The back of the room were floor to ceiling bookshelves, overstuffed with dusty looking tomes. The enormous windows to the left let the pink morning light stream in through black iron bars, still leaving the room dimly lit and not all reducing his feelings of being imprisoned. To the right was an enormous table littered with burning candles, a large round glass in the center the size of his head, flasks filled with unknown substances, an animal’s claw, and other wizard baubles.

“As you well know, you have all been brought here to cultivate your talents in the Phoenix. It is a mighty blessing that many envy and others will hate you for.”

“You mean the Purists?” Walter blurted out. He remembered how they watched him in Midgaard, with their blood-thirsty eyes, a look you couldn’t easily forget.

“Walter is it?” Grozul asked.

“Yeah,” Walter said with a nod, running his hand over his now closely shaved head. He missed his hair, but apparently all male apprentices had to earn their length, a sign of an accomplished wizard they had said. A foolish tradition if you asked him. Hair had the perfectly good functions of keeping the sun off your neck and your head warm at night. We had to blend in, Baylan had said, follow the Tower’s customs.

“Please raise your hand before speaking. The Purists are an excellent example of those who will hate you, perhaps even try to hurt you,” Grozul said, his jovial tone becoming dark. “However, we must only fight when our lives depend on it. The power you have been granted gives you unfair advantage over your fellow man.”

Walter bit the inside of his cheeks, forcing his lips from opening to contest his idea. Had to blend in
,
he reminded himself. Walter looked over at Baylan sitting next to him, wincing and rubbing his stump.

“You will read a prodigious amount of text in your quarters, but in class we will not be using books or quills. Here we will practice with our bodies, and more importantly our minds,” Grozul said, limping on his gnarled cane. “Step away from the table now and stand over here,” he pointed with his cane at the altar of burning candles.

The students, rose and shuffled over the table, watching Grozul, some with eyes shifting around the room and others appearing in rapt interest. His hand burst alight with the cool light of the Phoenix, brightening the room. He flicked his fingers and the table they were sitting on turned and slid flush against the windowed wall, hardly making a sound as it touched the stone.

“I will tailor my lessons for each of you based on your nascent ability. To find that, we’ll have to test your strength,” Grozul said, grinning with teeth the color of butter.

“Isn’t he too old?” A chubby student, hardly old enough to have hair on his fruits, chimed in, pointing his stubby finger at Baylan.

“The Tower does not discriminate by age, Edsel. Please do raise your hand before speaking,” Grozul said with measured tranquility. “People are often blessed by the Phoenix at different times of their lives, though most manifest their abilities in their youth. There are always exceptions… have I—seen you before Zane?” Grozul peered up at Baylan through cracked spectacles.

Baylan looked from side to side, seeming to wonder who Grozul was talking too, then reddened at the realization it was him. “It is possible. My family often came to visit the Tower’s market place. My daughter loves getting new magical plants here, the ones that glow pink at dusk.”

Nice recovery, Baylan, Walter thought, shaking his head so he could see it. He was starting to think Baylan was going to be discovered in short time.

“Ah yes—that must be it. My eyes are not quite what they once were,” he smiled with peeling lips. “The power of the Phoenix, as I should hope most you already know… is most notable for allowing you to self-heal, making you quite difficult to kill. It is a charitable power as well, allowing you to alleviate the suffering of your fellow man.” A couple students started fidgeting, looking for an escape from the apparent drudgery, though things were just starting to get interesting to Walter. “You can do other things with it as well, such as controlling the movements of physical objects, manifesting protective shields. Some of the best wizards that had passed through my classes have been able to create doors, portals to other locations in the realm.”

“When do we get to learn that?” an older boy asked.

“Very few will be able to do that, I’m afraid. It was rumored over a thousand years ago there was a wizard who could fly, though none have since been willing to test it since the last few fell to their untimely deaths.”

The boy’s eyes bulged out of his sockets and his face became a ghastly white.

“Let’s get on with the exercise then. Let’s start with you, Zane,” Grozul beckoned to Baylan, who forced a smile and stepped forward, hands wrapping around his hemp belt. Grozul pointed towards a quiver resting on the bookshelf, and an arrow lifted into the air and floated over to the middle of the room, arrowhead down.

“I’m going to drop this arrow over here, in front of you. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. All you need to do is catch it and prevent it from falling.”

Baylan nodded. “I think I can manage that.” Of course he could, it was but a trivial request. The arrow fell and Baylan stopped it just before adding another chip to the thousands in the wooden floor. Clearly Grozul had performed this exercise many times now. Grozul added two more arrows to the mix, testing Baylan again. Baylan caught two of them, but the third fell and rolled across the floor, stopping at Walter’s feet.

“Well done, Zane. Walter why don’t you try now.” Walter caressed the Phoenix swirling in his chest, reveling in its comforting embrace. Baylan shot him a look that he couldn’t figure out the meaning of. Baylan was often a confusing man to understand. Let’s show these apprentices how it’s done, Walter grinned.

Grozul raised his arm, lifting the single arrow into the air and Walter caught it with ease as soon as Grozul released it, adding a flourish by spinning it in the air.

“Ah! Well done!” Grozul clapped his hands together. “Let’s add more.” Walter chuckled, enjoying the attention the other students now paid him with open mouths and narrowed eyes. Walter saw Baylan out of the corner of his eye, his lips pressed together hard and white. What was his problem?

Three more arrows jumped from the quiver in a hiss, making three hovering through the air, dusty squares of light sifting through the windows. They spun around the ceiling, great flags hanging loosely from it, one Midgaard, another the Tower, other’s he didn’t recognize. Grozul clapped and the arrows fell. He could say a lot of things he hated about Malek, but one thing he had to admit he did well was training him. He challenged himself by catching the arrows an iota before hitting the floor.