The Weight of Honor (23 page)

“Come with you!?” Alec asked, flabbergasted. “Where!?”

The man looked down and Alec saw a lone ship, with a red and green sail, docked by the canals. Alec looked back at the man, but he had already turned and walked away, heading back to the stairs.

“I don’t even know who you are!” Alec called out after him.

But the man, disappearing into the staircase, did not even reply.

Alec stood there, numb. He looked out at the horizon, saw the black ships creeping inevitably closer, and his life, he sensed, was about to change. There was no escaping it, whether he stayed or left. He knew that leaving, crossing the sea with a man he barely knew, would be the craziest, most illogical thing he could do.

And yet, despite all that, the man’s words rang in his head. Destiny. That was a big word, and no one had ever used it with Alec before, not once in his life. Could it be true? Was he someone special?

Without fully knowing what he was doing, Alec felt his feet leading him, felt himself walking, leaving the tower, heading for the staircase. He did not know what he would choose to do. But he knew that by the time he reached the bottom, the choice would be clear.

One destiny.

Or another.

Kyle stood in the predawn blackness, high on the upper floors of the Tower of Ur, looking out the window, and felt a chill in his heart. He knew something was wrong. He watched as the sky began to light and listened as he heard nothing but the stillness of the universe, the sounds of insects rising, the distant crashing of the ocean waves. With all of his fellow Watchers asleep, this was his shift. On the surface, all was as it should be.

Yet his gut told him something else. Down below stretched the countryside of Ur, the plains barren, the forest a silhouette, the silence eerie. He knew he should be sleeping, should be preparing for the morning’s shift—but his dreams had awakened him, and had kept him awake. They were dreams unlike any he had ever had, something profound shifting within him ever since his encounter with that girl.

Kyra.

When he had laid eyes upon her for the first time, he had known, unmistakably, that she was the one. The one from the prophecies. The one destined to change everything. And the one and only girl he would ever be with.

Yet he also knew that his laying eyes upon her, a human, was forbidden, she not being of his race, and had been a grave risk to take. He had suffered the consequences, confined here to the upper floors of the tower as a punishment. He knew that worse punishment would follow. But he did not care; it had been worth it to save her life, and even more so, just to see her. He could still feel the touch of her skin on his fingertips. It sustained him.

And yet his dreams, too vivid, had awakened him again and again. It was the same dream, repeating itself, like someone knocking on his soul: a disturbing nightmare, in which Kyra was riding alone, into the forest, and killed. He could not tell what killed her, but he knew it was not of this earth.

Could she really die now, he wondered, after all this? Anything, he knew, was possible.

Kyle paced before his window, his palms damp, a cold sweat running down his back. His heart slammed as he scoured the countryside, wondering. Had it all just been a dream? Or was it something else? Was Kyra in danger? Did she need him?

Kyle paced, agonized, knowing that if he fled the tower now, they would banish him. They would never let him back inside, ever, at any cost, and he would turn his back on centuries of training, centuries of guarding the sacred code. And yet he also felt that if he stayed here, Kyra, the one true love of his life, would die. And that was something he just could not allow.

Kyle closed his eyes and tuned into his special power, the one he tapped rarely, only when life and death were at stake. He became very still, and he waited.

Soon, it came to him. He began to hear it. It was a distant sound, miles off. He heard a horse galloping. He heard Kyra, breathing hard. He heard branches breaking. He heard the wolf beside them, running, breathing.

He tuned in, deeper, and he sensed danger. Kyra racing through the woods. Her being surrounded. Ambushed.

Kyle opened his eyes with a start and looked out at the countryside, his eyes aglow. He could not let her die.

Even though his next move would determine his fate, Kyle didn’t think twice. He jumped up on the ledge, and without another thought, he leapt.

He fell a hundred feet through the air—until he landed, like a cat, on the grass below.

He began to walk. Then to run.

Within moments, Kyle was sprinting into the breaking dawn, toward the forest of Ur, turning his back on all that he had ever known for a girl he barely knew. He only hoped it was not too late.

*

Merk, unable to sleep, paced the lower floors of the Tower of Ur, his mind still reeling from his encounter with the trolls, from his near death on the roof from one of his own. Danger, it seemed, lurked everywhere. Busy securing the tower with the other Watchers, preparing for battle, he had lost himself in the work, determined to defend this place which felt like home. He knew he should feel a sense of peace, at least, in that.

Yet peace eluded him, and some inner sense kept gnawing at him, kept him awake. At first he thought it was his urge to protect; yet the more he dwelled on it, the more he realized it was something else, some sense of foreboding that had guided him his entire life. It had nothing to do with the coming army. It was something else, some other danger. He did not know what, but his instincts never failed him.

Merk paced, walking past dozens of other Watchers in the long, stone chamber. He looked out the windows as the dawn light slowly lit the place, making his way from window to window, even though it was not his shift. He was watching—but for what, he did not know.

He finally sat beside one window in particular, leaned against it, the stone cool on his hands, and searched the countryside as dawn broke.

All was still, nothing out of place. He watched and watched, and nothing changed, except for the slight rising of the sun, the quieting of the night birds. He knew there was nothing he should be worried about.

Merk rubbed his eyes, wondering if he should just go back to sleep—when suddenly, movement caught his eye. Something glistened across the clearing in the early morning light. It was a figure, running. It disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and Merk blinked and for a moment wondered if he had seen anything at all. He reflected, and felt sure he saw the long golden hair, moving so fast, like lightning. It moved too fast to be human. And he suddenly knew without a doubt it could only be one person: Kyle.

Merk realized, with a chill, what he had witnessed: Kyle had somehow descended from the tower and had fled into the woods. But why? Merk knew Kyle had been punished, detained, transferred to the upper floors, forbidden to leave the tower. Everyone had been talking about it. Why would Kyle risk leaving when that meant he could never return?

Merk then had another thought, equally disturbing: Kyle’s unannounced departure would leave the upper floors unattended. Vulnerable.

Merk knew he had to do something. All the others were sleeping, and he alone had witnessed it. He couldn’t just stay here and act as if he had seen nothing. He had to, at the very least, go upstairs and find out for himself if the tower was truly left vulnerable.

Slipping across the room, quietly so as not to wake the others, many of whom he did not trust anyway, Merk opened the heavy wooden door and closed it quietly behind him. He stood in the stone hallway of the tower, cool and dim and circular, the huge spiral staircase sitting in its center. It sat like a work of art, leading up and down, like a warning to go in either direction, both forbidden.

Merk looked up and saw the early morning light filtering down through the golden dome, illuminating the stairs. He knew that ascending would mean being banished from the tower. And yet, he felt he had to go. It was the only way to protect the tower. Merk had to fulfill Kyle’s watch.

He took a deep breath, debating, then finally took the first fateful step on the staircase, knowing it would change everything—and yet also knowing that, come what may, it was his sacred duty.

Merk climbed, heart pounding, knowing he was heading into forbidden territory, knowing he was risking everything. He quickly ascended flight after flight, each story engraved with different insignias on the wall, gleaming in different-colored jewels, with strange signs he could not understand, and different-shaped doorways. This tower was endlessly mysterious.

Finally, Merk reached the top floor, and breathing hard, he paused. The stone looked different up here, the doors a weathered oak, crossed with iron bars, doors meant to be sealed. And yet one, he saw with a jolt of fear, was ajar, light streaming out from the other side. Something was wrong. Someone clearly had taken advantage of Kyle’s absence and had used the opportunity to enter this floor. Someone from inside the tower.

There was a traitor from inside.

Heart pounding, Merk stepped forward and slowly pushed open the door he knew he was not allowed to touch. On guard, he stepped inside, and was shocked to find himself in a chamber carved entirely of rubies, a glowing red light reflected by flickering torches on all sides. He peered into the dim light, disoriented, and saw at the far end of the room, another door, carved of gold, with intricate markings across it. Merk felt a rush as he sensed immediately that that was
the
door. The door behind which no one could enter, not even a Watcher. The legendary door.

The door to the Sword of Flames.

As Merk squinted into the light he saw something else, something even more shocking: a figure, moving stealthily in the darkness, heading for the door.

The man spun, startled, as Merk entered, and Merk saw surprise and fear on his face, as if he were caught in the act.

“Pult?” Merk asked, recognizing his fellow Watcher, unable to forget the man after the way he had treated him on the roof. “But why?”

Merk looked down as Pult tried to hide something in his hand, and he saw a flat metal tool, clearly meant to pry open a door. Merk realized, in a flood of rage, that there was a traitor in their midst.

Pult let out a cry and suddenly charged across the room, right for him. He drew a dagger and swung for Merk’s gut, a slash that would have sliced Merk in two.

Merk, though, let his instinct take over from years of fighting, and he dodged without thinking. The dagger flew by, slicing his arm, but not killing him.

Merk reacted without even thinking. He spun around and elbowed the man across the face. It was a hard blow, one meant to kill a man, and Pult dropped to his knees. But to Merk’s surprise,  Pult immediately jumped back up and swung with his dagger, slicing Merk.

Merk, reeling in pain, stared back at his adversary, realizing he had underestimated him. Pult  charged and slashed again, and this time Merk wheeled around and kicked him in the stomach, sending him to his knees. He then kicked his chin, then his wrist, sending his dagger clattering across the floor.

But Pult, apparently undefeatable, spun and tackled Merk, wrapping his head and shoulders around his waist and driving backwards.

Merk was driven back until his back slammed into the golden door. There came a crack, as the door opened and Merk landed on the floor before it, winded. Merk could feel the cool draft from the open room on his neck.

Merk looked up to see Pult on top of him, dagger raised, lowering it for his face. Merk shifted his head at the last moment and the dagger clanged and sparked as it impacted stone. In the same motion Merk reached up, grabbed the man’s face with both hands, and twisted. It was a crude move, but one that had served him well his entire life. The inevitable crack came, and a moment later the man slumped down on top of him, neck broken, dead.

Merk realized, too late, it had been a foolish move. He should have kept the man alive, to interrogate him, to understand why he had betrayed them, who had sent him. But with the man lying on top of him, dead, there was nothing for Merk to do but shove his dead weight off.

Merk slowly made it to his hands and knees, breathing hard, reeling from the pain, and collected himself. He felt the draft on his neck again, saw the unnatural light flooding the room, and he hesitated, realizing he sat at the entrance to the sacred room, its door ajar. His back was to it, and he knew he shouldn’t turn around, shouldn’t look inside, this forbidden room on a forbidden floor, the most sacred of the sacred places of Escalon. He knew he had no right to look upon the ancient Sword of Flames, the sacred object that protected all of Escalon. If it was even there.

He tried to will himself to just walk out. To not turn back. To close the door behind him.

But as he stood there, inside the sacred chamber, he burned with curiosity. He could not walk away. Not now. Not being so close.

Despite everything inside him screaming not to, Merk, despite all his efforts, slowly turned around. He had to lay his own eyes upon the legend that had haunted him his entire life.

As he slowly turned, the light grew brighter, and he soon found himself squinting, peering into the inner sanctum, the most sacred place in Escalon.

He gasped, and his eyes widened.

He stood there, breathless.

He could not believe what he saw.