The Silver Tower (The Age of Dawn Book 3) (15 page)

“Shit Baylan! Are you trying to kill me?” He knew what to do to summon a portal now. It was like the inversion of a shield, instead of stopping things, splitting it open. Why didn’t he just say that?

“You would’ve lived, you’ve been through worse,” he said flatly.

There was something wet on his cheek. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, sticky with blood. The old man would have to pay for that. He felt respect for him, but now he was a training partner and would be treated like one. Walter rose to his feet, fists wound into tight balls, knuckles white from the pressure. He sprinted towards Baylan and three rocks spewed from the sand around the old man, flying towards Walter.

Now!
Walter willed and a portal spiraled open in front of him. Baylan’s eyes grew wide, now showing his rear through the portal. He had his leg up before he passed through, exiting the other side with vicious speed, his boot connecting hard into the middle of Baylan’s back, sending him sprawling onto his face with a crack. He let the Phoenix’s energy slip away, the portals closing with the hiss of a starting fire.

Baylan rolled over, moaning, hand wrapped over his mouth “Hurrrrrrrrggggh!” There was a mess of blood and a few teeth next to one of the rocks he had summoned, sitting motionless in the sand. Baylan’s own weapons had played a part in his undoing.

“Shit,” Walter whispered, his guts filling with an enormous pit of guilt. Once again he let his pride and anger get the best of him, hurting those closest to him. When would he ever let that go? Walter squatted down beside the rock, gathering Baylan’s bloody teeth, fumbling in his fingers, one shattered like dust on the top of the rock.

Baylan lurched onto his elbows, forcing a bloody smile of all things, not even a touch of anger in his eyes. That did give Walter a pang of relief, given he did sort of ask for it. Baylan held out his hand for the teeth and Walter narrowed his eyes, disgust and fascination blending together, dropping the teeth into his hand. Baylan blew out a breath, wiped blood across his stump, and started pressing the teeth back into his oozing gums. Blue light billowed like smoke from his mouth as he did it and Walter nodded in understanding. He didn’t want to let the Phoenix heal the wounds until the teeth were placed, bonding them to his jaw, otherwise he would have had to hammer the teeth through healed tooth sockets.

“Ah—well done, Walter. Very well done! You continue to impress me with your learning speed. You would have done well as a scholar here, a researcher for the ages,” Baylan said, regaining speech and his face relaxing as the pain faded from his eyes with the Phoenix’s healing light.

“Are you alright? Sorry… I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. I wasn’t expecting the portal to accelerate my movement that way,” Walter said, rubbing at the back of his head, still not used to the feeling of having short hair. The last time he had his hair this short was when he started Sid-Ho training when he was nine.

“Do not worry,” Baylan said, waving him off as he stumbled to his feet. “I think that is enough for tonight. Let’s get some rest.”

T
he library was still
as awe-inspiring as he remembered it. Bookshelves started on the floor and crept up towards the domed ceiling, not a sliver of wall space remained uncovered by tomes, some small as his palm and others wide as his torso. Some of the books had the bright sheen of new leather, others wrinkled, sun beaten and abused with the harrowing of time. Curved ladders arced along the shelves, mounted to rails that allowed easy access to the highest shelves precariously mounted near the apex of the dome. The strange architecture was something Baylan had always liked about living in the Tower. The Tower’s architects had a flair for the extravagant, leading the mind to always reconsider the possible.

The books had to be packed tight on those shelves to keep them from falling. Baylan had learned that lesson the hard way when he was an apprentice. It had taken him almost a week to put them all back after he had pulled out a keystone book holding the lot of them together. The pull of the earth on its objects was not a force to be taken lightly.

It was quiet as a tomb, the only sound was the hiss of the burning candles and gouts of sea air that snaked their way through invisible crevices. Most apprentices and wizards would be sleeping at this hour, like he probably should be. The occasional mad wizard could be found in their lab, testing new materials and experimenting with spells, trying to discern the power trapped in a Milvorian artifact, but thankfully none were in the throes of research here.

The shine of the late moon burned and twinkled through the dome’s center, passing through the one and only window, a magnificent prism with thousands of crystals, cut to evenly disperse brilliance through the room. Baylan rubbed his red-rimmed eyes, aching for rest. His mouth was still sore, tongue flicking over the empty spot where the molar had been, now shattered and irreparable.

On the floor were more shelves, arranged to form a series of alcoves to allow for a measure of privacy for one’s studies. The dark alcoves were supplemented with the light of candelabras, mounted on walnut bookshelves, tongues of flame always burning on the magical candles that never melted, one of the inventions of the late researcher Cynric.

The Great Library hadn’t changed much since the long nights and endless days spent lost in tomes here, feverishly researching the demon god Asebor with Lillian. Times were easier then, before his arms and legs were bound in chains. He found himself strolling to their old alcove, near the grand map of Zoria, stretching thirty arm’s lengths across the only wall that lacked bookshelves. It was an incredible piece of art, frequently changed with masterful precision after each year’s survey of the realm. They even seemed to have added the latest construction on the king’s palace. Baylan planted his hand on his hip, scanning the map, beautiful and colored in reds, blues and greens. It was a slap in the face to the Tower, making them beg for marks from the king, given a pittance, only then for the king to build an entire spire for his daughter. Greed ruined every man eventually.

Baylan sat down at his old table in his favorite alcove, his chair rigid, yet soothing against his back. How he yearned for those simpler times. His elbows slipped into the grooves on the arms and he tilted his head back, closing his eyes. The glow of the flickering candles bathed his vision in sheets of red, orange, and black. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the familiar smell of knowledge.

“I knew it was you,
Zane,
” a voice said quietly.

Baylan’s eyes snapped open, his heart pounding. He had been discovered. His hand slid along his cloak, the fine thread caressing his fingertips, his grip winding around his cold dagger. Where was the owner of the voice? He whirled his head around, no one there. He strained into the shadows of every corner, feeling the weight of eyes upon him.

Something creaked against wood and the shape of a man slid from the edge of a shelf cast in shadow, his cane wobbling under the load and not well built for the job. Either the cane had weakened or the man increased in girth. Baylan would bet on the latter, if he were a betting man. The man’s figure came into the candle light and his stomach dropped, his grip trying to crush the hilt of his dagger.

“I may be old, but I never forget an apprentice, Baylan” House Master Grozul said, pushing his broken spectacles up his hooked nose.

“I—” Baylan was at a loss. Seeking an explanation was like trying to climb up fog.

“Your disguise leaves a lot to be desired,” Grozul said, hobbling over to a chair and dropping into it. “You’ll need to do more than just shaving your beard and your hair to fool me.” He smiled, showing his mouth with but a few teeth remaining.

Friend or foe, Baylan wasn’t sure. How deep did Asebor’s talons reach?

“Don’t worry,” the House Master said, lowering his voice. “I wasn’t the one who ordered you to the dungeons, though your response then, was not the wisest.”

“Lillian wasn’t the type to die in chains, whoever did order it should have known that,” he barked, smashing his palm on the table and rattling a vase that shimmered like broken glass. “Who was it? Since when did the Houses put questioners in chains? What evil penetrates these walls?” So many questions wanted to break through his lips.

Grozul’s little eyes went wide and he cringed in his chair, pushing it away from the table. Baylan saw the gleam of his dagger in his hand, unaware he had even drawn it. Waves of blue light smoked from his skin, vibrating his chest, shimmering in his eyes. He lost control, realized he had embraced every ounce of the Phoenix that he was capable of handling and let it go with a breath, exhaustion hitting him like a smith’s hammer. He slumped into his chair, sheathing the dagger, Phoenix sliding into the back of his mind.

“Sorry. It’s been a trying time, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Ah—yes,” Grozul said, straightening his beard, the tips singed black and filthy with the remains of meat or an experiment gone wrong. “As I was starting to say, I had no part in your eh, brief imprisonment. I don’t condone your actions against the House of Arms, however… and reparations must be made. I had heard an inkling of what you were going to present to us from Tamia, the new House Master of the Dragon and Bezda’s assistant. Ah—there is much to tell.”

Baylan blew out his cheeks. “It’s okay. Please, take your time. We have a few hours before the sun rises.”

“Well, I followed Tamia’s lead, it piqued my curiosity, as most things do. She mentioned that you wanted to speak with us about the false god, Asebor. I—many of us see now you were right to come to us, given the raids on the villages to the west, the altercation on the plains and the attacks to the south by what the villagers only can describe as monsters from their nightmares.”

“Altercation,” Baylan scoffed. “Many men died, defending the heart of the realm in that battle. Wait—did you say there have been attacks to the south, so close to the Tower?”

“I apologize if I offended. Your weariness makes you brittle, Baylan,” Grozul said, launching into a fit of coughing. Baylan popped the cork from his water skin, handing it over to the old shell he’d remembered, once the picture of graceful aging. He wondered if this would be the future for him, thriving then declining sharply.

“Where was I?” the House Master said, his eyes rolling about the high shelves.

“Attacks to the south,” Baylan said, leaning his chest against the table, heavy as iron.

Grozul nodded, his eyes seeming to be looking into a distant scene on the polished table’s surface. “There is something wrong with the Arch Wizard. She was once a decisive woman, quick to action to squash an uprising. Now she spends her days brooding in her spire, weeks after an attack, only to deploy the armsmen far too late, after a village and its people have been ransacked, their innocent blood spilled and dried,” he whispered.

Baylan felt like a stack of bricks had been placed on his back, trying to crush him into blood and dust. “This sounds far too familiar,” he said softly.

“What are you saying?” Grozul said, his eyes snapping back to reality.

“When I was in Midgaard, where do I begin? We—I,” Baylan paused. Very few could be trusted to handle the truth in its entirety, not even his former mentor. A life without people you could trust was no life at all. He had to try to trust someone. “We discovered that King Ezra’s faculties were being manipulated by one of Asebor’s generals, they call themselves ‘The Wretched’.”

“But how?” Grozul asked, his jowls spreading out behind his beard. “No! Not one of the banned spells.”

“Yes, a Mind Eater. The Wretched do not subscribe to any laws, lastly ours.”

“You’ve brought me grim tidings. Grim tidings,” the old man said, staring off. “I fear you are right though. I believe I saw the afterimage of the Mind Eater in Bezda’s office, but I couldn’t believe it. It had to have been a trick of the mind.”

“It must be Tamia, her new assistant. Do they spend a lot of time together?” Baylan asked.

“This is difficult to process. The demon god, Asebor, is real and his reach has extended into the Tower, this is so very grim…”

“Tamia?” Baylan nodded, getting the House Master back on track.

“She never leaves the Arch Wizard’s side. We can’t make an accusation without proof. This must be handled delicately… if the people were to lose faith in the fortitude of the Tower, it would be a great blow to morale. People are already shivering under their sheets, the stories of lore manifested in reality.”

“Right,” Baylan nodded. “She’s positioned herself well. House Master of the Dragon and Bezda’s assistant. She’s the most powerful person in the Tower,” Baylan said with heavy realization. “How did this happen?”

“Too quickly. Tamia rose from apprentice to journeyman soon after you left, then quickly replaced the House Master and wriggled her way into Bezda’s quarters.”

“The Arch Wizard was never one to push an attractive woman from her bed. It was too easy for Tamia. So she is the only boil that needs to be cut from the Tower?” Baylan said, pressing his fingers into the bridge of his nose.

“There may be others. She has other allies in the Tower, though she hasn’t gone out of her way to make friends after winning Bezda.”

“She got what she wanted. No need for any other superfluous relationships.”

Grozul grunted, absentmindedly plucking a piece of meat from his beard and popping it into his mouth. Any other time Baylan would have acknowledged the action with revulsion, now it was like watching a dream scrape by. “There is more though, I’m afraid. The Tower no longer sends scouts to the other realms or to the edges of Zoria to search for dual-wielders. Bezda said it was a waste of our time now.”

Baylan snickered in mock amusement.

Grozul flashed him a contemptuous smile, then continued, “Alia, the young girl who could touch both of the god’s essences, that was found in the Nether, died a few months ago on a hunting trip. A Sand Buckeye snatched the poor girl before she was properly trained on how to defend herself. A horrible tragedy.”

“This plague spreads deep,” Baylan said, maggots of hopelessness worming their way into his chest. Alia was supposed to be well protected because of her gifts, as he was duty bound to watch over Walter. Dual-wielders were a dying breed and something this age would need if humanity wanted to survive unchained.

“What happened to Lillian? Did she come with you?” Grozul asked, genuine interest touching his eyes.

By the Phoenix, he didn’t know. How long had his messages gone undelivered? Baylan shook his head, feeling his eyes bubble with warmth and wet, wiping tears on his dirty sleeve before they fell. The air felt hot in here, thick and hard to breathe, like it wasn’t getting into his lungs. He took a few deep breaths, wondering when it would no longer feel like he was being rammed through with a spear every time her name was mentioned.

“My condolences, Baylan. I didn’t know…”

“It’s alright,” he sniffed. “I sent hawks to Bromley who was to deliver my messages to Adgren and Sophietta, the only other two wizards whom we trusted. I know what happened to Bromley, but I haven’t seen—”

“All dead,” Grozul said, his small eyes widening, enormous saucers of blue behind his spectacles. “Grim tidings,” he repeated with a touch of madness.

“Dead?” Baylan asked, his back sagging further down his chair, his voice deadpan. His only allies here had been discovered and obliterated. Maybe he still had an ally here though. Grozul’s eyes were tightening, lips pulling down into a frown. Loyalty was starting to become a scant quality in men of this age.

“The apprentices you discovered are quite powerful. They seem to be trained beyond their years,” he said with enthusiasm.

“Yes. They’re truly gifted,” Baylan said, appreciating the subject change, his stomach pain becoming a background throb with the excitement he felt at Walter’s most recent progress.

“Not ordinary apprentices, especially the boy,” Grozul said, his bushy eyebrows drawing in.

Grozul couldn’t be fully trusted, not yet. His trust had to be earned. “He seems to hold a lot of promise.”

The old man pulled off his hat, dispersing the quintessential image of a wizard from the stories. Without it, he looked no different than a beggar. His robes were rumpled with stiff creases. The aroma wafting from his skull was that of a man who hadn’t bathed in months. He placed the grease stained hat on the table, twiddling the bent point straight. “I made a great journey a few weeks ago, one I could not resist. I discovered in Nutlee’s Chronicles of The Age of Dawn, an amazingly heavy tome, the location of where the demon god Asebor was supposedly buried.”

“And?” Baylan remembered roughly where Walter said he’d found it, in the forest north of the Helm’s East road.

“I found the tomb, an incredible place, deep within a Shiv Fang den. It was a perilous journey, one fraught with—”

“Get on with it, Grozul. I need to get some rest,” Baylan cut in, exhaustion not allowing him to feel an ounce of regret for his sharp tongue.