The Tower of Endless Worlds

by Jonathan Moeller

  Chapter 11 - Deceptions

  Anno Domini 2003

  “Morning, Markham,” said Simon, brushing the snow off his coat.

 

  Markham nodded. “Good morning, Wester. I believe there’s someone who wants to see you.”

  “Hmm?” said Simon.

  “One of Senator Wycliffe’s business associates,” said Markham. “He wants to talk with you about your van.” He shrugged. “Whatever that means.”

  A trickle of sweat slithered down Simon's back. “Um…yeah. Listen. I’m feeling ill. I think I’ll come back later.”

  He turned and halted in his tracks. Two of the hooded and bearded security guards stood at the door, the light glinting off their sunglasses.

  “I’m sorry, Wester,” said Markham. “You need see him right away. He really wants to talk to you about your van.”

  “Okay,” said Simon. “Okay. I’ll talk to him.” He went into the office hallway, his heart hammering in his chest. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. It took him three tries to unlock the door.

  He stepped into his office and screamed.

  The winged creature sat in Simon’s desk chair. The tips of its leathery wings brushed the wall, and the spikes on its black armor had shredded the chair’s padding. Crimson light from the creature’s eyes cast a red glare over its pale face.

  Simon stepped back. “I…”

  “Mr. Wester.” The creature’s voice rumbled like grinding stones. “I seek for Conmager. You will tell me about him.”

  "I don’t know anything. I swear! I don't know anything!”

  The winged creature snarled, revealing long yellow fangs. “You will tell me!”

  The creature leapt to its feet. Simon screamed as the winged shadow reached for him, iron claws reaching for his face…

 

  ###

 

  Simon awoke with a gasp.

  The blankets tangled around his thrashing legs as he sat up. For an instant he saw a huge form standing in the corner of his bedroom, wings wrapped around its armored body…

  Simon blinked, and the form resolved into his coat rack. He sighed and wiped sweat from his forehead. “A dream. Another dream.”

  Simon climbed out of bed, the floor icy cold under his bare feet. The house sweltered in summer, but it froze in winter. He padded down the hall to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and examined his reflection. He looked dreadful. He had lost even more weight in the last few months, and his eyes glinted with a feverish light.

  He looked a little like Conmager.

  Simon closed his eyes. “I don’t want to think about that. It didn’t happen.”

  He poured himself a glass of water and wandered into the hall, stopping at the window. A thick layer of January snow mantled the yard and street in white. Simon would have a hard time driving to work tomorrow.

  “Boy.”

  Simon spun, his heart racing. Maura stood behind him, wrapped in a thick bathrobe. “Mom! You almost gave me heart attack.”

  “Are you okay, boy?” said Maura. “I thought I heard you screaming.”

  “Screaming?” said Simon. “I was having a bad dream, that’s all.”

  “Another one?” said Maura.

  Simon looked out the window. “I don’t have that many.”

  “It was the third one this week,” said Maura. “And it’s only Tuesday.”

  “Wednesday morning,” corrected Simon.

  “It’s still too many,” said Maura. “And you look so pale. You haven’t been eating enough.”

  “I’m fine,” said Simon. “I…just have a lot of stress now, that’s all.” He shook his head. “I’ve got to get some sleep. I have to be at work by eight. Good night.” He started back towards his room.

  “Are you hiding something?” said Maura.

  Simon turned. “What did you say?”

  “You’re hiding something, aren’t you?” said Maura.

  “You shouldn’t be climbing up the stairs this time of night,” said Simon. “It’s not good for your joints.”

  “You’re acting like a man who’s guilty about something,” said Maura.

  “Mom.” Simon grimaced. “I’m not guilty about anything. I have nothing on my conscience.”

  That was true. He had lied to the police and committed insurance fraud, but he felt no guilt about it.

  Just fear.

  Fear that Conmager might come back someday.

  Fear that one of those winged things might find out what he had done.

  “Is it your schoolwork?” said Maura. “Are you having trouble with that?”

  “No,” said Simon. “My coursework is all done. I’m teaching a pair of intro courses, but that’s going fine. I just have to finishing writing and proofreading my dissertation.”

  “Well, are you having any problems with that?” said Maura.

  “No,” said Simon.

  “Is it something at work?” said Maura.

  Conmager’s gaunt face flashed across Simon’s thoughts. “It’s nothing at work. Work is fine. It’s a good job, better than any I’ve had before. I don’t have any problems at work.”

  No, he didn't. He just worked for a man who sold illegal weapons to foreigners, that was all.

  Maura sighed. “You seem guilty about something. Did that man Wycliffe ask you do something illegal? He seems like a shady character.”

  She had no idea.

  “No,” said Simon. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve said this before. Wycliffe’s a politician. He’s probably done something wrong.” Thoughts of guns and the Russian Mafia flashed through Simon’s mind. “It…he’s never asked me to do anything wrong, anything unethical.”

  “I still don’t like you having that job with him,” said Maura. “I don’t think he’s honest.”

  Simon rubbed his forehead. “If it makes you feel better, I was thinking about quitting.”

  Maura blinked. “You are?”

  “Yes,” said Simon. “After I finish my dissertation, after I get my degree, and if Dr. Francis’s offer to become full-time faculty works out. I’m not quitting a good-paying job just because some people think Senator Wycliffe did something dishonest at some point in his career.” He thought of Senator Fulbright’s convenient suicide and Conmager’s haunted eyes and pushed away the guilt.

  “Oh,” said Maura. She fell silent. “Is it Katrina?”

  “What?” said Simon. “No. We’re…fine, I guess.” He liked Katrina. He thought he might be falling in love with her.

  But he didn’t understand her.

  “Oh.” Maura stared out the window. “You didn’t have sex with her, did you?”

  "Mother!”

  “You heard what I said,” said Maura, her voice flat. “Did you have sex with Katrina? Is that why you’ve been acting so guilty lately?”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “That’s exactly it. How did you guess? It happened last week, in the back seat of my car. And we were smoking pot and reading Communist Party propaganda while we did it.”

  “Simon!” said Maura. “That’s not something to joke about.”

  “I know,” said Simon. “But that’s not it, okay? Besides, Katrina would break my arm if I tried something like that.”

  They had come close, a few times. But something held them back. Simon had been raised to believe premarital sex was wrong, and Katrina had been burned in bad relationships, so she wanted to take it slowly. And Simon still did not understand her, not really. Did she want children? Did she want to spend the rest of her life working as Wycliffe's database administrator?

  He didn't know.

  “She couldn't break anything. She’s smaller than you,” said Maura.

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” said Simon. “She has a black belt in some sort of karate. Did you know that? She made me go with her to the gym last week. I thought
she was going to an aerobics class. It was a karate tournament.” He still remembered her mopping the mat with her opponent. Little wonder she felt confident walking home at night.

  Though karate would not help her if she encountered that winged creature.

  “Oh,” said Maura. “Still, I think there’s something you’re not telling me, boy.”

  “Lots of things,” said Simon, forcing sarcasm into his voice. “Go to bed. You’re just worrying yourself. I’m fine. I’m under a lot of stress, yeah, but it’ll get better once I finish the dissertation. Go back to sleep.”

  “All right,” said Maura. “Good night, boy.”

  “Good morning, rather, I guess,” said Simon.

  Maura grumbled. “I’m getting too old for these late hours.” She started down the stairs with a slow, painful step.

  Simon walked back into his room, switched on the light, and sat down. Books, papers, and a laptop computer covered his desk. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Sleep would not come tonight, not after the nightmare.

  “It doesn't matter,” said Simon, pressing the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. “Conmager's gone, and he's not coming back.”

  He shook his head, turned on his laptop, and got to work. He couldn't get to sleep again, not after that dream, and he could get a lot of writing done before morning.

 

  ###

 

  Simon had never gotten used to the smell of Katrina’s apartment building. The air stank of cigarette smoke, body odor, and something like cat urine. He wondered why Katrina hadn’t moved to a better building. She made enough to afford a better apartment.

  He knocked at her door, his eyelids heavy. Perhaps he could get some coffee from Mrs. Coldridge. The old woman made thick, black, vile coffee capable of resurrecting the dead.

  The door shuddered open. Mrs. Coldridge stood at the door, a cigarette smoldering in her hand. “Oh. It’s you.”

  “Yeah,” said Simon. “I have a date…”

  Mrs. Coldridge took a long drag on the cigarette. “I know. She’s in the shower.” Simon coughed. “And don’t give me any shit about smoking. I’m not in the mood.”

  Simon spread his hands. “Would I do that?”

  Mrs. Coldridge’s eyes narrowed. “Well, come in and sit down. Katrina should be ready soon. You want some coffee?”

  Simon brightened. “Please.”

  He followed Mrs. Coldridge inside. The old woman moved with a slow, pained waddle toward the kitchen. Simon settled on the couch.

  “Katrina!” said Mrs. Coldridge, her voice bellowing from the kitchen.

  “What, Mom?”

  “Simon’s here.”

  “I’ll be ready in a minute!”

  Simon leaned against the lumpy couch and looked at the cluttered coffee table. Mrs. Coldridge’s celebrity gossip magazines and tabloids lay in a disorganized heap, and Katrina's laptop sat on one corner. It was on, the screen displaying a word processing program.

  “Here.” Mrs. Coldridge hobbled back into the living room, a chipped old Chicago Bears coffee mug in hand. “It’s hot.”

  “Thanks.” Simon took a drink. The coffee tasted like an unwashed towel. Nevertheless, some of his fatigue vanished.

  “So,” said Mrs. Coldridge, looming over him. “Where are you going tonight?”

  “Dinner,” said Simon. “Then a movie, probably.”

  Mrs. Coldridge stared, and Simon tried not to sweat. “You cause my daughter any grief, I’ll break your neck. You know that?”

  Simon nodded. “You’ve mentioned that before, yes.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Coldridge shuffled towards the kitchen table. Simon rolled his eyes and took another drink of her abominable coffee.

  The bathroom door opened, and Simon caught a glimpse of Katrina before she slipped into her room and shut the door. She wore only a towel, her hair gleaming wet and dark over her bare shoulders. She looked very good. He half-wanted to open the door and go to her.

  No, no half-measures about it. He wanted to open the bedroom door and join her.

  To distract himself, Simon glanced over the magazines strewn across the tabletop and looked away in disgust. Katrina’s laptop caught his eye, and he leaned closer for a better look.

  It looked like a story of some sort. He started to read the story, not knowing what to expect. It was about a woman working as a bartender when a gun-toting customer came up to order a drink...

  Someone snatched up the laptop. Katrina stood over him, dressed in a short black dress and a black leather jacket.

  She did look happy.

  “Um. Hi,” said Simon.

  “Is something wrong, Katrina?” said Mrs. Coldridge. She flexed her knuckles. “Is he giving you trouble?”

  A muscle in Katrina’s jaw worked. “No. Everything’s fine. I’ll be back sometime between midnight and one.”

  “Have fun,” said Mrs. Coldridge, settling down at the kitchen table. “But don’t let him give you any trouble.”

  “I won’t, Mom.” Katrina closed the laptop. “Let’s go.”

  Simon followed her into the hallway. The muscle in her jaw still twitched. She looked caught between rage and embarrassment.

  “What did I do?” said Simon.

  “Nothing,” said Katrina. She started down the hallway, her high heels clicking against the grimy floor.

  “Wait.” Simon caught her wrist. “I…”

  Katrina spun, and Simon had a brief vision of her hand splitting his skull like a plank at karate practice. He let go of her hand and took a judicious step back.

  “What?” she said.

  “What did I do?” said Simon.

  “You shouldn’t have been poking at my laptop,” she said.

  “But I wasn’t!” said Simon. “I was just looking at what was on the screen.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that, either,” said Katrina.

  “But so what? It’s not like you were doing your taxes. It was just a story about a bartender and a drunk guy.” He blinked. “Wait a minute. I get it. You wrote that story, didn’t you?”

  Her eyes flashed. “Goddamn it. Can’t you leave well enough alone?”

  “No,” said Simon. “Did you write that?”

  “Yes,” said Katrina. “What do you care? Oh, wait. What did you call it? Pop culture drivel?”

  Simon scowled. “What are you talking about? I haven’t the…wait.” He remembered a conversation with her, months ago, in the lounge at Wycliffe Consolidated Shipping. “Wait. I remember.”

  Katrina raised her eyebrows. “Remember what?”

  “What I said about fiction to you. It was a couple of months ago, in the lounge at work. Is that what you’re mad about?”

  Katrina rolled her eyes. “Crap. Just rip the story to pieces and get it out of your system already.”

  “But…it wasn’t bad. It was…actually kind of good,” said Simon.

  Katrina raised an eyebrow. “Actually kind of good? Try not to flatter me.”

  “No,” said Simon. “If you had told me that you wrote something…okay, I’ll bite. I would have expected it to be bad. You know…melodramatic, angst-ridded, full of purple prose. Just bad.”

  Katrina blinked. “What the hell’s purple prose?”

  “Um…melodramatic, angst-riddled, overworked writing,” said Simon.

  “Oh,” said Katrina. “Like something a teenage girl would write. Nice to know you have such a high opinion of me.”

  Simon grunted. “But it wasn’t bad. Really. I mean, it held my attention, didn’t it? I didn’t notice you standing over me until you grabbed the laptop out of my hand.”

  Katrina seemed somewhat mollified. “I suppose so.”

  Simon decided to push a little further. “How long have you been writing?”

  “We're going to miss the movie,” said Katrina. She started
down the hall.

  Simon watched her go. The dress displayed her legs to good effect. “If you don’t want to talk about it…”

  Katrina gave him an irritated glance over her shoulder. “If we wait around much longer, we’re going to be late for the movie. I want to see that movie.”

  They walked into the gloomy parking lot. A layer of grimy slush covered the cracked asphalt. Simon’s eyes darted to where he had seen the winged creature perch months earlier. He forced himself to look away.

  “You okay?” said Katrina. She slid through the slush to Simon’s car.

  “What?” Simon blinked. “Oh. I’m fine. Just…a bit cold, that’s all.”

  Simon walked to the other side of his new car, a 1994 Chevy Corsica with eighty-five thousand miles on it. It had seen better days. Still, it got Simon to work and back, and it started in the cold weather. And it had been affordable, too. With the insurance money from his van (thank God he had bought a policy after getting his job), there had been more than enough for the Corsica.

  Simon grumbled and settled behind the wheel. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about Conmager and the winged thing with burning eyes?

  “So,” said Katrina, cutting into his thoughts. “Do you still want to talk about it?”

  Simon blinked. “About what?” He started the car and pulled into the street.

  Katrina snorted. “The writing.”

  “The writing? Oh, right.” The red glare of the stoplights reminded him of the winged creature's burning eyes. “So, how long have you been writing?”

  Katrina looked out the window. “Since high school.”

  “It’s been a while, then,” said Simon.

  Katrina snorted. “Not that long. I’m not that old.”

  “Only two months younger than me,” said Simon.

  “Don’t remind me,” said Katrina.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Simon. “You’d probably crack my skull.”

  Katrina laughed. “That still bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  Simon blinked. “What bothers me?”

  “The karate tournament.”

  Simon shook his head. “Well, no. Not really. It…was a little unsettling, yes.”

  “Unsettling that I’m a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter than you and could still scrub the floor with your ass?” said Katrina.

  Simon tapped the steering wheel. “If that didn’t unsettle me, I’d be an idiot.”

  Katrina laughed. “Then I guess you’re not a complete idiot, Simon Wester.” She leaned towards him, her breath hot on his ear. “Admit it. I scare you.”

  “You know," said Simon, "I have to concentrate on driving here, unless you want to crash into a bridge abutment.”

  Katrina laughed again. “Admit it.”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “Fine, fine. All right. I’m terrified of you. Happy? You scare me on multiple levels. You’re tougher than I am…” His jaw clicked shut. He hadn’t meant to say that much.

  Katrina leaned back. “Is that what’s been bothering you lately?”

  Simon groaned. “Not you too.”

  Katrina smiled. “What?”

  “You sound like my mother,” said Simon.

  Katrina crossed her arms. “You should listen to her. She’s a smart woman.”

  “Undoubtedly. But there’s nothing bothering me,” lied Simon. “I just have a lot to do, that’s all. My dissertation’s been going well, but it’s still a lot of work, and I put a lot of effort into my job. Both my jobs, the teaching and with writing for Wycliffe. And I’ve been spending so much time with you…”

  Katrina snorted. “Then if that’s the case, college boy, why do you spend so much time with me? You could always cut back, you know.”

  Simon chewed his lip. “Well…”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Simon looked at her. “Are you trying to break up with me?”

  “Why do you spend so much time with me?” said Katrina. “Answer me that. You’re always starting at my legs and chest, and you've never pushed me into bed. Are you having second thoughts?”

  Simon scowled. “No, well, not entirely, anyway…”

  “Then why? It’s a simple question.”

  Simon glared out the windshield. “I don’t need to spend all this time with you. I could break it off tomorrow. I could…I could just walk out tomorrow and never look back.”

  They drove in silence for a while. Simon’s jaw worked. The date had turned sour rather fast.

  Katrina folded her hands on her lap. “Then why don’t you?”

  Simon glared at her. “Because I don’t want to.” A stoplight came up. He slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded to a halt at the intersection. “Is that all right?”

  Katrina smiled. “More than all right. I don’t want you to either.”

  She gripped his neck, turned his head around, and kissed him. She had never kissed him with that much force before.

  A horn blared.

  Katrina pulled away from him. “The light changed. You’d better go.”

  “What?” Simon blinked. “Oh, um, right.” He tapped the gas and started forward. A red pickup truck roared past him, engine thundering. The driver and the passenger both gave him the finger.

  Katrina smiled. “Distracted?”

  Simon sputtered. “You think? God in heaven. I ought to go through your laptop every time, if this is what happens.”

  Katrina grinned. “Next time I’ll break your arm.”

  “Okay,” said Simon.

  They drove in silence for a while.

  “Did you like it?” said Katrina. She sounded unsure of herself, almost shy.

  Simon blinked. “What? The kiss? Are you kidding? It was great…”

  “Not that!” Katrina groaned. “Dumbass. The story. Did…you like the story?”

  Simon blinked. “Yeah.” He laughed. “It was good. I mean, it held my attention, didn’t it? I like what happened at the end, when the drunk got thrown out back.”

  “I used to work in a bar,” said Katrina.

  “I could tell,” said Simon. “It…was real. Write what you know. Isn’t that what the English teachers always say?”

  “My next story will be about a database administrator with an arrogant boyfriend,” said Katrina.

  “Ha, ha. Funny,” said Simon. “It was good. Really. You should try to get it published.”

  Katrina pushed some hair out of her face. “What? Oh, I already have.”

  Simon almost skidded into the other lane. “You’ve been published?”

  “Nine times,” said Katrina. “Some magazines. Mystery and crime fiction, mostly.”

  Simon gaped at her. “How did this happen?”

  “Look at the road,” said Katrina. “How do you think it happened? I sent in the stories, and the magazine bought them.”

  “But… you have no degrees, and I don’t think you even took a writing class. How?” Simon shook his head.

  Katrina laughed. “Did I just shatter your worldview?”

  “A bit,” said Simon. The restaurant came into sight, and Simon pulled into the parking lot. A red Ford Aerostar van sped past. Simon craned his neck to follow the vehicle. It looked almost identical to the van he had allowed Conmager to take.

  “What?” said Katrina.

  Simon shook his head. “Ah…nothing.”

  Katrina twisted around in her seat. “That…that looks a lot like your old van. Simon, I think it is! Do you want to follow it? Or maybe we should call the police.”

  “No!” said Simon. “No. I don’t think that was it. And even so, it’s gone. We could drive across half the city and we’d never see it again.”

  Katrina shrugged. “If you say so. It’s your van, after all. Or it was your van, anyway.” She patted the Corsica’s dashboard and grinned. “Besides, this car is better. If you ask me, you’re bett
er off.”

  “Yeah,” said Simon. “Yeah. You’re right. Definitely. I’m better off. The Lord works in mysterious ways, right?”

  He never wanted to see the van again. He never wanted to see Conmager again. And most of all, he never wanted to see one of those winged creatures again.

  Yet he could not stop thinking about Conmager. And the winged things and their burning eyes kept haunting his dreams.

  “Besides,” said Simon. “I think it was an extended-length van. Mine was just normal length.”

  Katrina gave him a strange glance. “Sure you’re okay? You looked really weird just then.”

  Simon forced a smile. “I’m fine, Katrina. Really.” He slid the car into a parking space. “I mean, I’m out with you. How could I be better?”

  Katrina laughed. Her eyes glittered. “Good one, college boy. Good one.”

 

  ###

 

  A week later Simon had another date with Katrina.

  “You’re home from work early, boy.” Maura sat in her chair, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers. A laugh track blared from the TV.

  Simon grunted, dropped his briefcase on the couch, and settled down besides it. “It’s almost five-thirty.”

  Maura snorted. A puff of smoke rose from her nostrils. “And that’s early. You're usually out until eight or nine at night.”

  “Congress doesn’t resume session for another month,” said Simon. “Senator Wycliffe doesn’t need anything important written.” Another laugh erupted from the TV, followed by wolf whistles. “What are you watching?”

  Maura shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a comedy about a bunch of young people who live in an apartment together.”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “With hilarious results, no doubt.” He watched the show for awhile. “It reminds me why I stopped watching TV. And why are you smoking? I thought you said you were going to try and quit.”

  Maura grunted. “Don’t be such a wet blanket, boy.”

  Simon sighed. “You’re all dressed up. Do you want to get ash on your good dress?”

  “It’s bingo night. I need something to settle my nerves,” said Maura.

  “I never thought of bingo as a high-risk activity,” said Simon.

  Maura ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. “That means you're not playing it right.” She got to her feet and slipped on her shoes. “I’m leaving soon. Do you want anything for supper before I go?”

  Simon shook his head. “No. Katrina’s coming by about nine. We’re going to go out for a late supper then.”

  Maura picked up her purse. “It’s not good to eat supper so late.”

  Simon rolled his eyes. “Fine, then, I’ll eat a banana to tide me over.”

  “That's better,” said Maura. “So what are you going to do for the next three and a half hours?”

  “Correct some student papers. Work on my dissertation,” said Simon. “What else?”

  “Maybe you should take a nap, boy,” said Maura, fiddling with her purse strap. “You look pretty tired.”

  “You look wonderful too, Mom,” said Simon.

  “Disrespectful child. Well, I’m going. I expect you’ll be gone when I get back.” Maura opened the door and left.

  Simon leaned back against the couch. He did feel tired, and the couch was quite comfortable. He shook his head and got to his feet. He had work to do. Besides, the accumulated stench of years of second-hand smoke would likely give him cancer if he fell asleep in here. He scooped up his stuff and went upstairs.

  Simon sat down at his desk and got to work, paging through his piles of research as he typed. He wrote a page and a half before his eyelids began to feel weighted with lead. Simon yawned and gave up. He had made sufficient progress. The student papers could wait until after dinner with Katrina.

  His laptop went to sleep with a quiet whir, and he decided to follow suit. Simon set his alarm clock for 8:45, curled up under the blankets, and went to sleep.

 

  ###

 

  The doorbell rang.

  Simon looked at the clock and cursed. It was only 7:43. Katrina wouldn’t come early.

  He shook his head, climbed out of bed, and glanced out his window. Some snow had begun to fall, and the wind had begun to pick up. Even Chicago’s Jehovah’s Witnesses were not fanatic enough to go canvassing on a cold and snowy night.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Simon walked down the stairs, grumbling to himself, and looked out the window.

  His heart lurched in his chest.

  A red Ford Aerostar minivan sat in the driveway. Specifically, the van he had given Conmager.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Simon clutched at the railing to keep from falling. Part of his mind told him to run to the attic and hide. Still another part told him to ignore the doorbell until it went away. The doorbell rang once more, and someone started knocking on the door.

  Simon walked to the front door. Sweat beaded on his forehead and slithered down his back. He gripped the doorknob and closed his eyes to gather his courage, then turned the knob and yanked the door open.

  A man in a dark suit and black overcoat stood on the doormat, gloved hand raised to knock. The man’s clean-shaven face was lined and thin beneath slicked-back dark hair, with glittering, deep eyes.

  “Conmager?” said Simon. “Is that you?”

  Conmager nodded. “Yes, Simon Wester. I need your help.”

  ***

  Chapter 12 - The Crimson Plain

  Year of the Councils 962