Everything felt so different in the Fold. It had turned his understanding of normal upside down. It still had the same underlying elements, the same ingredients, but it felt like a hallucinogenic chef, mad with imagination, had created this place.
The fold was a composition in which the artist chose the brightest colors, painting with exaggeration and passion. The mountains were taller, sharper. The water was clearer, crisper. The trees were taller, more vibrant. The sky was blue as a sapphire. The flowers were bright and colorful as the sun. The air. How to describe it?
Peter took in another breath.
It was clean. It was cool. It felt good, but that still failed to capture the whole of it. There was a hidden weight to the air. It felt like history itself had somehow become inextricably woven into it.
Each breath filled his lungs with a tiny piece of antiquity. Yet, for all its wonder, he felt anxious.
“Stay quiet,” Thea said, piercing Peter’s thoughts, “I’m unsure of how we will be greeted.”
Peter nodded his understanding as his attention was pulled skyward.
Standing impossibly tall was an exorbitant tower. The mists swirled about its massive girth, creating small eddies of movement and allowing glimpses of its soaring height.
Thea paused and looked back at Peter, who stood in open-mouthed awe.
“That’s where we’re going,” she said, “the Tower of the Arkein.”
Peter’s eyes were still glued to the building as he breathed, “The arkein? As in magic? True magic?”
A weak smile claimed Thea’s features for a moment. It was like seeing the sun peak through clouds on a rainy day.
“Yes,” she replied, “it’s where I studied, along with several others.”
Her voice fell away as if carried away by the weight of the weather.
Peter closed his mouth and slowly shook his head in disbelief. It had been his lifelong dream to learn the craft of wizardry. He’d read storybooks as a child, The Lost Scroll of Dimutia, had been his favorite. It had spoken of an ancient empire, powerful magic, hidden secrets, and a great heroine.
Thea was already walking about the circumference of the Tower of the Arkein toward a smaller building, resting in the great monolith’s shadow.
Peter hurried to catch up.
He stared wide-eyed at every little detail as they passed under an arched gateway into a courtyard. Thea looked about more carefully as she led him through a doorway into the slender tower. Before Peter entered, he glanced to his left, and glimpsed the entrance to a beautiful garden.
He followed Thea into the darkness of within.
No candles were lit, no torches cast light, no braziers were ablaze. The fine tilework that marked the pillars lining the corridor, were nothing but muted greys. They skirted the interior of the building as the long shadows grew thicker, until they came upon a set of stairs.
“It’s too quiet,” Thea remarked to herself.
Peter looked into the inky blackness. It was shapeless. It whispered of happier times. He tore his gaze away and followed Thea up the stairs.
They passed empty dorm rooms, where beds lay unused, cast in the soft light of a slender window. They took another set of stairs and came upon a bridge linking the two towers. The curling fingers of haze obscured the view and stole from its natural drama.
Thea crossed quickly, leading Peter into the Tower of the Arkein. Beyond a short corridor and a wooden door, lay a room dominated by a central dias and a single chandelier. Thea didn’t slow to observe the details of the space. Instead, she looked at the doors lining the chamber. The only light she had to guide her was a thin sliver of luminescence spilling down the corridor and through the open door of the chamber.
She swept across the room purposefully, moving past murals cast in perpetual shadow. Peter had no time to appreciate the beauty that rested just beyond reach.
Once again, they were climbing more stairs. Soon they were overwhelmed with the diffuse light of day as they passed into a massive library. Peter blinked back tears as he looked into a vast open-aired atrium.
More books than he’d ever seen, lined shelves. Stone columns and archways marked separate sections within and were covered in plants. Beautiful blues, purples, reds, yellows, and soft oranges and greens gave life to the library.
Thea continued to climb and Peter continued to follow. He cast one last glance through the open-trellised stairway that peered into the library before passing ever farther into the heights of the great tower.
They seemed to climb for an eternity before they finally came upon the anteroom of the grandmaster. Peter emerged into the space feeling his thighs burning and his calves aching. They were already sore from the ten thousand steps along the opal-stone path. They had begun bothering him over the magnificent bridge spanning the Lufian River.
He ignored the pain, for at that moment, a shadow of movement caught his eye. Thea froze and looked up.
They were not alone.
Chapter 45
“Folly is obstinate in the face of unbridled wisdom.” Grandmaster Berinon – Bryn Yawr
“Stay back!” A broken voice reached out, cracked about the edges, marked by pain.
Thea hesitated at the threshold to Grandmaster Kaldi’s chambers. Caution cast Thea in watery lines of unease. It played a subtle game as it turned her stomach and soured her mood. Her face, half masked in shadow, conveyed a strange amalgam of vigilance and angst.
Peter peered about her shoulder as curiosity overcame his trepidation. He didn’t feel the fear Thea did, but perhaps he simply didn’t know enough to be afraid.
What had Captain Jakob used to say? “Know your enemy, it’s the ignorant ranger who gets everyone killed.”
His former captain had a point. Fear was a learned response. A child wasn’t born with the knowledge of fire and ice. It didn’t understand that hackles raised conveyed a threat and a wagging tail conveyed happiness.
In the Tower of the Arkein, Peter was but a child, ignorant of the thousand subtle ways the arkein could be used to kill.
Therefore, when Peter saw a woman crouched over a man, he felt no fear. Instead, he studied the scene, as the annalist had taught him. He took in her posture. He noted her pale complexion and sunken eyes. He observed the wild look of desperation that marked her movement, like that of a rabid animal.
Peter then turned his attention to the man. He was robed, with long grey hair and a beard that partly rested on his chest. The man had the complexion of a ghost. His face was ashen. His cheeks were sunken. His lips were blue.
Something terrible had happened here. He could feel it. It hung about the air. It defined the light, marking it as weak, broken by the morning haze.
“Tilly?” Thea called out.
Peter’s thoughts were interrupted. He watched Tilly look up. Her dark hair fell about her face. She remained fixed to the spot as if she’d been tied to the ground. Her eyes narrowed as she peered into the doorway.
“It’s Thea, I’m here to help.”
Tilly’s eyes softened as she swept a strand of hair aside. Relief and disbelief rolled across her visage. She glanced once more at the grandmaster, laying on the floor. A few bright specks of blood marked the stonework beside him.
A dozen thoughts gathered in Peter’s mind. He watched as Thea moved to the woman’s side. She knelt beside the grandmaster and placed a hand over his heart. There was a slight rise and fall from his chest.
He was alive.
Peter, however, was distracted. Thea had told him they’d come looking for his master, the annalist. That implied the annalist had been here. If he’d been within the Tower of the Arkein, why did he question the grandmaster? What secrets did the grandmaster cling to?
Peter knew the annalist was purposeful. He wasn’t the sort of man to make mistakes. He was meticulous in his craft, careful to the point of absurdity. More importantly, he wasn’t a killer. As far as Peter knew, he’d only taken one life.
“What happened here?”
Thea questioned, looking at Tilly, echoing Peter’s thoughts.
Tilly’s expression was a vacant mix of anger, sadness, and fear. Tears danced about the rims of her eyes as she struggled with emotion, as she fought for coherence.
“He was here,” she whispered shaking her head, “but it doesn’t make any sense.”
Tilly’s eyes took on a faraway look.
Thea watched her for a moment as if trying to decipher her incoherent whispers. She then looked up, catching Peter’s eye.
“Get me some water,” Thea commanded.
Peter nodded, despite having no idea where to begin. The room was full of shelves filled with antiquities and books. Scrolls were stacked upon a desk. A divider separated the chamber from another room.
Peter slipped past the divider. He looked about, seeing a bed, a dresser, and a water basin. It was almost too easy.
He lifted the ceramic basin and carried it to Thea. He placed it carefully by her side and took a step back. His eyes gathered in the mumbling woman.
“Please help him,” Tilly murmured, “you have to help him.”
Thea ignored Tilly as she looked for any obvious signs of injury. Peter stared as he struggled with the shape of the scene. He was missing something.
His eyes fell upon the grandmaster. The grandmaster’s skin was nearly transparent, as if it refused to absorb the surrounding light.
Memory stirred.
Peter closed his eyes. His brow furrowed as memories of Seller’s Alley in Bodig were painted before him. He stood, waiting patiently for the annalist, who’d entered the former abbot’s shop. Peter remembered the shape of things. He recalled the furs displayed at the window, and the carpets within. These recollections were but shadows when compared to the sharp memory of one in pain. Garish shouts had pierced the walls. It was the shouts that had seared his memory.
Peter knew they must have been necessary, for the annalist had a singular mission. It was no small task. Find the Kan Savasci and save Verold. After the events of Vintas Pass, he knew there would be no small price for such a large endeavor.
Once the shouts had stopped, the annalist had called for him. Peter obliged and entered the store. It had smelled of dust and death. In the back room, behind a recently opened door, was the annalist. He had stood hunched over the storekeeper, Filbert Darrell.
Peter remembered the annalist carefully closing Filbert’s glassy eyes. The shopkeeper’s clammy skin had been pale as fresh milk. His tongue had been thick and purple, visible within his gaping mouth. The annalist had closed Filbert’s mouth with the care one would apply to a child. He had laid the former abbot to rest. The annalist had gathered his tools, book, and satchel before he whispered a prayer and turned to his apprentice.
“Respect in all things Peter,” the annalist had said, “even when compelled to take a life.”
The images were heavy with the weight of remembered anguish. They were slow to reveal their purpose. A dead body, pale as fallen snow. Specks of blood upon a dusty carpet. The annalist’s tools stowed in his bag.
He finally understood.
“It was blood magic,” Peter said quietly.
“What?” Thea questioned.
Her expression grew dark as though a cloud had passed overhead. Her tone conveyed incredulity. She nodded slowly and leaned forward, temporarily accepting the information. Without further thought, Thea began whispering to the bearded man. Her voice was soft and soothing. It was strong and full of intent.
Tilly blinked and stared at Thea.
“He was here,” Tilly repeated.
Thea only nodded as she continued to whisper.
Peter watched in silence. Questions formed in his head. He had so many that he felt ready to burst. One question surfaced above the rest.
Where was the annalist?
“Help me sit him up,” Thea said, looking at Peter.
Peter moved without hesitation. Within a moment he was by Thea’s side and assisting her. The grandmaster felt brittle in the way only the elderly do. His arms were thin, lacking in muscle, and his bones felt like that of a bird, light and hollow.
“Hold him,” she commanded.
Peter obliged as Thea struck the grandmaster with the palm of her hand. She hit in an upward motion upon his mid back. With each strike Thea let out a small shout. Peter worried she’d shatter the bones in the grandmaster’s spine. Peter could feel her shouts echo in the resonant parts of his chest.
The grandmaster’s eyes fluttered open.
“Kaldi,” Thea whispered, “Do you know where you are?”
The old man looked about, his pupils were dilated, as if hesitant to focus on anything or anyone. The lack of awareness reminded Peter of a newborn. That same look of incomprehension marked him as a child.
“Grandmaster,” Tilly said, her eyes trained on him expectantly.
There was a tense moment of bated breath. Tilly stopped her mumbling. Thea was no longer whispering. Peter stood rooted to the spot like a potted plant. The dilute light of morning was silent, providing a splash of color to an otherwise colorless painting.
Then, slowly, the painting started to crack and its subjects began to move. The grandmaster coughed and blinked. Tilly exhaled. Thea closed her eyes and her mouth formed a thin line.
The grandmaster brought up a shaky hand and motioned for Tilly to lean in closer.
He then whispered in a voice as faint as a sheaf of paper, “Brew me a tea with equal parts crow dipper, white shu, and gut root.”
Tilly blinked and nodded, before gathering herself. She fussed momentarily over the grandmaster. She received an assurance from Thea, before she passed Peter and exited Kaldi’s chambers.
Peter watched as she left, ensuring she was beyond earshot before turning back to Thea.
“Who is she?” Peter asked with curiosity.
Thea remained by the grandmaster’s side. She remained silent. She tended to him, using the water to wipe at his forehead. She checked his heartbeat for irregularities. She examined his tongue, looking for any discoloration.
“Tilly Steck,” Thea finally replied, “She’s Grandmaster Kaldi’s apprentice. A member of the arkein and a member of the Second Circle.”
Peter was nodding to himself as if he fully understood. He’d heard the annalist talk briefly about the Tower of the Arkein, but never in much detail. He knew that arkeinists were ranked based on ability and were of either the first, second, or third circle depending on their skill.
What had the annalist said? “I can count the members of the First Circle on my right hand, provided they’re still alive. Manipulation of living matter is no easy task.”
Thea resumed her persistent checks of the grandmaster. Peter’s mind continued to churn out questions. What had happened here?
Tilly Steck appeared unharmed. Grandmaster Kaldi, a member of the First Circle, was nearly dead, partially devoid of blood. The annalist had questioned him. But why? What knowledge had he hoped to gain? How had he overpowered a grandmaster?
Peter trusted the annalist. He knew his master wouldn’t do something without reason. He had already seen the annalist at work. He had seen his master’s restraint, his wisdom, his perseverance in the face of overwhelming odds.
There had to be a good reason. He knew it. His faith in the annalist was unshakable. There was too much evil in the world. The annalist was working to undo that. He was trying to prevent destruction and death.
“Were you close with Tilly?” Peter asked with curiosity.
Thea regarded him for a moment as if judging him. Three of her fingers rested lightly on the grandmaster’s wrist. She blinked as if recalling some distant memory.
“At one point we were,” she said, “but…”
Thea shook her head and the neutral mask of indifference returned to her face. She said no more.
Peter didn’t press her. He had learned to not push Thea. She wasn’t the same as the annalist.
Tilly Steck returned. Her eyes were wide with anticipati
on.
She held in her hand a mug of tea. Curly wisps of steam were barely evident as she moved toward the grandmaster.
Tilly and Thea aided the grandmaster in drinking the brew. It was a slow process. Some dribbled upon his beard as he drank. Kaldi stopped drinking at one point in a fit of coughing. Thea and Tilly paused and assisted, until he had drunk all of the mug’s contents.
Thea, Tilly, and Peter waited with baited breath.
Peter had expected the tea to work miracles. Within moments he expected the grandmaster to stand, a halo of light would highlight his robed figure, as the very air vibrated about him. Instead, the grandmaster’s eyes began to focus on the objects around him. He looked more carefully about the room, as if taking it in for the first time.
He started breathing more carefully, slow and deliberate breaths, as if gathering the hidden energy of the room within his chest.
“What happened?” Thea asked.
The grandmaster trained his eyes to Thea. Recognition claimed him. His brow furrowed slightly.
“Folly,” the grandmaster said tiredly, “and an old man’s foolish ambition to save the world.”
Thea looked up at Peter, who only shrugged. He hadn’t a clue what the grandmaster was referring to. He assumed Thea would understand what was happening, the way the annalist always had.
“You must go to him,” the grandmaster coughed and closed his eyes.
It looked as if he would fall into a pleasant slumber. Instead, he looked about and found Thea, a hand gripped her with surprising strength.
“Forgive me,” his voice was weak again, broken like the cracking of an ice shelf. “You will find answers with the Sages of Umbra…” the grandmaster leaned in and whispered the rest to Thea.
Thea only nodded, her eyes narrowed slightly and her face paled. She assisted the grandmaster to his bed. Her face was grim. Her movements were purposeful and efficient.
Chapter 46
“There’s an art to asking questions that few have mastered.” Herlewin’s Letters of Apology
Peter’s mind burned with questions. They ate at his awareness as Peter and Thea descended the Tower of the Arkein. They consumed him as the twosome walked through the village of Andir. They vied for his attention, robbing him of cogent thought, until he could take it no more.
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