A gentle downslope carried them to the Caretaker’s Bridge, twin elegant bands of metal stretched across a gorge than separated the Spire from the rest of the ridge. Ancient beyond dating, the bridge struts were nearly two handswidths in thickness each, and the black metal seemed impervious to rust. They rested firmly in the rock at both ends, penetrating who knew how deeply inside. Across the struts were laid thick ties of burnished knarlwood; these formed the bridge, sitting in grooves along the top of the struts apparently intended for this purpose. Railings of varying type had come and gone over the centuries according to the whims of the Chamber Seats; at the moment sturdy wooden posts stood attached to every ninth tie, and heavy rope ran through holes in their tops, fastened to metal eyelets carved in the rock at either end.
Cardinal was sturdy and brave, and didn’t even pause at the bridge, but just strode across without urging. Welgray patted him familiarly on his stout neck, whispering appreciation, and the pony snorted and twisted his head to the side.
The gates into the Spire, fifty hands tall yet a mere five wide each, stood open. They were rarely closed and never guarded, with no dangerous animals roaming the treacherous ridge and the Collectors having no enemies to speak of. Welgray rode through them and in to the courtyard.
It was hardly the expected form of a castle courtyard, being far taller than it was wide. Lengthwise from the gate inwards, the courtyard spanned only fifteen paces; across it was less than ten (though the main floor was wider and overhung by the apartments above). But vertically—every time Welgray returned, he was awed nearly as the first time he saw it; standing in the center of the Spire, one could see all the way to the pinnacle, where sunlight could just barely be seen entering. In early summer, when the sun was at its zenith, it shone directly down into the Spire, the stone tracery that supported the upper tower decorating the ground below in spiderweb shadows. Only the Caretakers ever reached the top of the Spire, and then only from outside; on all sides except above the gate, the internal apartments of the Spire rose only halfway up its height.
The internal floors and walls were, of course, built entirely of wood, to reduce pressure on the external walls of the Spire, which were not particularly thick, especially higher up. The walls themselves were all made of stone, starting with massive blocks at its base two paces across, to tiny at the top; Welgray had heard the smallest would fit in the palm of his hand.
He was surprised to see a large number of Collectors in the courtyard. Many turned to note his approach, but most were busily engaged in excited conversation. Welgray frowned, wondering what was going on.
Not surprisingly, no one came to greet him. Welgray was a loner, spending most of his time wandering the countryside with only Cardinal to share his trail, unlike most Collectors who traveled in pairs or more and always had warders as escorts. He dismounted and led his pony to the hitching post, tying him there with a soft pat on the muzzle; the Caretakers would see to him thereafter, and to his saddlebags.
He approached the nearest pair of Collectors engaged in hush conversation. “Health and clarity,” he greeted them.
“And to you,” each of them said in turn.
“What news fills these halls so full with chatter this day?” Welgray asked.
He recognized the smaller of the two men, a middle-aged man with a squat, gnome-like posture; his name escaped Welgray, and he searched his mind for it as their conversation ensued.
The man answered him quickly, almost stumbling over his words. “You hadn’t heard?”
“I have only just arrived, as you can see,” Welgray said, motioning behind him at Cardinal. “My path began at the plateau mine towns, so I have been many days on the road.”
“Chamber Seat Llory has left,” the second man inserted bluntly. His deep voice matched his appearance; he was tall, balding, and thick-jowled, with great pouches beneath his eyes so deep that dark red showed within them.
Welgray didn’t know him. “Llory?” he pondered. “She is the youngest Seat. Why would she leave?”
“The anomaly,” the smaller man put in, flashing irritation at his companion. “She refused to accept the council’s decision on the matter.”
“Anomaly?” Welgray asked, perplexed.
Both men stared at him. “How long have you been out of touch?” the gnome-like fellow said, as much a statement as a question.
Welgray sighed. “Long enough. The anomaly?”
The two men glanced at each other, and the bigger fellow shrugged. “The girl from the Lower Valley,” he said. “Didn’t you say you just traveled from the plateau towns? You must’ve just been there. Word only came a few days back.”
Welgray shook his head negatively. “I’ve heard nothing. Enlighten me,” he said, narrowing his eyes warily.
With another quick glance at his companion, the smaller fellow went on. “A tenday ago a messenger arrived from one of our agents at the Sanctuary in Benn’s Harbour. Apparently a Proselyte attended a girl on trial for murder there, a girl who fled from the Lower Valley a year before.”
“Merikal,” Welgray muttered under his breath.
“What?” the little man demanded, irritated at being interrupted.
Damn me for my fool mouth, he chastised himself. “A girl I met near Red Rock fleeing warders, at about that time. She had a Lower Valley accent. It must have been her,” Welgray added.
“Truly? Did anything about her seem odd?”
“Odd? Not as such. She did—” Welgray caught himself. He wasn’t even certain yet if he wanted to reveal the girl’s uniqueness to the Chamber; it would mean the Spire’s attention on her, which may well not be benevolent. And he nearly let it slip to a man whose name he couldn’t even remember? Fool! “But, I interrupted you,” Welgray apologized. “Peace, continue.” He gestured for the man to continue, bowing slightly.
A brief flash of impatience showed on the smaller man’s face, then he went on. “The Proselyte who attended her went directly to his superior thereafter. His report was overhead by our man, who positioned himself carefully so as not to miss it.” He paused dramatically. Clearly, with the entirety of the Spire privy to the information, he was enjoying the chance to act as bearer of important news.
Welgray nodded, anticipation raising his eyebrows. “And?”
“She manifested,” he said slowly and deliberately.
Welgray stood stunned, his mouth hanging open. “What? It can’t be.”
“It’s true. After the meeting with his Great Master, the Proselyte went looking for a boat for Somria, and boarded immediately.”
“Somria?” Welgray sputtered. “What does that have to do with anything? Why go there?”
The small man smiled mischievously then, after a knowing glance at his colleague, added, “Following the girl. She left sometime earlier in the company of Lord Perrile.”
“What does Lord Perrile have to do with this?”
“It was he,” the Collector said pointedly, his finger thrust at Welgray, “who had the murder charge upon the young lady.”
“Why would he take her to Somria? Why not just execute—or, I suppose selling is the popular option these days—why not just sell her in the Lords’ Lands? The prices are better in Somria?” He couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice in the last question, which was more sarcasm than anything.
The small man didn’t seem to catch it. “No, the girl was freed.” He held up both hands before Welgray could ask. “I don’t know why. The Spire did not receive those details.”
Welgray took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then released, his mind racing. The girl manifested. The same girl whom he met near Red Rock, it must be!
“Why did Llory abandon her post?” he asked finally.
It was the taller man who answered this time, the skin about his cheeks jostling as he spoke. “After deliberating, the Chamber determined that the girl will likely be destroyed. Chamber Seat Llory disagreed. She relinquished her post and left.”
Welgray took a step b
ack, aghast and speechless. Destroyed? Why do such a thing?
Turning away from two other Collectors, he considered. No one had ever demonstrated powers of manifestation, mental or otherwise. At least, not in recorded history, and the legends that suggested otherwise were just that—legends.
The Chamber had learned of someone who appeared to have such abilities but—and this was key—not a student of the Spire. The girl, call her Merikal (he doubted that was her real name, the way she had paused before giving it), had the talent naturally, with no training. She could come to be a sign that the Collectors did not hold monopoly over such ability—in fact, hers could potential outstrip that of every Collector alive, the Chamber included.
Welgray saw it now; she was a mortal threat to the dominion of the order. She could bring about the fall of the Spire.
・ ・
He had been bathed, slept, refreshed himself, and now was being bathed again. One of the true benefits of being a Collector was the tribute paid by the farming villages below Titan’s Thumb; in awe of the power of his order, they annually sent young men and ladies up to serve the Collectors and stay in their good graces. History said that the order had never demanded this, but that it had been a gift, a demonstration of good will from the common people to their overseers.
Sometimes, Welgray felt it was taking advantage, yet he couldn’t help but acknowledge that the Collectors did effectively protect the people nearby; since the rise of the Spire, they had lived safe, happy lives. No lord, king, despot, or horde would dare attack the lands of the order, knowing (or at least believing) that the Collectors could, on a whim, delve their deepest secrets and manipulate them as desired.
Yes, the people were thankful for the peace the Collectors gave them, and in return, Welgray had two young and beautiful women who bathed him, dressed him, fed him, and more. Life as a Collector could be hard, but it could also be wonderful.
It was the morning following his return, and he sat in a warm bath while his favorite girl, Wissa, was busy brushing the tangles from his hair, which had become quite long during the last period away. His thoughts were whirling around the girl Merikal—if it truly was her—and the rumor that she could manifest. Was it true? The implications were boggling.
He realized that Wissa had spoken, and asked her repeat herself.
“I’m said, Master, that if’n you goes about with’n y’ hair a’tangle, t’d be a shame on Wissa, t’would.” She ran her fingers through it, finding more knots. “Might’n the Master allow Wissa t’shear it?”
“After the presentation, Wissa; we’ve not time before,” Welgray answered absently. Wissa had been his aide for several years now, though he had been present at the Spire for less than half that time. Often she had asked him to take her along on his journeys, so that she could “properly care for him”, but Welgray preferred to travel alone. It was always a source of consternation for her, and she would become upset whenever he prepared to depart.
“So toughed up,” she mumbled, allowing his hair to fall from her fingers. “Ahaps the Master needs some relaxin’ afore’s the meetin’?” She slid her hands down the sides of his body into the bath between his legs, taking him into her hands. Her bare breasts dangled in his face, and Welgray felt himself quickly reacting as he always did to her, especially after such a long time alone.
With a sigh, he drew her hands up out of the water, kissed them, then released her and stood up out of the wash basin, turning to look up at her as she stood; she was taller than average height for a village girl, and Welgray was well less than typical for a man. “I don’t have time, Wissa. Bring me a towel, and my robes.” He tried to ignore her young and supple nakedness as she went about obeying him, all the while muttering complaints about how the Chamber worked him too hard.
She was a kind-hearted girl, and if he ever felt guilt for the servants granted the Spire, it would have been for her. Still, she seemed to enjoy serving him, and he certainly enjoyed her. Every chance he got, he enjoyed her . . .
Handing him the towel and standing before him fully nude, her wet brown hair just touching her nipples, she looked down with a lopsided grin. “Sure then y’ don’ have time, Master? Y’ surely ‘ave need, I’m seein’ that.”
Welgray sighed, chuckling at her. “My fair Wissa,” he said warmly, drawing a wide smile from her. “Later. To be sure,” he added, his eyes roaming over her.
When he was dry, she helped him into his small clothes, followed by the formal hooded robes of his order, dark grey trimmed in silver, and he examined himself with approval in silvered glass. Now he was ready to stand before the Chamber and deliver his thesis; it was customary for a Collector to do so after any journey, but since Welgray journeyed more often and longer than any other Collector he knew of, he rarely had the opportunity. Thus, he had worked hard to deliver eloquent and informative speeches, and always wanted to look his best.
Noon arrived and, drawing up his hood, he slipped his hands into the voluminous sleeves and grasped his own wrists, and headed for the tower’s spiral ramp.
The Spire had been constructed, in the far distant past, with only a single means of ascending; a narrow ramp that circled the entire inside wall several times, rising one story each time it did. One tall story, at that; each floor, constructed to match the rise of the ramp, ended up with spectacularly vaulted ceilings, easily twice the height of the tallest Collector to ever walk the halls.
The ramp itself was, as a result, not very steep. This was beneficial to the Collectors of modern times, since the formal robes one was expected to don prior to entering the Hall Ascended had no opening in the front, and long steps were thus impossible. Collectors climbing to stand before the Chamber, then, shuffled up the ramp subserviently with heads bowed, the latter not of meekness, but so as not to trip.
How the Chamber Seats themselves made their way to the hall Welgray knew not, but it pleased him to imagine them also struggling to the top, trying not to trip and suffer a humiliating fall.
After a few hundred steps, over the course of which he passed several familiar Collectors—whose names he also disconcertingly could not recall, filling him with regret at having lost contact with so many good friends—he arrived at the entrance to the Hall Ascended, the highest level of the Spire apartments. It was nearly a third of the way up the tower. The doors were wood copies of the main gates below; much smaller of course, but intricately carved of exotic black wood and inlaid with an equally unfamiliar white bone-like substance. Welgray had once researched the history of the doors, curious at their construction; since they were wood, they couldn’t be more than a few centuries old, but he was unable to find any record of their creation. It remained, like many of the histories and myths of the order, an unsolved mystery.
As expected the doors were closed. Welgray reached out with his right hand to grasp the knocker, a metal rod protruding at chest height, and pulled. The bell resounded deeply throughout the chambers within, and the latch clanked immediately; they were awaiting him, after all. The doors swung silently open, another reflection of the genius of the unknown artisans to whom they stood as silent tribute.
Once they were open, Welgray shuffled inside.
The hall was smaller than might have been expected from the impressive doors, with galleries on the three sides facing the door that were not even high enough for those sitting within to be out of reach of the floor. The room was still awe-inspiring with grandeur, however, because it had no ceiling. Sitting atop the Hall Ascended, which filled the entire floor of the highest level, was the entirety of the Spire’s pinnacle in all its daytime glory. Indeed, Welgray had never seen the Hall at night, nor had any Collector so far as he knew; the room had no illumination save that which nature provided. On rainy days, of course, Chamber was suspended, and in winter, Chamber Seats sat in hugely billowing winter cloaks with layers of snow around them. The Caretakers cleared out the Hall as best they could prior to every meeting, but some days it was impossible to keep up. Nature he
ld sway here, whether the order wished it or not. Welgray saw this fact as ultimate demonstration that the order was not, in the end, all-powerful.
He adopted the droning, sing-song melodic voice appropriate to the Hall, and of which he felt he had no equal—that he had heard, at least. “The Collector Lerwun Welgray arrives to present his thesis,” he said. His voice echoed back at him off the heavy, hard wood floor, then vanished into the open tower above.
“The Chamber recognizes Collector Welgray with respect and honor,” the Chamber Speaker’s voice echoed back. She was a tall, elderly woman with grey hair cropped short—revealing a receded hairline at her forehead, giving her an ominous look—but her face was warm, despite intense eyes. “However, the Chamber may not receive your thesis at this time.”
Welgray was dumbstruck. He had never heard of such a thing, even in wartime! “Speaker?” he queried incredulously, breaking formality. Then, becoming aware of his aberrant behaviour, he composed himself. “The Collector begs a pardon for intrusion at such a delicate time, and will withdraw.” He bowed, backing away slowly.
“Hold, Collector,” the Speaker said. Welgray stopped, puzzled.
The next voice came from his left; he recognized the heavy-set bearded face of Chamber Seat Triptoak. The man had been Welgray’s teacher for several years in his youth, and looked upon him kindly. “The Chamber wished Collector Welgray to remain, and indulge it with details regarding his meeting with the girl Sayri of Davoy and Vollori.”
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 17