by Mark Shane
“It has been a long time, Keeper.” Max pointed to the magical gem. “Shaladon needs you.”
Michael’s eyes followed his finger to the Eye, the purple glow receding into the black depths of the gem. “I don’t know what to do. I know nothing about the Eye except old legends.” He tried to place the Sword on the table but found he did not truly want to let it go. With determined effort, he sheathed the Sword, yet his hand remained on the hilt. “Why me?” he asked weakly.
“The Eye chooses its Keeper based on the quality of the heart,” Max said. “Knowledge and skill have no bearing. The dice are cast and everything has changed for you, Michael. Question is: will you accept the change? Our lives depended on it.”
Max glanced at Baldwin. “We leave in the morning.”
CHAPTER 6
Destinies
Michael collapsed onto the bed the moment Stren closed the door. General Baldwin had dismissed everyone except Max and instructed Stren to see them to their rooms. Michael stayed in the garrison on occasion, but the dignitaries’ guestrooms were unfamiliar to him. The furniture was more ornate than any other in the garrison. He inspected the hand carved bedposts, intertwining vines spiraling up and noted the washstand and wardrobe had matching patterns. Decently worked, but not impressive. Then again, he was critical of such things.
The dignitaries’ quarters were not far removed from General Baldwin’s, the reason Michael was assigned to them, but the walk had felt like they were on the other side of the fortress. No one spoke on the way. Falon openly stared at him in disbelief, but Garen had only managed sideways glances Michael felt more than saw.
He pulled the Sword out of its scabbard to look at the blade, double-edged with a broad fuller running down its length. A product of crafting, like General Baldwin’s master blade, and virtually indestructible. But it felt different than Hothfyre. It felt familiar, like a prized heirloom being returned. No, that did not quite express it. It was more like regaining your hearing or sight. It felt like a part of him rather than a possession. Nothing had ever made him feel complete like swinging a hammer and building things for people. Holding the Sword made him realize how incomplete he had truly been.
“This is crazy!” He slid the Sword back into the scabbard forcefully and laid it aside. He raked his fingers through his hair and slowly wiped his fingers down his face. “I’m crazy.”
He set the Sword before him, slowly turning it on its tip, inspecting the intricate artisanship from every angle. Michael’s eyes widened, at first glance he had thought the talons were eagle but now he realized they were dragon. The wolf’s head was crafted so intricate he thought he could hear it howling at the moon. The round pommel with a lion’s head carved on each side made the perfect counterbalance for the blade. The hand and a half hilt was wrapped in an unfamiliar material Michael suspected offered an excellent grip wet or dry. In craftsmanship, the Sword had no equal Michael had ever seen. Embedded in the ricasso of the blade, just before the quillions, rested the Eye.
“Perhaps I’m dreaming,” Michael said. “Perhaps it’s all a fevered delusion.” He touched his forehead. Max said the slightest wound from a nightstalker could cause a fever and...Michael felt his simple life slipping away.
He fingered the scrollwork of the scabbard absently, staring deeply into the Eye.
“I’m no king,” he whispered. “I haven’t been outside Timmaron much less the Ma’ Shal Dar. What do I know of this business? It’s not who I am.”
Bright light filled his mind materializing into the face of a beautiful woman looking at him from above as if he were lying down. He could see the blue sky behind her, outlining her blonde hair. She smiled at him; a warm, tender smile filled with love, but marred by tears streaming down her face. As quickly as the vision came, it was gone, leaving him staring at the Eye.
An incessant rapping at the door brought him out of his trance. Opening the door, Michael found Garen with his fist raised for another barrage of knocks.
“Busy?” Garen asked somewhat perturbed.
“No. Why?”
“I’ve been knocking long enough for you to walk the garrison before answering.”
“Sorry, I was...um...thinking.”
“Oh. Think I could come in?”
“What, you’re not afraid of me anymore?” Michael snapped.
Garen looked down at his feet. “Yeah, um, I’m sorry about that. I’m still not sure what to think about all this. But I know you’re my best friend, and nothing’s going to change that.”
Michael stepped aside.
“What were you so deep in thought about?” Garen asked, glancing at the Sword leaning against the bed.
“Hmm, let me see,” Michael said placing his hand on his chin. “Oh, yeah, I was trying to decide who to take to the New Harvest Feast. What do you think is on my mind? I don’t know anything about the Eye or Shaladon. But none of that seems to matter since the Eye says so. And now, I’m supposed to march three thousand miles and defeat an army led by a mad warlock who wants to unleash the Soulless One. Then, when I get done having all that fun, I get to announce to the people of Shaladon that I, a complete stranger, am their new king. Please tell me which part of that sounds even remotely sane!”
Garen shrugged his shoulders. “None of it, to be honest, but I think it’s all true. As much as I would like to, I can’t deny what happened in my dad’s chambers.” He nervously glanced at the Sword again. “Or that Max is a wizard. Or the nightstalkers.” He shuddered. “The only one I actually saw was the one that barred our way into town. I thought it was going to steal my soul. Whatever I might have considered insane this morning I’m not so certain is now.”
Michael slumped down onto the bed, absently taking the Sword in his hand. “You understand what this means don’t you?”
Neither of them feared magic, but they had no desire to be associated with it either. And then there were the prophecies with all their blasted paradoxes and contradictions. Keeper of the Eye: the savior of the world according to most prophecies, the destroyer of hope according to one. He had no more desire to be the former than he did the latter. Perhaps he should give the Sword to Garen. He was the one who wanted a life of battles and glory. Something inside Michael trembled at the thought. As much as he did not want to be Keeper, could he part with the Sword?
“I know,” Garen said with resignation. “Look on the bright side, you’re a king.” His weak smile stole any confidence his voice held.
“I don’t care to be a king!” Michael burst out. “What do I know about being a king? I’m a carpenter. I build things for people.”
Garen shrugged his shoulders. “So you’ll go from building houses to building a kingdom.”
“That helps,” Michael grumbled.
He grabbed the Sword by the scabbard and thrust the hilt toward Garen. “You’re the one who wants his own command. You’re the one who wants a master’s blade. Here’s your chance. The greatest blade of them all. Take it.” It was as much a command as a plea.
Garen stepped back and held his hands up, staring at the Sword like it was a snake about to strike.
“Go ahead, draw it, Garen. You were born to lead, not me.”
“Michael, this is insane—”
“Insane! Whatever was insane this morning you’re no longer certain is, right? Draw it.” It was a plea now. He knew he wasn’t meant to be the Keeper; it was a mistake. If he could just get someone else to take the Sword, they would all see.
“Michael, I’ve never known you to run from anything. Can you deny what you saw? I don’t know any more about the Eye than you do, but I know my drawing it won’t change a thing.”
Michael withdrew the Sword, cradling it like he had almost lost something precious to him rather than pleading for it to be taken.
“I’m sorry,” Michael said regaining his composure.
“Forget it,” Garen replied, with a wave of his hand and plopped down in the chair near the bed. “It’s been a crazy night. We’ve
all been pushed to our limits.”
***
They sat in silence for a while, neither knowing what to say, both dwelling on the fact they would soon be saying goodbye forever.
Michael finally broke the silence. “You know how Hothfyre feels?” he said.
“Yeah, although I have not had the pleasure of sparring with it,” Garen said wryly.
“It has nothing on this,” Michael said, spinning the Sword on its scabbard tip, then leaning it against the bedpost.
Garen looked at him, raising his eyebrow questioningly. One moment Michael was pleading for him to take the Sword and the next he treated it with familiarity like he had possessed it for years.
“Well, it’s late,” Garen said standing up, “you need to get some sleep. You have a long journey ahead of you.”
“I suppose I do,” Michael said with resignation.
When Michael stood up, the Sword slipped from the bedpost. Garen reacted by instinct, not giving a thought to what he was doing, catching the blade before it hit the floor. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of their own accord and the room began to swirl.
Wispy, opaque images replaced the solidness of the room as they flew past him, becoming sharper as the room diminished into blackness. Enveloped by black, Garen felt like he was the one moving. He recognized images of his past; Michael helping him clean stalls, the two of them swimming on a hot summer day, racing together at the Harvest Feast, sparring vigorously. He saw images of them growing up together, sticking up for one another, getting into mischief together. The images swept him into nostalgia, each one part of their history, speeding by till only blackness remained. Then he heard the creak of a taut rope behind him. His blood ran cold when he glanced over his shoulder. Michael’s body swung from a hangman’s noose, white and pasty, rigid and decaying.
“There are many roads leading to greatness,” a voice whispered behind him.
Garen spun, looking for the source, but found only blackness.
“But only one leads to what is truly great. Choose your path wisely, young Baldwin,” the voice whispered from behind him again.
Garen turned slowly, part of him not wanting to, part of him unable to resist. Michael’s cold, lifeless eyes stared at him accusingly.
“Choose your path,” the voice said, like the wind whispering through the trees.
Garen did not look for the source. His stared into those lifeless eyes till they faded into the eyes of a very alive and concerned Michael shaking him and calling his name.
“Garen, what happened?” Michael asked, taking the Sword from his hand.
“I...I don’t know. Everything went black and then I saw...nothing. Everything went black, and I couldn’t see anything.”
Michael gave him a disbelieving look.
Garen grabbed Michael’s arms. “Michael, promise me you won’t say anything about this to anyone.”
Michael shrugged. “Yeah, sure, not a word.”
Garen stared at him for a moment, weighing his friend’s promise. He knew Michael would not tell. Then again what was there to tell? Michael had no idea what he had seen...or heard. Garen was not even sure himself. No, that was a lie, he was sure. What he would do about it was uncertain. The room felt oppressive. He needed to get away and think, to sort it all out.
“Well,” Garen said, clapping his hands together, “you have a long journey ahead of you so I’ll let you get some rest.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Michael stretched. “You’ll see me off won’t you?”
“Now who’s being a dolt?” Garen replied with a smirk. “Of course I will.”
“Sorry, stupid question. I just wish...” Michael left the rest of his thought in his throat.
With an understanding nod, Garen slipped out the door.
***
Michael stared at the door as it closed. He wished for a lot of things at the moment. He wished the night had never happened. He wished his father was there to tell him what was going on. He wished he had never touched the...he wished for his normal life back.
He glanced at the Sword. What had Garen seen?
The bed beckoned him invitingly causing him to yawn. It had been an exhausting day not to mention the night. He turned to the wash basin, pulling off his shirt, and splashed his face with water, washing away the evening’s grime. Pulling his breeches off, he tossed them on the back of the chair next to the washstand and pulled a leather-bound book out of his pack. Nondescript, no one would give it a second glance, but to Michael it was worth more than gold. It was his father’s journal.
A’lan kept a journal for as long as Michael could remember. He would sit by the fire many nights writing. Occasionally, Michael would try to peek over his father’s shoulder to see what he was writing, but A’lan would close the book and look at him sternly and ask, “Isn’t it time for you to be in bed?” Oh, the stories his adventurous father must have tucked away in that book. He and Garen loved to sit and listen to his father tell of adventures all over the Ma’ Shal Dar.
One time, curiosity getting the best of him, Michael stole a peek into those forbidden pages and found his bottom sore for days. He never went near his father’s journal again. It was not until his mother died that he even considered the idea of peeking inside those pages again. One night, when he felt exceptionally lonely, he had pulled the book off his shelf. Surprisingly it began only three years prior to his father’s death. He had searched the house for more journals but found none. Still, he was happy to have the one. He found no stories of the grand adventures his father had been famous for in its pages; they were all about carpentry, life in Whitewater’s Forge, his beloved wife and son. A’lan said those were his greatest adventures. Reading it made Michael feel like his father was still there.
Climbing into bed, stifling a yawn, he opened the journal. He did not care how late it was. This night was important since he intended to finish the journal. He had been looking forward to it all day. With anticipation, he opened the leather cover and leafed through the pages to where he had left off. The first entry was dated three days before the accident. To anyone else it would have seemed uneventful, an ordinary day, but for Michael it was the opportunity to relive a day with his father he had taken for granted. The next day’s entry was similar to the last. They had just finished building a new home for the Lancaster family, a new merchant to the area. It was the first house Michael was in charge of under his father’s watchful eye. A true test of his skills.
“His skill and knowledge are years ahead of his age”, his father wrote. “I wish I could take all the credit, but truth be told the lad’s a natural. He will surpass me, I’m sure of it, and I could not be prouder.”
A tear ran down Michael’s face. A’lan had not been a man of many words, but his writing more than made up for it. Michael’s fingers trembled as he turned the page to the last entry. He was both excited and sad. To finish the journal would be to say goodbye all over again, but he would be saying goodbye to someone he knew better than when he had started.
The entry talked of General Baldwin hiring them to build a new table for the garrison’s grand hall and the trip planned into the Beral Forest for just the right wood. His father weighed the advantages and disadvantages of many types, considered the purpose of the table and for whom he was making it and decided hands down it had to have a Birdseye maple top. “Nothing but the finest for a friend, even if I did quote him for cherry,” he wrote. He threw in a few more praises for Michael’s abilities and then ended the entry with: “You are my son, nothing will ever change that.”
Michael sat up staring at the last sentence. Had his father known that he would someday read his journal or was he simply writing what was on his heart? Still the passage seemed directed at him and why did he say nothing would ever change that. Max’s words rang in his mind, “You’re the son of a king.” The life he had hoped to live may be slipping away, but the journal was a piece of it he could hold on to. He leafed through the remaining pages of the jour
nal hoping to find something else left by his father. He is my father, no matter who sired me. The last two pages were stuck together. Gently pulling them apart he found one last message:
There is much for you to know. Remember your favorite hiding place where you had such a scare. What you found when you were twelve, find now. The narrow light will show you the way. Trust Max completely.
His father knew this day would come. Michael was certain of it. He also knew Michael would read his journal. Or perhaps it was only a precaution in case he was not alive when the day came. “What you found when you were twelve.” He was twelve when he got his bottom tanned for reading his father’s journal. There must be others, but he had searched the house corner to corner and found none. So where were they? To find more of his father’s writings would be like finding a treasure trove, but why hide them? What was in them? He had to go back to his house. He was not leaving until he did.
CHAPTER 7
Leaving Home
Max stood in the darkness of the doorway, eyes darting back and forth, scanning the courtyard. The only movement he saw was the midnight watchmen on the rampart surrounding the garrison. Perhaps he was being too cautious—he was in one of the greatest fortresses in Timmaron—but if nightstalkers could be released on the world what other creatures of the dark one might be free?
He pulled his cloak close as he stepped out into the courtyard. It would be another two hours before the sun rose to push away the night’s chill. Falon trailed close behind as they walked across the yard to the stables. Jensen Baldwin had given them two mares as a parting gift. Max suspected the General did so in part for saving Garen’s life so many years ago. Max never felt like Baldwin owed him anything, but he understood all too well that sense of being indebted to someone.
Two guards stood watch at the town gate with two more on the flat roof of the gatehouse thirty feet above. One of the two guards on the roof, Benjamin, adjusted his cloak to keep out the chill. The oldest son of an innkeeper, but barely past being a lad, he had a knack for needing a healer. A quite likable fellow, everyone called him Benny, and very out of place in a soldier’s uniform. If a mishap could befall a person, it would happen to Benny. For all his clumsiness, he made up for it in determination. He had a heart of gold. Max had no doubt Benny would shine one day saving the life of a comrade. He only hoped the young man survived the deed to enjoy his moment of glory.