The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  “We all have a destiny to fulfill, my young friend, if we would follow the Creator’s path. My destiny is to guide others like yourself on their way. There are many who stray from the path to follow their own desires, which in turn leads to their destruction. However—” He pointed out with a single bony forefinger. “—The Creator is not limited to a single path, and instead, might give that person’s destiny to another. One who is willing to accept the role no matter the hardship.”

  “There’ll be no further talk of the Creator here, old man. He has abandoned us.” Ferrin was sick and tired of hearing about how the Creator loved them, how the Creator had a plan, how there was some overall grand purpose as to why the Creator had put them there. That was all he had been listening to from the other prisoners for the last three weeks and he’d had enough.

  To Ferrin, it was nothing more than a weak man’s attempt at justifying why he was being strapped to a metal bed and his body used as a whetstone for the inquisitor’s blades. The Creator was having nothing to do with any of them. The reason they were in the White Tower wasn’t because of some divine will. It was because they just happened to be the unlucky dupe whose neighbor, or wife, or not-so-close friend thought they’d make some easy gold by turning them in, or in Ferrin’s case when the Blacksmith Guild in Rhowynn had grown jealous of his desire to strike out on his own without their explicit permission.

  “Nonsense, the Creator is everywhere.”

  “Then he has turned his back on us. What kind of benevolent being would subject us to a fate such as this? Answer me that.”

  “It is not for us to know His ways, only to believe they are for the best. It wouldn’t be called faith, otherwise.”

  “Blind faith you mean.” Ferrin sneered.

  “I do not pretend to know why He has put you here, but my journey has already been laid out.”

  “To sit here and suffer? Is that the purpose your Creator has for you? I would say you got the short end of the stick there, friend.”

  The old man chuckled. “I guess it would appear that way to those without faith, but we all have free will. We all have choices we can make. Always remember, with every choice there is a consequence. So be sure your actions are just.”

  My actions? “What are you trying to say, old man? That you think I have some special divine appointment by the Creator?” Ferrin would have belted out a hard laugh if his chest didn’t feel as though it had been trampled on by a herd of desert sherakin. “I am nothing more than a poor sword-smith who now finds himself locked in the White Tower awaiting the purging chamber . . . and for what? For nothing more than being born with some worthless gift, which under the present circumstances feels more like a curse.”

  Ferrin knew he should have never used his magic to create those twin blades. But no! You just had to build something better than everyone else, didn’t you?

  Azriel, again, raised a finger. “Do not make the mistake of believing your gift worthless, son. The Creator does not endow such blessings without purpose. The outcome of an entire battle could fall on the edge of a single sword, no matter its size or strength. Have patience, my young friend, for I believe your time is coming.”

  “Time for what?”

  “For your destiny to begin, of course. What have we just been talking about?” The old man shook his head and released a heavy sigh. “Did you think you were here by accident? Ha! Whether you choose to believe or not is immaterial. You are here for a reason, son. Best you start finding out what it is.”

  “Is that something you have seen?” Ferrin mocked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Possibly? How could it be possibly? Either you saw it or you didn’t?”

  “I’m a seer,” Azriel said with a slight shrug, “and what I see can be interpreted in different ways. Sometimes what I perceive is not always . . . accurate.”

  Ferrin shook his head in disbelief. Great, I’m sitting here taking advice from a crazy, inaccurate seer. What could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter 15 | Saleena

  “I WON’T ASK YOU AGAIN. Who’s been helping you? Are they from Easthaven?”

  Saleena didn’t know how much more she could take. She hadn’t slept in what felt like weeks, ever since the Black Watch had managed to run her to ground just east of Reed Marsh. She knew she had no one to blame but herself. If she hadn’t been so frightened and just listened to the big woodsman’s advice and stayed put, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. She was so thirsty. If only they’d let her have a drink of water. Treacherous thoughts formed in the back of her mind. It frightened her just how far she might be willing to go to have just one single sip. But then again, she figured that was the point.

  “I told you. I don’t know anything.” She tried smacking her lips, but her swollen tongue was making it difficult. She struggled to work some saliva back into her mouth, but after three days without water, it was a hopeless effort.

  The storage room in the back of one of the Easthaven barracks’ buildings, where they had her tied to a chair, was cramped. The smell of men’s sweat and burnt pitch permeated the small room. Although, in her weakened conditioned her senses were somewhat blurred to the effects.

  “I don’t believe you.” The Black Watch guard struck her across the face with the back of his gloved hand. The pain was sharp, but soon dulled as it filtered in amongst the other such beatings she had sustained over the last few days. Thankfully, they hadn’t taken it any further . . . yet. She figured it wouldn’t be much longer until they got around to her clothing.

  Saleena wondered what she looked like. She knew what she felt like, but she was strangely curious as to how her pain would translate in a mirror. Had there been any permanent damage done? She was still young enough to catch the eye of available men, but old enough to know that those looks were swiftly fleeting. If she didn’t act on them while she had the chance, she might be spending the rest of her days as an old spinster healer. That is, if the Tower’s guards didn’t kill her first.

  If she had the energy, she would have laughed. Here she was tied to a chair, being questioned and beaten by the Black Watch, knowing that the only future that awaited her was a slow and painful death inside the White Tower, and yet, instead of trying to figure out how she was going to get out of this mess, she was spending her time contemplating whether or not men would still find her attractive. Oh well, she thought, it was better than thinking about the pain.

  She had always been too preoccupied with learning and experimenting with the natural use of herbs to think about courtship and marriage, but sitting there, bound hand and foot with the constant threat of a slow death looming, she found herself contemplating life’s missed opportunities.

  After her parents had passed during an outbreak of winter fever when she was ten, Saleena had gone to live with her aunt and uncle in Kariss. Her uncle had been the town physicker, and her natural curiosity encouraged him to teach Saleena his trade. She had been a quick study, soaking in all the information she could. She loved to learn about the symbiotic relationship between the forest and the creatures living within.

  It was exciting to see how a single root or piece of bark or leaf, if used properly, could cure illness, calm emotions, increase vitality, and in some instances halter death. Unfortunately, it was her unending curiosity that had attracted the White Tower.

  Once her uncle had gotten to the point that his age hindered him from keeping up with the work, Saleena took over the business. Her studies and use of tonics and tinctures had earned her quite the reputation as a healer. More often than not, she was found traveling from one village, or town, or city to another.

  Pretty soon her name became synonymous with miracle worker. She would find a way to cure those that other healers could not. And to save their reputation, those same healers, instead of asking her advice and accepting the knowledge she would have gladly provided, began claiming she was using the dark arts to do it. Maintaining their reputation was clearly more important than the truth. Pride
and greed were the downfall of all men.

  “Are you listening to me?” Another hard slap across the face sent her head reeling to the left and her thoughts scrambling. She could taste blood. In some small way, she was thankful for it. The blood made up for her lack of saliva. She rolled it around on her tongue and then swallowed. “Are there sympathizers here in Easthaven? Are they the ones who were hiding you?” The head guard doing all the talking, Captain Hatch as he called himself, stood off to the right near the entrance and watched.

  “No one . . . was helping me.”

  “Then how do you explain your escape? Are you saying that you overpowered five of my men and disappeared into the woods in the middle of the night without help?”

  She tried moistening her tongue with her blood once again. “Yes. It was me. I did it on my own.”

  “Is that so? Then why do my men talk of seeing a large hooded man leading you off?”

  Saleena didn’t respond. It had been pure happenstance that she had been spotted by the lone woodsman. She couldn’t remember much about him other than he was one of the biggest men she had ever seen, but also one of the gentlest. He had swooped into their camp in the middle of the night and carried her off like a phantom spirit. Now that she thought about it, maybe he had been a spirit . . . or a dream. Maybe she was still dreaming.

  She shook her head. No. He was real. The woodsman must have been an experienced tracker, because he managed to lose the Tower’s guards in the forest fairly quickly. He had left her in the hollowed out stump of a fallen tree and told her to stay put; that he would be back for her after he led them off. But the longer she waited the more worried she became that her rescuer had been taken and the guards were now coming for her.

  Not able to take the silence any longer, Saleena had crawled out of her hiding spot and tried finding her own way. It had obviously been a poor decision on her part. If she’d only stayed put like the man had told her, she might not be in this predicament.

  Her head lobbed to the side a moment. Unless, of course, it was a dream. Apart from the big tracker’s rather notable size and gentle spirit, the only thing Saleena could remember of him was his name: Kellen.

  Chapter 16 | Kellen

  KELLEN KNEW THEY were running out of time.

  The Black Watch, having finished most of their inquiries in town, had already begun questioning a few of the residents on the outskirts of the city limits. It wouldn’t be long before they were scouring the countryside as well. If the council had not managed to pull off a rescue by the time the Tower’s guards were through, they were going to lose their chance for good.

  Easthaven might have been the capital city of Sidara, but its size was nothing compared to that of Aramoor, or Rhowynn for that matter. Kellen knew it wouldn’t take the Black Watch long to complete their work and be on their way. For his family’s sake, he would like nothing better than for the white riders to be done and gone, but for Saleena’s sake, he needed them to remain where they were long enough for the council to pull off their heist.

  There were still a few pieces to the puzzle that needed to be put into place before they were ready to attempt something as crazy as liberating a prisoner right out from under the Black Watch’s noses, especially considering they needed to accomplish the task while leaving the Black Watch to believe that no outside force had been involved.

  Gracefully, Kellen swung himself off Your Highness, a chestnut-colored stallion with a royal temperament that earned him his name. Tying the horse to an empty hitching ring, Kellen headed up the steps of the East Inn.

  He decided to stop and see if there was any new information to be gathered concerning the Black Watch’s activities in town. One positive feature about living in a city like Easthaven was that a person could always find ready gossip if they knew where to look, and there was no better place for uncovering loose lips than the East Inn.

  Stepping inside, Kellen scanned the room as he let his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Sadly, the place was rather empty. There were a few scattered regulars around the bar, and a single table near the front with a couple patrons enjoying what looked to be a late breakfast or possibly an early lunch.

  Kellen sighed. He didn’t see anyone he recognized. He was about to leave when he spotted a lone figure sitting at a table near the back. The individual was strategically placed against the wall, keeping an eye on everyone while she ate. Recognizing the short-cropped white hair, he started across the room.

  Sheeva watched him like a hawk. Her posture stiffened as he approached.

  Kellen could see the flicker of the table’s candelabra reflecting in her amber-colored eyes. “Mind if I join you?” He gestured to an empty chair on the adjacent side of the table.

  She nodded her approval with enough enthusiasm to cause any other sane person to take the hint and walk away. But Kellen had never been accused of being conventional, and so he pulled out the wooden chair and sat down. She kept a watchful eye on his hands. He folded them on the table for her benefit.

  After ordering a warmed cider from one of the Aboloff’s younger brood, Kellen turned back around to study the overly-cautious assassin.

  “I hope you’re finding Easthaven to your liking?”

  “It’s . . . quiet,” she remarked. Her eyes were full of energy. They appeared to be the only part of her that held any hint of emotion. But it was enough for Kellen to tell how dangerous she was.

  After spending an evening watching the woman’s lack of reaction to the council’s questioning of her admittance, Kellen had decided to take a more direct approach. “You’re a Night Walker.” His remark wasn’t left as a question.

  Before he had a chance to say anything more, her figure warped and then vanished.

  “Hold on, I want to show you something.” Scanning the nearly empty room to make sure no one was watching, Kellen reached behind his head and withdrew a silver chain he had wrapped around his neck. He pulled the pendant out from where he kept it under his tunic and laid it on the table, its jewel facing upwards. He rested his elbows on the uneven wooden planks in front of him as he waited for her response, already knowing what it would be.

  “Where did you get that?” came an invisible voice to his left. Her words carried the first sense of emotion he had heard from her since their introduction.

  Kellen didn’t move. He continued to stare straight ahead. “If you would be so kind as to retake your seat, I’ll be happy to tell you.” His voice was calm and reassuring, much like when trying to coax a wild animal out of its hole.

  The little waitress reappeared with his drink. She slid the coins from the top of the table into her palm, and curtsied. “Thank you most kindly, sir,” she said, glancing at the empty chair across from him. “Did your lady friend leave?”

  “She’ll be right back,” he said with a wistful smile. The little girl nodded and then took off for the kitchen doors.

  Kellen sat in silence and continued to wait, staring patiently at the wall in front of him. Suddenly, he was no longer admiring the grains of wood paneling but a detached face that couldn’t help but betray a strong sense of curiosity.

  “I have never seen a moonstone in the hands of another,” she said, rubbing her fingers across its smooth pearl-like surface. “It signifies a great debt.”

  “There has been a story passed down in my family for generations,” Kellen said, “of the birth of the Night Walkers. Few have heard the tale or know of their existence. And in my own defense, the story has possibly degraded a bit with the telling, but the amulet is proof enough of their presence.” He momentarily glanced at the stone. Much like Sheeva’s eyes, it appeared to release a faint glow.

  The white-haired assassin listened, her eyes revealing both trepidation and delight.

  “The story takes place over a hundred years ago, deep in the heart of the Sidaran Forest. My great-great-grandfather told of the time he saved a Night Walker from a band of poachers.”

  Sheeva’s face twitched. Kellen couldn’t tell if
it had been a smile or a frown.

  “Now everyone knows that Walkers are said to be part wraith. They walk through walls, make themselves invisible, fly through the night air feasting on the blood of their victims, and the only time you ever see one is the moment before you die.”

  He interpreted her eyes, and was pleased to see the amusement he found there. “However,” he said, “I don’t exactly put much stock in folklore, faerie tales, or children’s stories. I have, however, come to realize that even the most bizarre of legends have a kernel of truth buried somewhere deep within. But I digress.”

  He cleared his throat to continue. “The evening was cool and the moon was bright, and my grandfather had been tracking a ruthless band of poachers for three days near the foot of the Angoran Mountains. From the overturned leaves and displaced brush, he knew he was getting close.

  “He had just skirted a dense copse of pine when he caught a glimpse of their campsite, or what was left of it. There were bodies everywhere, most scattered around the dying embers of their cook fire. It didn’t take my grandfather very long to see there was no life left in them. He was about to leave the protection of his hiding spot when he caught a glimpse of another one, half-sitting in the shadows. He appeared to be wounded. He figured there must have been some kind of falling out, and this one had been the only survivor. The man didn’t look like he was going to make it through the night.

  “My grandfather was turning to leave when he heard a voice call out behind him. The injured man said he could see my grandfather and that he might as well come on out. As quietly as he could, he made his way out from the shadows and skirted the tree line to where the figure waited with his back propped against an old stump.

  “By the time my grandfather reached the man, he had gone silent. His head was slumped to the side. Naturally, he thought the man was dead and started to feel for a pulse when the man’s eyes opened. And there they were, two glowing yellow orbs staring back at him, like a large mountain cat. He too had a full head of white hair.”