The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  “I fear we are at a crossroads,” she said. “A beginning of sorts.” She pursed her lips in thought. “Or maybe, more accurately, an ending.” Her head lowered and she nibbled on her lower lip.

  The king cocked his head and blew on a small mound of bubbles gathering under his chin. “Whenever you go to biting that lip, Ellise, I know I’m about to get an earful. So let’s have it then, an ending to what? Have you been in that library reading through those cursed histories again?”

  “History teaches us lessons we ought not to forget. How else will we learn if we disregard the mistakes of our past?” She rose from her seat and walked over to one of the large windows looking out across the Bay of Torrin. The bay had been named after the first High King of Aldor. Fitting, she thought. Like the waves of the Rhunarin Ocean as they formed the inlet with their mighty currents, Torrin had repurposed the land as well, cutting away the rugged terrain to create a city that had no equal in Aldor.

  With no argument ensuing from the naked man behind her, she knew her husband agreed.

  Ellise stared out across the moonlit breakers. She could see the ships moving across the harbor as they carried their supplies up and down the southern coast from the Isle of Delga to the Blue Isles off the coast of Briston. With her shoulder resting against the gilded edge of the window’s frame, she kept her eyes transfixed on the movement of the water as it crashed against the rising pillars of rock holding back the swelling tide. “I believe we are reaching the end of another age, my love.” She turned to face him. “And quite possibly the beginning of a new.”

  Seeing the troubled look on his face, she pressed on. “I found some texts in the library dealing with the First Age and how the barrier between our realm and the Realm of Fae weakened, and how their magic was—”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, here we go again,” he barked, splashing more water out of the tub with his hand. “I knew it was going to come back to this. What is it with you and your incessant curiosity with faeries, and magic, and years gone by? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had an affinity for the ven’ae. Sometimes I wonder if you wouldn’t have rather preferred being born back during the Second Age as opposed to now.”

  Patiently, she waited for him to finish his ranting, knowing it was always better to let him get it out of his system at the first, leaving him clear to listen and consider her words later. After spending over four decades with the man, she had long since learned the best way to handle his temperament. She loved him deeply, but sometimes he could be quite the stubborn oaf.

  “Are you quite finished?” she asked, crossing both arms under her breasts. His grunt was the only answer she knew she was going to receive. Her husband had always been a man of action. He lived in the moment. If he saw something that needed fixing, he fixed it; a problem that needed solving, he solved it. It made him a strong king. But those same characteristics also made him narrow-minded. His focus was always on the present. If it wasn’t something pertinent to the here and now, it was disregarded.

  “Those histories I’ve been reading have proven quite interesting, and considering what you’ve just told me, the information they hold should be of grave concern to us.”

  Rhydan looked up from where he was busy rubbing a thick horse-hair brush down his blood-stained arms and hands. “Oh? How so? It’s ancient lore. What does it have to do with right now?” He smacked the brush across the top of the water to add emphasis.

  “It seems to me that there is a direct correlation between the end of the Second Age and what is happening now. It wasn’t until the rise of the dark wizard that such monsters as you described today had ever been seen before. Do you think that’s just coincidence? Are we not repeating the cycle once again?” Crossing the room, she pulled her seat toward the edge of the small pool. The metal-tipped legs of her stool scraped across the tile with a grating noise. “Hear me out.”

  “It appears I don’t have much choice. You’ve got me bound to my bathwater.”

  Her brows narrowed over her eyes and he wisely said no more. “I know you don’t like discussing the mistakes of your forefathers and the outbreak of magic, but after what happened today, I would think if there was ever a time you should want to start, it would be now.”

  Rhydan sighed. “Ellise, it’s not that I don’t care. It’s just that . . . Well, I don’t understand it.” He stopped his scrubbing. “Look at me. What I know is what I can hold in my hands, see with my eyes, and hear with my ears.” Brandishing the scrub brush like a weapon, he continued. “I understand the feel of a sword, the weight of its balance, the edge of its blade, and the dance with death it brings in combat.” His eyes glazed over as if reliving a particular memory from days gone by. She could also see regret mirrored there, the same regret she so often felt when contemplating the difficulties that came with aging.

  “I know nothing of magic,” he admitted, lowering the brush back into the soapy water. “How can I begin to combat something I don’t understand? And to be honest, I’m just too old to go learning something new.”

  “Hogwash!” She leaned forward and splashed a handful of dirty water on his face. “You’re not too old, you big lout. If you’re too old, then that would make me too old. And I’m not too old, I assure you.” She went to splash another handful of water on him but before she could get her hand in the water, he grabbed her by the arm and jerked her clear over the edge and head-first into the soapy bath, silk nightgown and all.

  She screamed from the other side of the tub as her head burst from the surrounding bubbles. With all her might, she tried to punch him in the chest but her fist met nothing but air, having been unable to see anything with her face completely covered by a mop of wet curls. Sloughing her drenched tresses aside, she went to hit him again but instead found herself somehow wrapped in his arms.

  “You brute!”

  “A brute, am I? Maybe I should act more like it.” She felt her head being jerked to the side as he ferociously started nibbling at her neck. She broke into a fit of laughter, kicking her legs back and forth underneath the water at the way his beard tickled the side of her face and neck.

  “Alright, stop it!” she demanded after pulling away from a sloppy kiss. “I’m trying to have a serious discussion with you. If I didn’t know any better by the way you’re acting, I would have thought you’d been into the brandy again.” After receiving a small peck on the tip of her nose, she was finally released, and, not wanting to get back out of the warm water now that she was in it, she decided to scoot to the other side of the tub and finish their conversation. Pulling off her sodden nightgown and dropping it on the already soaked tiles, she scooped up the bar of soap and started running it across her stiff shoulders.

  “Many of the histories tell us, among other things, that the Second Age of Aldor was an extremely prosperous time. They thought magic was the answer to everything. Not rich enough? Well, a simple spell here, an incantation there, and voila your financial worries are over. Someone is sick? Then let’s call one of the gifted healers to lay their hands on them. You have someone you’re infatuated with and you want them to feel the same? No problem, we’ll just whip together a special potion and they’re yours.”

  “If only it were that easy,” he mumbled under his breath.

  “What was that?” she asked, poking him under the water with her big toe.

  “Oh nothing, nothing.”

  Her sharp glare lingered a moment longer before continuing. “Like I was saying . . .” She glanced down at the bubbles around her shoulders. “What was I saying?”

  Rhydan laughed. “You were saying how our problems were finally over.”

  “Oh, right. Magic had come and they couldn’t have been happier. There were wondrous accomplishments, the edifices they constructed, the depths they explored. Did you know they had even built flying ships?”

  The brush in Rhydan’s hand stopped its scrubbing as he passed an amused look across the tub. “You’re having me on.”

  “No,
really,” she said adamantly as she motioned with her hands over the top of the bathwater. “They had huge schooners that could float on the air like ours do on the water. They also had magical ways to instantly cross great distances in the blink of an eye. They built great cities with vast networking tunnels leagues below the surface of our land, long forgotten to anyone today. There was wealth beyond anything we could imagine, and food in such supply that all of our vast warehouses could not contain it.”

  “Alright, slow down before you give yourself a spasm. This all sounds a little overreaching. I think I would have known about flying ships if they had existed.”

  She splashed him hard. “And just how would you have known, you old sot? You’ve made it perfectly clear you have no interest in what took place during the time of magic. I’ve been trying to tell you about this for years and all I ever get from you is some regurgitated nonsense you were spoon-fed by your advisors about how magic only corrupts and so you want nothing to do with it.”

  “If it doesn’t corrupt, then how do you explain what happened to us today?”

  She took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Magic is just a tool. And like any tool, what is used to create can also be used to destroy. No amount of magic can cure us of our own nature. We are human, after all. And where there is humanity, there is always the potential for great evil.”

  “That’s a pretty harsh view of your fellow man, my love.”

  “Harsh, yes, but realistic. There are a few of the histories, though not the ones used for teaching in our schools today, that claim it was our own greed and not magic that nearly destroyed us.” Ellise took a deep breath. She was starting to feel like a scholar giving voice to what should have been a commonly understood problem. “No matter where you go there will always be people who crave power, those who want to subjugate others to their will, and it usually starts by preying on the weak-minded, those who have no desire for honest work or life, but instead want something for nothing. They are the easiest to lead,” Ellise said with a sneer. “Promise them free goods, and they are yours to control.”

  Rhydan rubbed his hands through his beard, leaving behind traces of soapy residue. “Unfortunately, we are seeing more and more of that around Elondria, even here in Aramoor, what with the Warrens trying to establish their own domain.”

  “I’ve also found references to the dark wizard himself.”

  “The Defiler?”

  “Yes. It was his lust for power that led to the great Wizard Wars in the first place, and eventually the jun’ri uprising and the Great Purge.”

  “The Great Purge.” Rhydan shivered. “Yes, now there was a dark time in our history if ever there was one.” He lifted his left foot out of the water and massaged a lather of mugwort from a nearby bottle onto his heel. “But why all this talk about the Defiler? He’s been dead for nearly a thousand years and his bones long since turned to dust.”

  “So we’ve been told, but there are also prophesies that speak of a return.”

  Rhydan lifted his hands to his temples and rubbed. “Ellise, you’re giving me a headache. Next you’re going to be telling me that there are pixies in the walls and trolls under my bed. Is there a point to all of this or are you just having a bit of fun at my expense?”

  Ellise grunted. Her husband could be so infuriating. He wasn’t a stupid man, but whenever it came to the topic of magic, he would rather be kept in the dark than face the inevitable conclusion: that perhaps his ancestors had been wrong in their outlawing of magic and those that wielded it. The atrocities that had taken place during the time of the Great Purge, if the stories were to be believed, had been horrific indeed. Rhydan didn’t care to think of his forefathers as being homicidal maniacs, but from what she had read, the facts were hard to deny.

  “The point, my dear husband, is that it now seems that magic is beginning to reveal itself once more, and I believe we are coming full circle.”

  Rhydan exhaled slowly as he stared at the flicker of the candles on the left side of the room. Their light cast elongated reflections across the marble tile that swayed to the movement of the flames. “I can’t argue with that,” he said as his eyes shifted back to hers. “Your foresight has always served us well, my dear. If you say this is important . . . I believe you.”

  Ellise smiled. She could see the weariness in Rhydan’s eyes. She slid to the other side of the pool and up against her husband, letting her head rest against his shoulder. “You are a great king, my darling, and I love you very much.”

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and hugged her tight. “I wouldn’t be half the king I am without you.”

  She lifted her head to look into his eyes and silently wondered how many of these moments they would have left.

  Chapter 31 | Valtor

  VALTOR TRUDGED TO the back corner of his workroom and grabbed hold of the thick piece of material he had placed conveniently over a large rectangular object. He ripped it back. The covering fell to the floor in layers, kicking up a spray of dust that brought with it a short fit of sneezing. Raising his head after the final convulsion, Valtor stared at his reflection. The mirror was old, very old. Its casing was melded in gold filigree, colored with age and engraved with ancient glyphs from which only a handful of scholars could decipher, let alone read.

  It was one of the lost Mirrors of Maon, better known as the traveling mirrors. They were created nearly two thousand years ago at the beginning of the Second Age when magic was freely used as a way for wizards to travel throughout the realms to keep the peace. Never knowing when a wizard might make an appearance was a great deterrent to revolt. But at the end of the age, after the Wizard Wars when the jun’ri turned on the ven’ae, most of the mirrors were destroyed.

  Valtor had spent years searching for them. In all his efforts, he had only managed to uncover two. A few of the ancient manuscripts spoke of a stronghold built by the Wizard Council, along with some of their faerie allies, which was said to have been the birthplace for many such magical items, but he could find no definitive reference to its location, only to its original name: Aero’set. The keep was thought to be hidden somewhere within the Angoran Mountains.

  Valtor had scoured every known library, book merchant, and back alley dealer for a rare text that gave any mention to its exact whereabouts; but, just as if it had never existed, his search had turned up fruitless. Even the White Tower, with all its vast knowledge, provided little in the way of helpful information. It was obviously being shielded by some form of magic, or perhaps had been destroyed during the final battle of the Wizard Wars.

  Thankfully, for Valtor’s purposes, two mirrors were the minimum number needed to make a crossing. Each mirror had its own unique name. As long as a person knew the names of the mirrors they were traveling from and to, all they had to do was call them out in succession and step through unharmed. Each mirror’s name was etched in runes above the glass.

  The glyphs were written in Fae. Valtor had spent hundreds of hours calling out various possible names, hoping to somehow awaken a third mirror. He considered himself a fair linguist, but even he could see its futility. The names for something as valuable as these mirrors would have been extremely hard to decipher, making it nearly impossible for someone to randomly decode.

  Valtor placed his ceremonial mitre on top of his head and reached for his wolf-head staff. He called out the names of the two mirrors, starting first with the one in front of him. “Galaerion Sugethru. Nathleen Filaurel.” He had always wondered if the names were of actual faeries that had lived back then. The way they sounded as they rolled off the tongue felt proper.

  The glass sparked to life.

  His reflection vanished, being replaced by the image of an empty room. A lone torch resting in its holder near a closed door cast shadows across the stone walls and floor. Once the last of the mirror’s vibrations had ended, Valtor took a quick glance around his chambers and stepped through. It felt like walking through a puddle of water, and yet remaining dry. It sent a
run of bumps up and down both arms.

  Once on the other side, Valtor watched the image of his chambers in the palace fade, leaving nothing more than his own dark reflection in the glass. He had always feared the possibility of one of them failing while he was halfway through. Shaking off his momentary unease, he headed for the door. He didn’t have time to worry about it now.

  Before stepping into the cold hallway beyond, Valtor held out his hand. An orb of greenish-blue light lifted in front of him, easing his passage as he wound his way downward through the dark upper corridors of the White Tower. It was the ultimate contrast to his life in the royal palace. From lavishly decorated chambers, gilded in gold and draped in velvet, to discolored walls of cracked stone draped in layers of web and dust. He took a deep breath and smiled. He had come home.

  Upon reaching the central levels, he extinguished the orb as many of the lower rooms and adjoining hallways were already aglow with bracketed torchlight. Rounding the final corner, he stepped out into the Tower’s throat. It was a large, open circular area at the center of the construct, as if it had been burrowed out by a giant orm, one of the enormous sand worms found in the outer regions of the Wengoby Desert. It started from the ground level and ran its way clear to the uppermost chambers. It was quite a dizzying view. A drop from even one of the lowest levels would be fatal.

  Each level outside the circular opening was gated by a row of massive pillars made from the same dark granite found in the Razor’s Spine. They comprised the main support structure for the next level’s foundation. Each of the fluted columns would have taken half a dozen men with arms outstretched to reach around.

  Moving past the towering stone structures, Valtor crossed the open second floor walkway. He could see the Black Watch below as they rotated positions while standing guard over the front entrance. Sparing a glance upwards through the heart of the stronghold, he chuckled at the whole idea of the White Tower. It was a living, breathing hypocrisy unto itself. While having been used as a means to subjugate magic by either its removal or destruction, the Tower only existed because of the use of that same magic. It had been created by Aerodyne and his followers centuries ago in their pursuit of alternative magic, but had then been repurposed by the jun’ri as a means to stop, or at the least control, the flow of magic throughout Aldor.