The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  Valtor left the outer walkway and crossed beneath the adjoining arches on the other side. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, but he had a meeting with the Legate Superior that he had put off long enough. He followed the corridor to its end. Just ahead was a set of double doors guarded by two of the Tower’s guards. The two men moved to allow him passage. He listened as they heaved the doors shut behind him. The sound reverberated off the stone walls before finally fading away, leaving him completely alone with his thoughts.

  The room contained an enormous vaulted ceiling. Brass chandeliers, tarnished with age, hung from long-rusted chains above. The outer walls were lined with thick pilings which lifted from the floor straight to the ceiling. Torn draperies rustled from a slight breeze in front of elongated stained-glass windows that stretched across the back wall, while cloth banners, yellowed with mildew, hung sporadically throughout the open room.

  He had never allowed any of the staff to replace or repair the ancient age-worn adornments. There was something about surrounding himself with originality, knowing that he was looking at the same things the ancient wizards of years past had looked at each time they had entered the room. It gave him a sense of purpose, a thin link to those he so admired.

  Moving across the cold stone, Valtor’s red robes billowed out behind him like a shade on an evening breeze. He raised his hand toward the large open hearth on the left side of the room. “Voyestra.” Flames erupted from the previously stacked kindling and logs. In front of the fireplace was the long white marble table they used for Tower meetings. Surrounding the table were thirteen straight-backed chairs made from the same smooth stone. The last time he had been in this room, he had killed one of his bulradoer. Hopefully this time he didn’t end up with one less legate.

  “Guards!”

  The doors opened and the two men stepped inside. “You called, Your Eminence?”

  “Notify the Legate Superior I would like to see her immediately.”

  “Right away, Your Eminence.” Both guards bowed and left the room, closing the doors behind them.

  Leaving the warmth of the fire, he stepped into an enclosed staircase decoratively built into the back wall. The flight of stairs led up to the second floor rooms, comprised of his private study, washroom, and modestly decorated sleeping chamber. Much like his workroom in Aramoor, his study held a large assortment of shelving for all manner of oddities he had managed to accumulate in his search for lost pieces of magic.

  Long wooden tables lined the back corner, each lit with thick tallow candles that bled their colored wax down the brass casings, fastening them hard to the tables underneath. Open volumes lay scattered across the top of each, like an out-of-sorts covering struggling to keep the ever falling dust from its wood.

  There were copper pots, pewter urns, and cruses of every size and shape, most only half-filled with ingredients for what would have been an unbearably distasteful stew. Some of the containers held large insects of all varieties, both living and not. Others held pieces of human bodies, some fresh, but most not. A few of the urns held selections of heavily decomposed mire and sludge which gave the smell of having come from the foulest of bogs, while others were filled with rich clean topsoil or sand.

  Valtor opened one of the three glass-enclosed cabinets on the far wall. The shelves were lined with vials holding a wide variety of tinctures, tonics, distillations, and extracts for every possible use. It would have made the most avid of apothecaries weep with envy at having such a rare selection available.

  Pulling out a crystal decanter, he poured a dark amber liquid into a nearby goblet after first blowing off the dust and wiping the rim with the hem of his outer robe. He replaced the stopper and put the bottle back inside before shutting the case. Taking a quick sip of the strongly spiced wine, he slid into his favorite chair in front of another dead hearth.

  Why can no one manage to keep a simple fire stoked around here? Irritated, he raised his hand toward the chilly stone encasement and flames ignited around the stacked lumber. “Much better.” He released a long, slow exhale as the warmth of the crackling flames invaded his skin.

  Gathering his thoughts, Valtor waited for the legate to arrive. He knew he wouldn’t have to wait long. He could hear the doors to the main chamber below opening.

  Tilting back his head, the chancellor drained the rest of his goblet, giving the Legate Superior enough time to get in and settled while allowing Valtor a rare moment’s rest for his feet. With a grunt, he lifted himself from the comfort of his cushioned spot in front of the fire and placed the empty glass on the small three-legged stand beside his chair.

  With repetitious effort, he straightened his robes. This being an official meeting with the Legate Superior, he grabbed the crimson mitre from its place on the shelf over the hearth and adjusted it on the top of his head. He needed to keep up appearances. Even here amongst his inner circle he found it imperative to maintain a proper amount of not just decorum, but authority. His father’s words were there as a constant reminder. Like a shadow from the past, they haunted him. “If you ever want to get anywhere in this life, Milo, you must look the part.”

  His father had been a tailor to a wealthy nobleman. Perception to him was everything. He used to say even the poorest waif picked from a back-alley street, if placed in a new suit of clothes, could instantly change his status among the people. No longer would he be the ignored guttersnipe. No longer would he be beaten and spat at, kicked and abused. He would be respected and admired. Men and women would look him in the eyes when he passed. They would offer to open his door, pull his seat, shine his shoes. “It’s all about perception, Milo. And the way to achieve the perception you want is through the clothing you wear.”

  Valtor made his way to the enclosed stairwell. He let his fingertips slide down the thick velvet folds of his robe, enjoying the texture as he descended the steps one at a time. With his head high and back fully erect, he emerged once again into the main assembly chamber. His father had gotten at least one thing right; perception is indeed the first step to power.

  The Legate Superior, donning the gold-trimmed black robes of her position, bowed from the waist as Valtor strode across the room toward the head seat at the table, the back of his chair facing the open flames. His seat was larger than the rest and a bit more ornate, clearly signifying his rank as Arch Chancellor. The legate waited for him to sit before lowering herself into her own chair.

  “So what does my keeper of information have to report?”

  The short, round elderly woman stiffened in her seat. Her hands remained folded in her lap as she proceeded to answer his question. “The flow of information has been quite steady, Your Grace. The inquisitors have been rather profitable as of late in recruiting new wielders to our cause and garnering useful confessions. It seems there are indeed a growing number of ven’ae throughout not only Elondria, but Keldor, Sidara, Cylmar, and Briston as well.”

  “That is good news indeed.” Valtor leaned forward.

  “Confessions, however,” she pointed out, “can be tricky to sort through. It’s quite amazing how loose the lips become when faced with an inquisitor’s touch. Because of this, however, what is being confessed will many times be misleading if not outright false. There are those who’ll confess to anything, whether it be the truth or not, just to escape more time on the rack. If we were to act on all such information, we would be rounding up half the population.” She chuckled lightly.

  Valtor slammed his fist down on the table, startling the legate and ripping the smile from her face. “Then round up half the population! I need wielders in here if we are ever to have a chance of protecting ourselves and further generations from another open purging!”

  Her voice stuttered. “Yes, Your Grace, of course.” The legate bowed her head, keeping her wide eyes lowered to the table. “But if we initiate such an aggressive posture, won’t the High King start asking questions? He might decide to re-implement the Inspection Squads.”

/>   “The king is about to have more on his plate than worrying about the rantings of a bunch of peasants. Don’t you worry about the throne. Leave that to me. You need to deal with the increase of stronger wielders.

  “And while we are on that subject,” he said, arching his brow slightly, “how is our newest recruit doing? Has there been any progress in bringing him over to our cause? It’s been a long time since we’ve had a true metallurgist at the Tower.”

  “The smith is proving to be . . . well, quite challenging in his willingness to cooperate, Your Eminence.”

  Valtor watched as her body tensed. She grabbed the folds of her robe and twisted. “His tolerance for pain has been remarkable, to say the least.”

  Valtor’s smile broadened. “I’m glad to hear it. He sounds to be a worthy trophy, indeed.” He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers together. “The stronger they are, the more useful they become.” Valtor stood from his seat. “Keep me apprised on his progress. I want you to focus all your energy on this man. He’s important to me.” Valtor corrected himself. “To all of us. We are going to need his abilities in the very near future.” He turned and headed back to his upper chambers.

  “Don’t fail me, Legate,” he said in warning over his shoulder as his wolf-head cane echoed off the hard stone.

  “No, Your Grace. We won’t.”

  Chapter 32 | Ferrin

  SNAP!

  “Ahhh! Okay, okay, okay, I’ll talk, I’ll talk!” Ferrin tried to swallow, but his throat was too swollen from screaming. “What do you want to talk about? You want to discuss the weather? Fine! We’ll talk about the weather.” Sweat poured from Ferrin’s brow. “You want to discuss the lack of proper sanitation in this place? You’re right, it’s appalling. Anything you want to talk about. Let’s talk!”

  Ferrin gritted his teeth and glanced down at his ruined finger. It was bent upwards and poking awkwardly to the side in the most grotesque fashion. His knees buckled under the pain and his heart was racing faster than the prize stallion at the Rhowynn Festival of Lights on its final turn into the home stretch.

  He had always loved the city festivals, everything about them: the changing of the fall colors during the month of Kùma, the overabundance of exotic foods, the garish decorations, an atmosphere which leant itself to the belief that anything was possible. It was a time of magic, well, not in the literal sense of course. It was a time to drop the cares and worries of everyday life down the deepest, darkest well and spend a few days focusing on nothing more than oneself.

  Ferrin closed his eyes and tried to will himself there. He tried to remember the sights, the smells, the sounds of excitement and laughter. People enthralled in the joy of putting aside their work and reveling in a bit of honest distraction.

  He had been particularly fascinated with Overlord Agnar’s annual tournaments. The games were a continual source of enjoyment for Ferrin, especially those centered on the sword. The handcrafted works of art being displayed, the clanging of the metal with each precise swing, the blades being dulled, bent, and chipped as the sparks flew upwards. It was exhilarating.

  He strained to hold onto the pleasant memories, to keep his focus on anything but the present. But the intense pain kept pulling him back, like a dirty secret not wanting to remain hidden—the frustration was overwhelming.

  “Why aren’t you talking?” Ferrin muttered. His eyes were bloodshot and his mouth was as dry as a sun-bleached bone. “I thought you wanted to talk! I’m ready, come on, you flatulent pot licker, let’s talk!” His lips smacked with the need for water.

  “My dear smith, I assure you, we will talk. But I fear you aren’t quite ready yet.”

  Cheeks slid his finger down Ferrin’s forearm, across the steel manacle holding his wrist in place, and lightly stroked the top of his hand. The touch was tender. As soft as a lover’s caress. Ferrin closed his eyes trying to picture what that would be like—the touch of a beautiful woman who loved him. Drat! She wouldn’t even have to be beautiful. She could be as ugly as a barnyard porker and he wouldn’t have cared, just so long as it kept his mind off the pain.

  Snap!

  “Ahhh! Stop! Wait . . . just wait!” The tears were swelling, blurring his vision of the bald, tattooed-faced man in front of him. “Please, just wait!”

  He tried to catch his breath, sucking back deep inundating gulps, hoping the pain would subside before what he knew was about to happen, happened. He couldn’t believe how similar the sound was to that of a thick twig being split between two hands. A simple bending of the wood until the tension reached its breaking point, and then—

  Snap!

  He screamed again, his back pressing so tight against the rungs of the rack it actually drew blood. The pain was overwhelming. His eyes squeezed shut, too afraid to look down at his disfigured fingers for fear it would bring even more reality to the agony he endured.

  “Now let’s start again, shall we? Who are the other wielders living in Rhowynn? I’m sure you can give us some names. A city that size is bound to have at least one wielder council if not two or three.”

  Concentrate. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Ferrin fought to control his sanity. He was on the verge of losing consciousness. He prayed, begged, and pleaded for it. But unfortunately the Creator, if there was such a being, remained silent. Ferrin had his doubts. Maybe I could just give him one name. That wouldn’t be so terrible, would it? Someone I don’t even like . . . perhaps Garreth. Yeah, I could give him Garreth’s name then maybe he’d stop. The battle to give in raged on. No! You can’t do it. Hold out just a little longer. He took another deep breath.

  “I told you. I don’t know of anyone else.” His voice was shaking under the pressure. “I mainly kept to myself.” Sweat poured down his face, dripping from the tip of his nose. “It’s not like we all get together on Sixth Day for a game of Batmyth or something!” Actually, that’s exactly what they did. He did have those he knew within the hidden wielder communities there in Rhowynn. Those he considered friends. A few were rather close. He couldn’t betray them, especially not Myriah. His twin sister looked up to him, relied on him. He was in many respects her mother and father. He had looked after her since they were kids. He had to live, if for any reason, to get back to her.

  Cheeks ignored Ferrin’s sarcasm as he paced in front of the large upturned rack with his hands folded behind his back. “Why do you fight it, smith? You will tell us what we want to know. It’s inevitable. Everyone breaks. I have dedicated my life to the study of this phenomenon. How much torture one body can accept before its mind betrays its heart?”

  An image of Myriah flooded Ferrin’s thoughts—fair skin covered with thick red curls, her soft features, those sympathetic eyes, the way she could just look at you and make you forget all your problems. What he wouldn’t give for a glance from those eyes, or a single hug.

  She was the one good thing left in his life. The one person who had stuck with him even after the other wielders had shunned him and eventually exiled him from their gatherings. They didn’t want someone like him being associated with their assembly—someone who used his abilities in such an open manner. He had always argued that the Creator had given them those gifts and they shouldn’t be afraid to use them.

  In retrospect, he should have paid a little more heed.

  Ferrin needed to find a way to escape. He wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer. The only reason they hadn’t sent him to purging already was because he was still valuable to them. His ability to forge steel in a way that made it nearly indestructible was a talent the White Tower obviously desired. How long they would be willing to wait before killing him and moving on, he didn’t know. If it came down to it, would he be willing to help the Tower in order to spare his life long enough to find a way to escape?

  The inquisitor stepped to the other side of the rack and started to stroke the fingers on Ferrin’s other hand. “How about a change of subject then, maybe that will stimulate some answers?�
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  Ferrin knew exactly what the inquisitor was going to ask.

  Cheeks slid his hand around Ferrin’s small finger and waited. He seemed to be taunting him, or maybe he was just testing his resolve. Ferrin didn’t know. But at the moment, he just wished the sadist would hurry up and get it over with.

  “Go on! What are you waiting for? You got a question, or do you just enjoy holding my hand?”

  Snap!

  Ferrin cried out involuntarily.

  “Now that wasn’t a very nice thing to say, was it?” Cheeks paused to inspect his work. “Have you given any more thought to joining our good cause? The White Tower could use a man of your talents. Why put yourself through this, smith? Join us. If not for yourself, then do it for all those other ven’ae out there who are unable to stand against their jun’ri oppressors.”

  Ferrin laughed through gritted teeth. “Do you even hear yourself, you pompous offspring of an overfed dung beetle? You open your mouth and what comes out might as well be pure gibberish for all the truth it brings. You want me to join the White Tower to help the Ven’ae, and yet it’s the White Tower that is hunting us down, you stupid sack of orm larva.”

  Snap!

  “Ahhh!” Ferrin roared over the pain. “I’m going to kill you! You hear me! Before this is over, you are going to beg me for death!”

  Snap! Snap!

  Ferrin’s head bounced on the wire-bound framing of the bed as his screams echoed off the stone walls around him. Hatred poured from his eyes, while the contents of his stomach poured from his mouth.

  Cheeks squeezed the fingers on Ferrin’s left hand, bringing him to the point of nearly biting his tongue in half as he clamped down under the nausea threatening to take him.