The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  Without waiting to see if their deadly battle had been heard, they spurred their horses forward, heading back toward the Elondrian side of the Black Hills. The late evening sky had begun to darken as they rounded the last curve leading out.

  Merrick pulled back on his reins, causing Bayle to nearly collide with him. “Watch it now! I be hold’n on with only me one good hand,” he said before catching sight of why Merrick had stopped. Directly ahead lay a bloodied horse and rider, too badly torn to be easily recognizable.

  Merrick took a deep breath and then immediately regretted it as his stomach rose to the back of his throat.

  “I guess we know why we never heard from Ellson,” Terris said in a disheartened tone.

  Merrick shook his head in disgust. “He was just a kid.” He looked over at the others. He could feel the anger building as the blood warmed his face. “Let’s move. We have a long ride ahead of us.”

  Chapter 63 | Orlyn

  ORLYN FOUND HIMSELF whistling as he went about closing up his quaint shop on the northwest side of the River Street Promenade. The sun had found its resting place a few hours ago and his stomach had been arguing with him about the proper time for feeding when Sorna Blaudell finished paying for her small bag of dorak root. With a lingering smile, she offered her final goodbyes.

  “Will I be seeing you at Performance Night next week, Orlyn?”

  “Well, I, uh . . . I don’t know. That could be a likely possibility.” Orlyn hadn’t been blessed with the gift of knowing what to say to a woman as persistent as Sorna. He tended to get tongue-tied. He didn’t know why. He never had any problem talking with Reloria, or Nilla, or any of the other woman on the wielder council, apart from Sheeva of course, whom everyone had trouble communicating with. Although, the white-haired assassin did seem to respond well to Kellen, but then again, Orlyn had yet to meet a person who Kellen couldn’t connect with.

  Sorna had been after Orlyn for over twenty years. Her husband had been killed in a milling accident some twenty-six years back. With all the coin she had spent at Orlyn’s shop trying to garner his attention, she could have rightly managed to open her own.

  Having never married himself, Orlyn had always used the excuse that he just didn’t have the time to be worrying about raising some other man’s brood. But now that the last of her seven children had left the nest, he was quickly running out of excuses. To be honest, he had always been afraid that her children would reject having another man take over their father’s place, and with that many in the household, it would have been very hard to compete for attention.

  “I will save you a seat in case you change your mind,” she said with a wink as she closed the door behind her.

  Realizing he was just standing there in the middle of the shop with a stupid grin on his face, he shook his head. “You old fool.” He locked the door and hung the “closed” sign in the window before pulling down the curtain. “Goodnight and sweet dreams, my beauties,” he said as he turned back to the plants lining the rows of his homemade shelving. With a whistle, he set about stowing the glass jars and refilling their contents from the canisters he kept in the back.

  The front bell of his shop rang out with the announcement of a new customer.

  “I thought I just locked that?” Too bad they don’t make an herb for being old and senile. “We’re closed,” Orlyn called from the back of the shop. When no answer came, he shrugged and finished screwing the cork back on a bottle of burdock. With winter coming he was sure to need a hefty supply for the overabundance of sore throats.

  Lifting himself from where he had been kneeling, Orlyn walked back out to the front and nearly tripped on his own feet when he realized there was someone leaning against the next shelf over. “Oh!” he said, grabbing his chest. “You startled me.” Orlyn wondered why the man hadn’t let his presence be known when he had called out earlier. The stranger had a tall build, not as tall as Orlyn, but broader in the shoulders. The man left off his perusing to turn and look at Orlyn.

  “Are you the apothecary?”

  Orlyn thought that a rather strange question to ask while standing in the middle of an apothecary’s shop. “My name is Orlyn. Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes, I believe you can.” The man’s smile matched his hair—greasy with a slick edge. There was something in his eyes that gave a dangerous impression.

  “As I said earlier, I’m closed for the day.” Orlyn did his best to think of an excuse to get the man to leave. “Can your business wait till the morrow?”

  “Afraid not,” the man said, taking a step forward.

  Orlyn, being made nervous by the situation, started easing his way back toward the storage room where he had laid his staff just inside the doorway. “Well, unless this is an emergency, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He took another two steps.

  The man smiled again. “Where are you going?”

  “I . . . I just need to get something from the back.”

  “Something like this?” The man reached behind the shelving unit he had been leaning against and pulled out Orlyn’s staff. Orlyn froze. How did he get that? No longer caring about hiding his intentions, Orlyn started backing toward the storage room. He kept his eye on the man holding his staff.

  The slick-haired intruder rushed him. Anticipating the move, Orlyn grabbed hold of the nearest set of standing shelves and with all his might, heaved them to the side, hoping to collapse them on top of his pursuer. The man was too light on his feet. He managed to dive and roll out of the way just as the shelves hit the ground. Orlyn made a dash for the back-room, but ran straight into a second robed intruder. Before he could come to a complete stop, the man raised his hand and blew some kind of powder in his face.

  Orlyn staggered backwards. “Ah, chicken stink!” He recognized the pungent scent of liniment in the air as his knees buckled and everything went black.

  Orlyn’s eyes snapped open and he let out a startled yelp as a wave of cold water struck him hard across the face. The sudden sensation pulled him from his drug-induced state. He was nauseous. His stomach took over and he dry-heaved. Orlyn felt like he had received a few good kicks to the gut, but figured it was merely a side effect of whatever potion they had blown in his face. There was a funny taste in his mouth. Moving his tongue, he realized he had been gagged.

  “He’s awake, missus.”

  The room might have been dark but Orlyn could still see the white cloak of a Black Watch guard standing there holding an upturned pail. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the remaining water dripping from his beard, bangs, and thick brows. He tried to move but found he couldn’t. It didn’t take long to see he had been tied to his chair. His ankles were bound to the front legs and his arms had been tied off behind.

  Glancing around the dark room, Orlyn tried to gain his bearings. From what he could see by the light of the torch being held by one of the guards, he appeared to be in one of the Sidaran barracks. There were simple panel boards lining the floor and walls, cots down both sides, and between each empty bed were walled racks for easy access to weapons. Unfortunately, they happened to be empty, not that he could have done anything about it had they been fully stocked. There were a few hushed whispers coming from the darker recesses ahead and the foul scent of dark magic permeated the air. Whatever was going on had obviously been well planned.

  From out of the shadows a dark figure shuffled forward, completely cloaked by a long black robe. “Is this him?” The woman’s voice from under her cowl sounded to be at least a hundred years old. Orlyn strained to catch a glimpse of the face beneath, but it was useless. He could barely see three paces in front of his chair. Besides, there wasn’t much point in trying. He knew exactly who this was, and he wasn’t about to give her what she wanted.

  “That’s him,” he heard another woman reply from somewhere off to his right. The second woman, whoever she was, was evidently afraid. Her voice shook as she spoke. “He . . . he used his magic plants to try to seduce me.” A
couple of the guards chuckled. “You just ask Fatunya if he didn’t. She’ll tell you I speak the truth.”

  Orlyn was aghast. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. If he hadn’t been so tightly bound, he’d have wrung Helene’s skinny neck.

  “If I had stayed in his shop a moment longer,” she continued, “I shudder to think what might have happened to my womanly virtue.”

  “From the look of you,” one of the guards cut in, “not much.” The other guards broke into laughter while Helene broke down into an unconvincing fit of sobs. Orlyn sat there in shock. He was being sold out to the White Tower because two old busybodies who had been startled by a simple plant?

  “I’m just doing my duty as an upstanding citizen of Easthaven.” Orlyn could almost hear the stiffness in Helene’s voice. He could picture her chin held high as she tried to justify her actions.

  “Of course you are, my dear.” Using her cane for support, the black-robed individual turned to look at Helene. “I’m through with her.”

  Just when Orlyn thought Helene could stoop no lower, she opened her mouth again. “Do I . . . Do I collect some sort of compensation for this?”

  “Compensation?”

  “You know . . . reward.”

  “Of course, my dear, you will be well taken care of.”

  “What do we do with her?” the guard with the now empty bucket asked.

  “We can’t have her or her friend running their mouths in town. Put them both with the others. They’ll make fine washer women for the Tower. Blood is so difficult to get out of white, you know.”

  Helene let out an ear-piercing shrill. “No! You can’t do this!” she cried. “Do you know who I am? Who my husband is? I’m the one who told you about the apothecary!”

  “Yes, you have proven to have surprisingly loose lips, Your Ladyship. I’m sure the inquisitors will find plenty of ways to make use of them as they torture you for information. I’m sure there is an ample supply of wielders here you’ll be willing to expose before they are done with you.”

  Orlyn heard a loud thump on the floor. From the sound of it, Helene had passed out and no one had bothered to catch her. Poor Helene. Orlyn was sure the horror of her situation had only just begun to take hold. The irony of it all was that had he not been gagged, he might have joined the others in their riotous laughter. If he was to be taken to the White Tower, it was indeed a comfort to know he would be keeping such fine company as her ladyship.

  He could hear the heels of Helene’s shoes scraping across the floor as they dragged her body, along with a surprisingly silent Fetunya, out the door and shut it behind them.

  “Tell me about the boy.” Orlyn could just make out the tip of her nose from beneath her hood.

  He tried to say something but the gag prevented it from coming out. The witch stepped forward and, reaching out with one of the most withered hands Orlyn had ever seen, pulled out the gag.

  “Ah, much better,” he said as he worked his tongue around in his mouth, trying to draw saliva.

  “Tell me about the boy.”

  “Boy? What boy?” Orlyn held a look of stunned ignorance. “As it happens, I have no children. My poor Nora, Creator rest her soul, was barren. Nope. Not a single child to my name.” He let his shoulders sag for effect.

  Her withered hand rose and, with a single finger, she slid a curved nail down the side of his face. “What a shame, and from such a fine specimen as yourself.”

  “Ain’t it so. I’m sure I would have sired quite a resplendent breed.”

  Stepping back, she removed her hood and gave him a clear look at her face. I hope she’s not volunteering. “Don’t make me ask again. I would hate to ruin such handsome features.” She smiled and playfully tugged on his beard. Her ring snagged on his long whiskers and he yelped. The ring was in the shape of a spider. Its eight legs were wrapped around her finger, and a crystal for its belly. The stone pulsed a deep red, giving Orlyn a clear indication that he was in the presence of a wielder, and a powerful one at that.

  “Madame, if I knew what boy you were referring to, I might be better able to answer your rather vague question.” Orlyn knew where this was heading already, and as a member of the council, he was sworn to protect Ty’s identity at all costs.

  The old hag shuffled a little closer, and with speed he had not anticipated from something so decrepit, her arm shot out and she grabbed his throat. Her nails dug into his flesh. “I’m talking about the woodsman’s youngest son.”

  Orlyn gulped, not so much at the pressure of her viselike grip around his exposed throat but at the fact that she somehow already knew who Ty was. His mind raced as he tried to question whether she knew this for a fact or was merely trying to wiggle a definitive answer out of him.

  “Oh, that child,” he said, his voice pinched from her grip. “Yes, well, very spirited young lad. Although, not quite all there upstairs, if you know what I mean.” Orlyn couldn’t think of what else to say to try throwing her off track. He could apologize to Ty later.

  Mangora released her grip and smiled. “I applaud your efforts, apothecary. Your loyalty is touching.” She took a step back and paced in front of his chair. “With a city the size of Easthaven, I’m sure your wielder council is formed of nearly every ven’ae within the surrounding community, and being a prominent business owner, there is no doubt about your awareness of, and activity within, such an assembly. Also, knowing Nyalis the way I do, he would not have left the child with just anyone. He would have made sure he was protected.”

  Orlyn shook his head and chuckled. “Madame, if you have mistakenly taken me for some wielder of magic on the word of a chinwagger like Helene Tunsfield, who would sell out her own family if she thought it would better her standing in the community, then you have been the sad dupe of an even sadder woman. I assure you, I am no wielder. There has been a grave misunderstanding here.” Orlyn struggled with his bindings. “Now if you were to release me, I would be more than willing to keep this whole miscarriage of justice to myself.”

  The old crone’s laugh, if indeed he could call it a laugh, sent a tingling feeling of dread up his legs. “You’re a very convincing liar, my dear apothecary, but you forget I’ve seen your staff.” The fake smile on Orlyn’s face fell, along with his last remaining hope. “Now tell me of the boy. Has he reached his full potential? Does he even know who he is?”

  Mangora clearly already knew who Ty was, and his continued denial wasn’t going to get him anywhere, so he decided to drop the pretense and try a more forward tactic. “Of course he knows who he is, and he’s more powerful than you can possibly imagine. Why, he could kill you with just one look from his left eye.” Orlyn held as serious a gaze as he could muster under the ridiculousness of what he had just said, hoping that maybe it would put enough fear into the old bat to give her second thoughts about going after him.

  Mangora held her smile. “Not quite the impression I got after he ran screaming from my shop like a frightened girl lost in the woods on Dark Winter’s Eve.

  Orlyn’s stony gaze wilted, leaving behind something more akin to a sad smirk. Yep, that sounds like Ty alright, he admitted with a sigh of pity.

  “So, let’s start again, shall we?” the sorceress said as she rounded the back of his chair. Her cane tapped the floorboards in front of her. Orlyn could feel her hot breath against the side of his face as she leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Don’t you worry that handsome head of yours. We’re going to have plenty of time to get better acquainted.”

  Orlyn moaned. “Lucky me.”

  Chapter 64 | Ferrin

  FERRIN GASPED.

  The inhale was sharp. A familiar wave of ice coursed through his body. Peering out through swollen eyes, he watched as Rae worked her hands across another deep laceration. She angled downward from his lower chest, sliding her fingers across his ribcage, halfway to his navel. The skin rewove and the pain in his chest dulled, leaving only the intense throbbing in his fingers.

  One by one, she pulled the
thick wedges out from under what remained of Ferrin’s mutilated fingernails. Cheeks had spent a remarkable amount of time tapping them in. Ferrin had passed out more than once, only to be revived for another round.

  With the last of the small shards being removed, and Rae completing her healing of the damaged tips, Ferrin relaxed. He took a slow breath in through his nose and exhaled the same way. The intense throbbing lingered as nothing more than a distant memory in the back of his mind, taunting him with the assurance it would soon return.

  He found in a perverse sort of way that he almost looked forward to his sessions with the inquisitor, as it meant having a few moments of Rae’s soft hands across his aching body.

  After his little talk with the Arch Chancellor down in the Chambers of Purging, Ferrin knew his time was running out. He could only pray Azriel’s vision had been accurate. He still had reservations concerning the man’s gifts as a seer, but, when left with literally no other option, he had to act on what information was available.

  Rae opened her eyes after finishing. In them, Ferrin saw a sense of hopeless longing, a desire to have someone, anyone, reach out and show her the smallest amount of human compassion. There was also something else hidden there—shame. She held his gaze a moment longer, her blood-stained hands resting gently on his bare chest. He only hoped she couldn’t feel the racing of his heart under her touch.

  Ferrin twisted in his restraints. “Thank you.”

  She quickly retracted her arm and glanced back down at the stone tiling. Her dark brown hair hung in strands to block her face.

  “No need to thank me,” Cheeks called out from across the room. His back was to Ferrin as he fumbled through his bag of utensils. “What should we try next? Ah, here we go.” The inquisitor turned and held out a hammer in one hand and a long nail in the other.

  Ferrin tensed. He knew what was coming.