by Morgan Rice
“You’re a reader, too,” Jasmine said, as she turned a corner, leading them down yet another twisting corridor of books. “I saw it in your face the moment I met you. You’re like me. Except you were burdened with your Queenship. I understand. It must have been awful. No more time to read, I presume. It is probably the worst part of being Queen. You probably love it here.”
Gwen smiled.
“How do you do that?” Gwen said. “You read my mind.”
The girl laughed back, giddy.
“It’s easy to spot another reader. There’s a distant look to your eyes, as if you’re lost in another world. A telltale sign. You live in a heightened world, more glorious than our own, as do I. It is a world of fantasy. A world of beautiful drama, where everything is possible, where the only limits are our imagination.”
Jasmine sighed.
“Our world, here and now, is so pedestrian,” she added. “Blacksmiths and butchers and hunters and warriors and knights—how dreadfully inane. All they want to do is kill one another, outmatch each other at jousting contests and the like. Dreadful. Redundant, too.”
She sighed, turning down yet another corridor.
“Books, on the other hand,” she continued, “are infinite. Reading a book, if you ask me, is more chivalrous than killing a man. And it offers a much more interesting world to explore. It’s a pity our society values the killers over the scholars. After all, without us readers, how would the armorer know how to forge the armor? The blacksmith to hammer the sword? How would the cobbler know how to mend horseshoes, or the engineer to build a catapult? And how would the King know whom he fought against if he was unable to read, unable to, at the very least, identify the banner on the far side of the battlefield? How would his men know who to kill?
“Knights do not fight in a void,” she continued. “They are more indebted to us readers, to our books, than they’d ever care to admit. I would posit that a warrior needs books to survive, much more so than weapons.”
She hurried down a flight of steps, Gwen right behind her trying to keep up.
“And yet, here we are, treated like third-rate citizens, relegated to our libraries. Thank god I’m a girl. If I were a boy, I’d be wasting my time right now on the battlefield, and missing out on all of this.”
She turned a corner, stopped, and gestured dramatically, and Gwen looked out at a room that took her breath away. Gwen found herself standing in a vast chamber, its ceilings soaring a hundred feet high, shaped in a huge circle, with marble columns stretched out every thirty feet, and steps leading down to a shining marble floor set with dozens of golden tables. On each of these tables lay heaps and heaps of books, of every size and shape, some as big as an entire table. The room was lit by an endless array of candle chandeliers, decorated with crystal.
Gwen stood there, in awe at the sight, while Jasmine bounded happily into it, clearly comfortable here, as if it were her personal living room.
“This is the main reading room,” she explained as she went, Gwen slowly following, taking it all in. “Sometimes I like to hide away in small nooks and crannies when I read—but most of my time I spend reading in here. This place is empty all the time anyway, so it doesn’t really matter where I read. But sometimes, reading in different rooms makes you feel differently about a book, don’t you think?”
Gwen looked out at all the tables, confused.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “If no one uses this room but you, what are all those books on all those different tables? It looks as if an army uses this room every day.”
Jasmine laughed in delight.
“Does it?” she replied. “Sorry. I know I’m messy. I’m not good at putting away my books.”
Gwen stared at her, dumbfounded.
“Are you saying that you alone are reading all these books?” she asked in disbelief, looking out at the hundreds of volumes spread out over a dozen tables, all open, in some state of use.
Jasmine smiled.
“It’s not that many,” she replied, demure. “These are just my favorites. I’ve actually resolved to read far more this year.”
Jasmine bounded from table to table, forgetting Gwendolyn, already preoccupied by the books before her. She practically dove into the room, rushing to the closest table, grabbing a huge book and scanning through the pages. Gwen watched in disbelief as Jasmine flipped through the pages with lightning speed. Gwen had never seen anyone read that fast. Jasmine was humming to herself as she read, lost in the book, as if she forgot Gwen was in the room.
In just moments, she finished it.
She turned to Gwen, a smile on her face.
“One of the less dull histories,” Jasmine said, sighing. “I really delve into histories, but I knew you were coming, and knew you’d want to know, and I wanted to be prepared. I assume, of course, you want to know everything about the history of the Ring, about our shared ancestors. That is human nature after all, isn’t it? Don’t people always want to know about themselves?”
Jasmine looked back with a twinkle in her eye and Gwen smiled, her mind spinning with all of Jasmine’s words, still trying to take it all in. She reached over and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“You are a startling, amazing human being,” was all Gwen, speechless, could say. “If I were to ever have a daughter, I wish she would be just like you.”
For the first time, Jasmine relaxed, beaming with pride, and she hurried over and gave Gwen a quick hug. Then she turned and went back to her books, opening a new one.
Gwen came over, leaned over her, and began to read over her shoulder. This book, oversized and leather-bound, was penned in the ancient language of the Ring, and luckily, it was a language Gwen could understand well, having been drilled into her since birth by Aberthol and others. Gwen felt thrilled to be here, in this still, sacred house of books. She could sit in this library forever, shut out all the woes of the world. There was nothing she would like more.
Yet as she tried to read, Jasmine turned the pages so quickly, it was hard for Gwen to keep up with her.
Jasmine quickly finished it, shut it, reached over, and took out another book.
“I’ll spare you the monotony of it,” Jasmine said. “The essence of that book is that the ancestors of Ridge and the Ring were shared. But you know that already. That book focuses more on the parting of them. Relatively dull stuff.”
“Tell me,” Gwen said, eager to know.
Jasmine shrugged, as if it were all common knowledge.
“At one point, perhaps seven centuries ago, there was a parting of the ways. A mass exodus from the Ridge. Your side of the family left here, crossed the Great Waste, and somehow made or found ships and crossed the sea. Of course there was an Empire pursuit, and many of your people died, either in the Waste, the jungles, or at sea. Many of those who first arrived in the Ring, too, did not survive. Most were killed in what I believe you call ‘The Wilds.’”
Gwen stared back, astounded at the history.
“Yes,” Gwen said. “The land beyond the Canyon, on the outer edge of the Ring.”
Jasmine nodded.
“The main challenge your people faced was building a bridge to span the Canyon. The first bridge was the Western Crossing. Three more were to follow. It took a thousand workers a thousand days to carve the rock. The beasts tried to cross, too, but your people were able to guard the bridge. Other beasts descended the Canyon to climb up the other side—but the theories were they were killed by the creatures who lived down below.”
Gwen listened, riveted, her mind swimming with questions but not wanting to interrupt.
Jasmine sighed.
“Of course, for those who made it,” she continued, “the original Ring was no easy place. It was filled with savage monsters in and of itself, its land was wild, and its Highlands insurmountable. Almost at once, there was a divide between the Western and Eastern provinces, which I believe evolved into the Western and Eastern kingdoms. The East was less fertile, more arid, and its cli
mate more harsh. Savage tribes lived there, whom, I believe, formed the basis of the Eastern Kingdom.
“It was only once your people could secure the Canyon that things changed. And that, in turn, leads back to what mattered most in perhaps all of your history: the history of the Shield. And of the Destiny Sword. Without the Shield, the Ring was just another indefensible place, another island, a place as insecure and hostile as the rest of the world. But it was the first great sorcerers whose magic forged the Shield, that laid the groundwork for your people’s survival.”
Gwen had never been so immersed in a story; she had read histories her entire life, yet never had heard any of this. She wondered what precious volumes they had here in the Ridge that her people lacked in the Ring.
“Tell me more,” Gwendolyn said.
Suddenly, church bells rang out, muted, from somewhere outside the walls, and Jasmine looked up, distracted for the first time. Gwendolyn saw her expression darken, and wondered why.
“I can’t stand their sound,” she said. “They toll incessantly.”
Gwen was confused.
“Why? Who rings them? Are they not church bells?”
Jasmine shook her head.
“I wish,” she replied. “They are the bells of the tower. The bells of the false religion, the cult who hold my brother and sister hostage. Not physically, of course, but intellectually, spiritually—and those bonds are worse than shackles. I love them both dearly, and I would give anything to have them back.”
Jasmine had suddenly switched topics, had forgotten about the history of the Destiny Sword and the Shield, and Gwen realized something about her: her attention span was limited. Her mind worked so fast that she changed topics with an alarming dexterity. She was brilliant, but she was scattered. Gwen still wanted desperately to know more about the Shield and the Destiny Sword—but she would leave it for another time. After all, she had come to her to begin with at the King’s request, to find out more about the tower.
“Tell me about your siblings,” Gwendolyn said, eager to know more.
“What did Mother and Father tell you?” she asked.
“Not much,” she replied.
Jasmine shook her head.
“Of course not. They fear what they do not know and are ashamed of what they do not understand. Like most people. Provincial, wouldn’t you say?”
Gwen looked back, not really understanding.
“My brother,” she continued, “has been brainwashed. He was always zealous in all his passions, and unfortunately, they found the wrong subject. My sister, well…that is more complex. She was born the way she is. She has always been lost to us, in her own way. But now—she is amongst them.”
Gwen struggled to understand.
“She’s catatonic,” Jasmine explained, seeing Gwen’s confused expression. “She stares out the window, doesn’t speak a word. Ever since birth. Our noble people of the Ridge, with their culture of perfection, or warriors and knights and all that nonsense—are ashamed of her. Sickening, really. It is my parents’ greatest shortcoming, if you ask me. Anyone who is not perfect is considered a threat to our society. But I love my sister dearly—I always have. I always found a way to communicate with her. She has her way, too—you just have to be open to hearing her.”
Gwen began to understand, and felt sadness for them all.
“Your father asked me to visit them,” Gwen said. “To try to get them back.”
“A lost cause,” Jasmine sighed. “You cannot travel the canals of the mind.”
“But he also thinks the Tower holds a clue. That it is guarding something—some ancient knowledge, some secret history.”
Jasmine sighed and looked away, and for the first time she fell silent for a very long time, looking off into the distance with glassy eyes, as if debating something monumental.
“That rumor has persisted for centuries,” she said. “Many believe the Light Seekers hide the lost books. These are books I’ve never seen—I have never even seen proof of their existence. I begged my brother many times, and my sister: if they exist, I’d give anything to read them. But they insist that they do not—or at least, they’ve never seen them. And even if they do, even if they are hidden somewhere in the bowels of the tower, who is to say whether they really contain the great remedy for our destiny that all expect them to?”
She sighed.
“This is just another of my father’s dreams,” she continued. “Perhaps it has something to do with his age? His yearning for the return of his children?”
Gwendolyn looked away, feeling disappointed by the entire conversation, trying to absorb it all. Jasmine’s knowledge was dizzying, and Gwen figured it would take months to fully understand everything she was saying. It was the first time she had ever felt this way, so in over her head intellectually, and it was unsettling experience.
Jasmine must have sensed her sadness, because she looked over at her compassionately, and laid a hand on her wrist.
“Enough of the Tower,” she said. “You will go there and see for yourself. But I have seen in your eyes what is really troubling you. Thorgrin and Guwayne, is that right?”
Gwen looked at her, hope in her eyes, wondering how she knew.
“Has Argon not told you anything?” Jasmine asked.
Gwen looked at her, confused.
“Argon?” she echoed. “Tell me what? He is sick. He is unresponsive.”
Jasmine shook her head.
“No longer,” she replied. “Our healers are very fine at what they do. His healing has begun. He is conscious even now.”
Gwendolyn looked back at her, filled with hope, elated.
“How do you know?” she asked, baffled.
Jasmine smiled.
“Everything that happens in this court is carried by raven. I am known to be quite inquisitive.”
Gwen studied her, amazed.
“What is it that Argon knows?” Gwen asked.
“The ancient ones,” Jasmine said, “they hold a great many secrets, from the beginning of time. Also great knowledge, of which they do not speak.”
She looked closely at Gwendolyn.
“Speak to Argon,” she said. “Ask him about Thorgrin. About Guwayne. Ask him what he’s withholding. I am sure it will surprise even you.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Kendrick braced himself as the sharp claws of the tree clinger swooped down for his face with dizzying speed. The creature had leapt from the twisted tree so quickly, lunging down at him before Kendrick even had a chance to respond. Its claws were as long as its body, sharp and razor thin, and the beast, resembling a large sloth, with a hairy body, yellow beady eyes and sharp fangs, was out for blood. Clearly it had trapped many unsuspecting travelers under this tree before.
Kendrick knew that in a moment he would be decapitated, and his final thought, before it reached him, was what a shame it would be to die here, in the middle of nowhere, far from Gwendolyn and everyone he knew and loved.
As Kendrick braced himself there came a sudden clang of metal, and Kendrick saw Brandt, standing beside him, blocking the claws of the creature with his sword. At the same moment Atme stepped forward and plunged his sword straight through the creature’s heart.
It let out an awful shriek and coughed up a yellow substance onto Kendrick as it collapsed down to the desert floor, dead.
Suddenly, the sky became filled with the awful screeches of these things. They sounded like a chorus of monkeys as they dove from the tree, their long claws sweeping through the air, dozens of them descending for the group of men.
Kendrick, grateful to Brandt and Atme for saving his life, broke into action, determined to repay the favor. He watched one of the beasts leap, claws extended, for Brandt’s back, and he shoved Brandt aside, stepped forward, and threw his sword. It hurled end over end through the air before piercing the creature in the chest. It collapsed to the ground right before it reached Brandt, dead.
Kendrick spotted another beast out of the corner of his
eye, coming for Atme, and he spun, drew his other short sword and slashed it midair, chopping off its head before it could sink its fangs into the back of his friend’s neck.
A shriek filled the air and Kendrick wheeled to see one of the Silver cry out as a creature clung to his back and dug its teeth into the back of his shoulder. Kendrick rushed forward and used the hilt of his sort to butt it in its face, knocking it off—then he spun around and slashed another one as it sliced its claws at a Silver’s face.
All around him his men followed his lead, breaking into action. They slashed at the creatures, fighting them one at a time as they all dove down. They felled them, but they also took cuts and bites in the process. The creatures were just too fast to fend off. The battle was bloody; for every creature they killed, one of his men took a dreadful cut. Those who were thickly armored wisely used it to their advantage, raising gauntlets and shields to block the blows.
Kendrick swung around with his gauntlet and smashed a creature before it reached him; he then raised his shield, swung it in a wide arc, and smashed three more in the air. For a moment he felt optimistic—but then he looked up and saw a seemingly endless supply of these creatures still falling from the twisted tree. They had stumbled right into a nest of these things, and clearly, these creatures were not used to letting visitors go without paying a deadly price. He knew something had to be done. His men were taking too many cuts, and at this rate, they would become too weakened to win.
Kendrick thought quickly, and he remembered his long flail in his saddle, the one he reserved for tournaments; it had an extra-long chain, fifteen feet, with three studded metal balls at the end. It was a deadly weapon, one he wielded rarely in battle, as there was a danger it could get tangled. But in a situation like this, it was exactly what he needed.
