by Morgan Rice
“Is that what you do?” Aidan asked, curious, looking the man up and down. “You tell people stories? Are you a bard, then?”
“I don’t just tell stories,” Motley replied. “I create worlds. I ignite the imagination. I inspire. I invite people into a world of fantasy, a world they could not enter on their own. What I do is no less important than what your father does.”
“No less important?” Aidan demanded skeptically. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Without me,” Motley replied, “who would tell the tales? After the warriors have won their battles, who would recount them to the masses? And if no one recounts them, they will not live on. All your father and his men had done will not even be a memory.”
As Aidan pondered his words, Motley took another long swig on his sack and sighed.
“Besides,” he continued, “your father’s wars are mostly mundane. For every dramatic battle worth mentioning there may be a year of trivialities. My stories, though, are never mundane. My stories extract the life from your father’s mostly dull journeys. My stories are not dry histories, are not encyclopedias; they are what matters most in them, what is worth remembering.”
Aidan frowned.
“My father defends kingdoms,” he said. “He has many people under his protection. You tell stories.”
“And I defend kingdoms of my own,” Motley replied, “and I, too, have many people under my protection. It is a different kingdom—one of the mind—and a different sort protection—one of the heart and of the soul—but it is of equal worth. The kingdom of the mind, after all, comes first. It is what enables men to dream, to imagine, to plan, and eventually to conquer the kingdoms of the world. The inspiration they draw, the lessons they learn, the strategies they deduct, are all from my stories. After all, what is life without story, fantasy, the legends we tell each other? Ask yourself, young Aidan: where does story end and life end begin? Can you ever truly extricate the two?”
Aidan furrowed his brow.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
Motley leaned back, took a long swig of his sack, and studied him.
“You’re a wise boy,” he replied. “You do understand. I can speak to you as an adult, and I know you listen. You just need to think on it. To let go of all your preconceptions. And I know you have a lot in there.”
Aidan looked out as the cart rolled and bumped, watching the landscape change again and again as a heavy mist rolled in and out. He wondered. Was there any truth to what this man said? Were there other virtuous paths in life aside from being a warrior?
A long, comfortable silence descended over them, interrupted by nothing but the sound of the carts jostling on the rough country road and the occasional laughter and music of the others.
“When we die,” Motley finally said, breaking the silence Aidan thought would never end, his voice more tired, heavy with drink, his face partially obscured by the mist, “we have nothing left in this world. Not our siblings, not our parents, not all the whores we’ve slept with, and not even the drink in our bellies. All we have left is memory. And our memories often trick us. They become half-truths, distorted truths, part real and part how we wished them to be. Our memories morph over time, like it or not, to fantasy. Fantasy is all we have left. Fantasy will always trump memory. When you look back on life, when you try to grasp whatever it is that you have left, you will not cherish the fading memories, but the fantasies that became so real they are now a part of you. And those fantasies are driven by story.”
Motley leaned forward, impassioned, a sudden intensity in his stare.
“You see, young Aidan, too often our lives are too mundane. Or too complicated. Or too unjust. Or too mysterious. Or too unresolved. Our lives can be messy stuff, with no resolution, sometimes even stopped in the middle. But our stories, our fantasy—well, those are different things altogether. They can be everything our lives cannot. They can be perfect. They are what sustain us.”
He breathed deep.
“More than that,” he continued, “we are not only sustained by our stories. If we live with them long enough, we become our stories. Do you understand? The legends we read, the fantasies we choose—they sink into us. They became a part of our fabric. They come to define us. They become as much a part of us as our real memories—even more significant, because our memories are thrust upon us, while our fantasies we choose. Whenever you hear a great fantasy, such as the ones I tell, it will change you. Forever.”
Motley finally sat back, sighing, taking another swig on his sack.
“So you see, boy,” he concluded, “I don’t just tell stories. I change people’s lives. As much, if not more, than your father. Your father’s swords are temporary; my fantasies shall live long after.”
Motley folded his hands on his chest, closed his eyes, and just like that, to Aidan’s surprise, he was snoring.
Aidan marveled at this man, so unlike anyone he’d ever met, wondering where he had come from. He looked around and he had to admit that he was in awe of all these people, so happy, so carefree. Aidan had never seen such joy in his father’s fort. Were the people of Volis missing something these people were not?
The cart rode on for hours, jolting its way, Aidan holding White beside him, trying to shelter him from the bumps, his wounds still tender. Aidan looked out and watched the passing terrain, trees turning from green to purple to yellow to green again, and just as he wondered if these woods would ever end, suddenly, they gave way to a great open plain before them.
Aidan sat up, feeling a rush of excitement as the vista changed dramatically. The sky opened up as the forest gave way, and the sun shone through in the open plains. He sensed they were close now. The ride was smoother, their horses moved faster, and as Aidan stood in the cart, eager to take it all in, he was stunned at what he saw.
There, on the horizon, emerging from the mist, sat Andros, the capital. It took his breath away. It was the most remarkable place he had seen in his life, stretching across the horizon, as if it filled the world. He looked as hard as he could, but he could not see where it ended. Before it was an enormous temple, soaring in the clouds, and through its center, an open arch, was its massive entry gate, mobs of people hurrying in and out. Aidan studied the parapets, expecting to see the royal yellow and blue banners of Pandesia, the battlements lined with Pandesian soldiers—and yet, as he surveyed the city walls, he was delightfully shocked to see none. Instead, his heart raced to see, the banners of Escalon hung proudly. He blinked, wondering if his eyes were misleading him.
They were not. The capital, he realized with a thrill, was back in his people’s hands. And that could only mean one thing: his father had taken it. He had won.
And that meant something even more important, Aidan realized with a thrill: his father was here, inside.
“Look!” Aidan called out excitedly, kicking Motley’s leg as he stood, staring out at the approaching capital, not believing how anyone could sleep through such a moment. The horses gained speed and Motley finally opened his eyes, startled. He looked around, then sat up and glanced at the approaching capital—but then he just as quickly sat back down, to Aidan’s astonishment. He folded his hands on his chest and closed his eyes again.
“Seen it a million times,” he said, yawning.
Aidan looked from Motley back to the capital in disbelief, his heart soaring with excitement, wondering how anyone could be so indifferent to life, so indifferent to one of the greatest views in Escalon. A series of horns sounded from the carriages, startling Aidan as the musicians blew beside him.
“What are they doing?” he asked Motley.
“Announcing our arrival,” Motley replied curtly, eyes still closed.
The horns sounded a series of short blasts, in an unusual rhythm, unlike anything Aidan had heard before.
“But why?” Aidan asked.
“It’s good for business,” Motley replied. “It lets them know we’re coming. After all, this is the capital, and we’re not th
e only game in town—we’ll have a lot of competition.”
The horns sounded repeatedly as the horses increased their speed, and soon they reached the massive wooden drawbridge. They passed over it, horses clomping, and Aidan felt a thrill as they merged with the throngs. He looked down and recognized a few of his father’s men guarding the drawbridge, at attention, and he laughed aloud at the sight, delighted that his father had really won, that he was really here. Riding over this bridge brought back vague memories of when he was young, living here with his father, when the weak King was still in command. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Yet Aidan also felt overwhelmed as he studied the size and scope of the city, realizing it would be no easy feat to find his father behind its walls. The capital seemed to be as large as a country itself.
There came the sound of cheering and laughing in the streets, as the throngs gathered around their carriage. Aidan kicked Motley again, still sleeping.
“You don’t understand!” Aidan called out. “The capital! It’s free! It’s ours!”
Motley opened his eyes wide and this time he jumped to his feet, seeming surprised. He saw the Escalon banners, saw the festive crowds and, for the first time since Aidan had met him, he looked truly stunned.
“I had not expected this,” he said to himself, taking it all in with wonder.
“We are free!” Aidan called out, elated.
Motley shrugged.
“Free or not, hardly matters,” he replied. “The crowds are festive. That will be good for business.”
“Is that all you care about?” Aidan snapped. “Pandesia has been defeated by my father! That is what matters.”
Motley shrugged.
“Money matters,” he replied. “So I shall thank your father for that. Perhaps I shall tell a tale about him.”
Motley saw the festive crowds rushing the cart, silver coins in hand, and he beamed.
“You see, young Aidan?” he said. “Warriors do not receive half the adulation that we do.”
Aidan, burning with a desire to find his father, could not waste another minute. He leapt over the side of the cart, White joining him, landed hard on the dusty ground, and ran through the gates.
“Aidan!” Motley called out.
But Aidan did not look back. He was already pushing his way through the crowd, into the capital, getting lost in the masses as he was determined, no matter what it took, to be reunited with his father once again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Merk sat on the stone floor in the Tower of Ur before the roaring fireplace, a dozen other warriors beside him, sitting in a loose circle, and as they all stared silently into its flames, he contemplated his life here. It had been a long day on duty, watching, and few of these men had much to say. They chewed on their sticks of dried meat, and Merk chewed, too, realizing how hungry he was from his journey, grateful to be able to stretch his aching legs at last, after so many hours of sitting at that window and watching the countryside.
Merk glanced around at the other men, men who, like him, seemed to have no other place to go in the world, men with hardened faces. They were, like he, lost souls, broken people; yet each, he knew, must have something special in order to have made it through these doors. What had driven them all here?
The distant crashing of the ocean waves filtered in through the windows, while a gust of wind tore through, as it did every so often. That, and the crackling of the fire, provided the only noise while they all sat somberly, each lost in his own world. Merk felt this place was like a monastery, each of these warriors like monks, each resigned to his own personal vow of silence.
Yet Merk wanted to do more than just watch—he wanted to protect. He wondered when his duties would change. Surely, he hoped, he would not be confined to this tower forever? Doomed to sit by a window and watch?
Merk glanced about the room and his eyes paused on Kyle, the mysterious boy with the long, golden hair, who sat apart from the others. There was clearly something different about him. With his surreal, glowing gray eyes, he did not appear to be of their race. But why would a true Watcher be stationed with them?
Merk turned and looked at his new commander, Vicor, who sat at the head of the circle, staring into the flames, and took a long swig on a sack of wine as it was passed around. The sack soon ended up in Merk’s hands and he took a long swig. He was surprised to find the wine spicy and warm, rushing to his head. It felt good.
“Tonight,” Vicor finally said, breaking the heavy silence, “we patrol.”
He scanned the circle of men and his eyes stopped on Merk.
“We shall leave the tower and patrol on foot.”
Merk felt a rush of excitement at the thought.
“What will we be looking for?” Merk asked.
Vicor gave him an impatient look.
“Anything hoping to kill you,” he answered flatly. “We patrol at night, after our days of watching. We take shifts in rotation.”
“Why not patrol during the day?” Merk asked.
As Vicor stared back at Merk, it was clear he did not like being asked questions.
“Because our enemies prefer to attack us at night.”
It suddenly occurred to Merk that all those nights he had sat outside, petitioning to get in, these men must have seen him. And yet, they had let him sit there.
“Why did you not approach me, then?” he asked Vicor.
Vicor shrugged.
“New petitioners come to our doors all the time,” he replied. “It is not our place to decide on their fate. We let the others in the tower decide. Those camped at our doors hold no threat.”
“Then what does?” Merk asked.
“Trolls,” he answered without hesitation. “They invade in small groups from Marda, when they slip past The Flames. Lone attacks.”
Merk was surprised to hear this.
“I thought The Flames kept them out.”
Vicor shook his head.
“Enough of them slip through.”
“And they make it all the way here?” Merk asked
“Enough do.”
After a long silence, Vicor continued.
“From all corners of Escalon, from all corners of the world, they all want the same thing: The Sword of Flames. It is our job to guard it.”
“Is it here, then?” Merk asked even though he knew he shouldn’t, dying to know.
Vicor looked away. Then, after a long pause, he replied: “That is something you will never know. Nor I. It is our job to watch, only. Whether it sits here or in the Tower of Kos matters little, anyway. Our job is just as sacred, either way. This tower holds many secrets, and many treasures—some even more valuable than the Sword.”
Merk’s curiosity was piqued.
“What could possibly be more valuable than the Sword?” he asked.
But Vicor looked to the others, and they all looked away and fell silent. Merk realized he was an outsider; he still needed to earn their trust.
“This tower is not what it seems,” Vicor finally replied. “There are many floors you will never get to see, many secret passageways that lead to places you cannot imagine. Going somewhere in this tower without permission is on pain of death.”
He gave Merk a serious look, and Merk made a mental note not to explore.
“So we watch all day and patrol all night,” Merk said. “Do we ever sleep?”
Vicor smiled halfheartedly.
“In shifts,” he replied. “You get two hours before dawn.”
“Two hours?” Merk repeated, surprised.
Vicor suddenly stood, and all the men stood with him. He looked at Merk and as he did he threw down a sword, a beautiful sword inscribed with the ancient markings of the tower. It landed on the stone, clanging at Merk’s feet.
“You’ll join us tonight,” he said to Merk.
Merk reached down and picked up the sword, holding it up, running his finger along the blade, in awe of its craftsmanship.
“You want to be a Watcher,”
Vicor concluded. “Let’s see if you can earn it.”
Merk followed the group as they walked single file out the door and hurried down the stone spiral staircase, flight after flight. He fell in behind Kyle.
“You carry no weapon,” Merk observed, as they descended flight after flight.
Kyle glanced back.
“It would slow me down,” he replied.
Merk was puzzled, but had little time to process it as they reached the main floor and he saw the others continue down another flight, past the floor with the golden doors. They were soon underground, descending deeper and deeper, Merk baffled as to where they could be going—when suddenly they stopped on a floor, went through a small, arched door, and entered a long tunnel, lit by torches. It twisted and turned, Merk feeling claustrophobic as he was right behind the others, and it finally ended in a small flight of stone stairs. They ascended again, and a small stone door was opened.
Merk was shocked to find himself emerging to the outside, exiting the tower from a secret passageway carved into the stone. He felt the moist, cool ocean air on his face in the night, and it felt odd to be back outside again. The stone doors mysteriously closed behind them and Merk stopped and looked up at the tower. He was in awe at its height.
Merk heard the crashing of the ocean, louder here, and he looked around in the black of night, lit only by their torches, and saw the men begin to spread out. They all headed away from the tower, toward the woods.
“What is our assignment?” Merk asked Kyle, coming up beside him. “What are we looking for?”
Kyle was silent for a long while, moving quickly, never taking his eyes off the woods, until finally he replied.
“An enemy takes many forms,” he answered mysteriously, still looking straight ahead.
Merk walked with the others, and they fell into a groove, hiking into the night. It felt like a silent meditation.
