The White Tower (The Aldoran Chronicles: Book 1)

by Michael Wisehart

  Noreen climbed the steps one final time to make a full introduction for their special guest musician. She gestured toward a table near the front center. “And now we welcome Lady Lyessa as she has graciously offered the use of her harp to tickle your ears and your hearts this evening. Please give her a warm round of applause.”

  The audience clapped with excitement as Aiden helped Lyessa to the stage, careful not to damage her instrument under his arm. Ty found himself wishing Aiden would trip and land on the stupid thing.

  Lyessa took her seat and Aiden lowered the harp to her lap, then returned to his table where Lord Barl sat waiting with a proud grin.

  From the moment her fingers touched the strings, the audience was hers. Each note demanded praise. The music radiated through the East Inn like dawn’s light greeting a new day—warm and filled with promise. Ty couldn’t help but gaze at the intricate way her fingers seemed to float up and down the strings, producing rhythms so enchanting they gripped his very soul. At that moment, he hated her and loved her all at the same time.

  Time itself seemed to slip into darkness as his burdens and fears dissolved like new fallen snow across the embers of a dying fire. As the final notes faded into the ether, the people rebounded from their seats with an ovation worthy of the High King himself. It was honestly earned in Ty’s humble opinion, but depressing nonetheless.

  Still under the trance of her music, he found himself wishing—no—pleading—for more. He was pulled from his daze by the sound of his name being called. Looking at the stage, Ty was once again faced with the reality of what was about to happen as Lyessa with her arm outstretched in his direction gave her introduction. “. . . and he has promised to make this night one we will never forget. Give him a big hand.”

  The smug look on Lyessa’s face as she left the stage made Ty all the angrier.

  The crowd erupted with applause. Ty glanced around the table at the half-hearted smiles drooping from his family’s faces. His mother even gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. What could he do? He didn’t dare back down now. With no intention of hurrying his embarrassment along any sooner than was necessary, Ty stood from his seat and slowly began his arduous trek up the small flight of stairs toward the stage.

  He still had no idea what song he was going to play. He tried rubbing his sweaty palms down the legs of his trousers. It didn’t help. He lifted the set of wooden pipes his father had made for him from his outer pocket and then turned to face the crowd. He tried swallowing but there wasn’t enough spittle in his mouth to accomplish the task.

  A cough from somewhere in the crowd signaled the audience’s growing impatience.

  Ty tried to smile but his lips didn’t want to part. They were frozen in place, much like the rest of his body. As stiff as the back side of Crystal Lake at the height of winter solstice, three-foot-deep and covered in snow. He had never experienced true panic before, and now that he had he hoped never to again.

  A couple more coughs and a few murmurs broke the stillness as people went from a comfortable silence while anxiously awaiting the musician’s first notes, to something not-so-comfortable.

  This wasn’t what Ty had expected. His glorious victory was falling to pieces all around him. He was going to be the laughingstock of the entire town—for the rest of his life! Every time he’d pass someone on the street, they would say, “Look, there goes the kid who froze.” He would no doubt spend the rest of his existence in utter humiliation. Worse yet, Lyessa would hold this over him—forever!

  At that thought, an unexpected jolt of desperation drove the joints in his arms to lift the eight-stemmed flute to his dry lips. He had no idea what he was going to play, no idea where to begin, and no idea why he had ever volunteered to do this in the first place. He took one final glance around the room. Why couldn’t I have been born a powerful wizard? I could just wave my hands and wiggle my fingers and make everyone forget I was even here.

  Not able to postpone any longer without taking the risk of some drunken sot throwing a piece of ripe fruit at him, Ty closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and blew across the open ends. He had been playing his pipes for years. His family all said he had a natural gift. No one had ever needed to teach him. The music was always there.

  The notes were soft at first, dark and somber with a hint of nervous hesitation—simulating his present mood. However, from somewhere deep within, he could feel a stirring, like a wild animal desperate to be free of a poacher’s cage. It started as a warm tingling sensation and, much like throwing kindling on a pile of glowing embers, a flame ignited.

  Struggling to hold at bay whatever it was that was fighting to break free, Ty’s music shifted to that of the forest. It was only natural, for it was always the forest which brought him a sense of calm, a respite of peace. It was the great canopy he would turn to when life would deal him a hard blow and he needed someplace to be alone to ponder the unexplained mysteries of his existence, or to simply cry out at some unforeseen frustration.

  The music quickly took on a life of its own.

  The rising fire within him found a release through the notes. He had never felt anything like it before, and it scared him. Without warning, the pain was back, searing deep into his right shoulder. But unlike his experience earlier that day, he wasn’t about to let it quench his momentum. So he pushed through the burning.

  The melody was unfamiliar, but with each note he could see the swaying of the trees, the leaves dancing to the beat of the wind, the animals as they scurried about searching for the day’s food, birds snuggled in their nests singing in another day. It was mesmerizing.

  Realizing he hadn’t heard a single peep from his audience, he peeked through his lids to see if the faces held any sign of enjoyment. Instead, what he saw brought him to sheer panic as his lips nearly slid off the wooden tips.

  The East Inn was gone.

  Or at least the building was. The people were all still seated in their chairs, or standing in the corners, or leaning against where the walls used to be. However, instead of a hazy, crowd-pressed room, they were surrounded by a quiet autumn glen. One Ty recognized. It was the hideaway spot he would sometimes frequent in the Sidaran Forest behind his house. The place he would escape to when he wanted to be alone to test his limited use of magic.

  He couldn’t believe his own eyes. Fear alone kept him playing.

  Strangely enough, no one seemed to be screaming in terror. There were no women fainting in the aisles, no children clinging to their momma’s skirts, no men reaching for their swords or hollering for the torches and rope to be brought out. Could they not see what was happening? Why was everyone just sitting there? It was as though the entire assembly was in a trance.

  Afraid of breaking the moment, he played on. Ty couldn’t help but wonder, though, if what he was seeing was real or just an elaborate illusion. Beads of sweat broke out across his forehead. His throat was parched and his lips chapped. It felt as though he had been playing for hours. He poured all his concentration into the music as his mouth flew up and down the ends of the pipe. The notes came forth like colors on a canvas, each one blending with the next to form a mosaic in time. Nothing like this had ever happened before. He couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he was the one in a trance.

  The music continued to flow out of some unseen place inside him. It was a once-in-a-lifetime masterpiece, a masterpiece that was sure to cost him his life. For as soon as he stopped playing, the townsfolk would no doubt recognize what had happened and, without even waiting for the Black Watch, would most certainly hang him from the nearest tree. Probably kill his whole family for good measure.

  Unexpectedly, the visage around them changed. The sky grew dark. The leaves which were once lush and green withered and fell from the trees. The birds no longer sang their happy tune, and a deadly hush fell over the small glen. His own emotions were visibly directing the music.

  Dread took over. He could feel himself tiring. Reaching deep inside, he plundered what little energy he had
left to keep going. If only there was a way to bring everyone back?

  As if in answer to his plea, one by one the trees vanished and the small glen folded in on itself. In the blink of an eye, the dark-stained walls of the East Inn snapped back into place. Ty didn’t know if he needed to be impressed, relieved, or terrified—perhaps a little of each. Glancing around the room, everything appeared to be as it was before.

  Time, he realized, had just run out. His breath was about to give way.

  Ty poured everything he had left into the final notes of his song and then released the pipes from his mouth. His arms dropped like stone weights to his sides. “Please, don’t let them remember,” he prayed, reciting it over and over again as if his desperation would convince the Creator to be lenient. He continued mumbling the prayer under his breath like a chant to ward off evil sprites and dark faeries.

  Giving up all hope, Ty closed his eyes, bowed his head, and waited for the inevitable.

  He waited, but nothing happened. He waited longer—still nothing. No stampeding for the doors, no demands for his head, no sour fruits and vegetables smacking him upside his face. There was simply silence, which at the time seemed even more disturbing.

  Before he had a chance to open his eyes, a roar of applause grew as it thundered across the tables, benches, chairs, and stools. It shook the platform he was standing on. Opening his eyes, he gazed across the smoke-filled room. There wasn’t an occupied seat in the house. Everyone was on their feet clapping, shouting, banging their mugs to the tops of the tables, waving handkerchiefs and ribbons in the air, whistling, and stomping their boots on the hard wooden floors. He didn’t know what to do, so he bowed. A bit clumsily, but not enough to cause embarrassment.

  The crowd cheered all the harder.

  He donned his best smile.

  They cheered some more, so he waved his hand.

  He couldn’t believe it, they loved him. Had the Creator answered his request? Was the audience completely oblivious to what had just happened? Even Lyessa was applauding with surprising vigor. And to think he had almost talked himself out of playing tonight. He continued waving to the crowd as he descended the platform.

  It was like a dream. Maybe it was a dream. He had just performed some kind of unbelievable magic and no one had been the wiser. Apart from the terror of having used magic in the middle of Performance Night with the Overlord of Sidara sitting not two tables away, Ty felt quite exhilarated. He still couldn’t figure out why no one else seemed to realize what had just happened.

  Stepping down from the stage, Ty wanted nothing more than to rush home and try out this new found ability. But, common sense catching up, he knew that would never become reality. Not with the White Tower guards let loose on Easthaven.

  That realization brought with it a few more unpleasant thoughts. What if he couldn’t control what was happening to him? What if the next time he wasn’t so lucky? Considering what he had just done, Ty didn’t know how much longer he could hide who he was from his family, or even if he should.

  Chapter 11 | Ayrion

  HUSHED WHISPERS COULD be heard across the inner courtyard of the royal palace in Aramoor, the capital city of Elondria.

  Standing in the center of a circular patch of coarse dirt, Ayrion waited, clothed in layers of black that molded to his body like a glove to a hand. His three-button leather coat flapped loosely in the breeze as it hung halfway down his legs. Its folds covered his suede tunic and leather trousers. His dark hair rustled across the tops of his shoulders. Ayrion had opted to let it hang loose as opposed to tying it back as he would during training. It covered the sides of his face, hiding all but his neatly trimmed jawline goatee.

  In each of his gloved hands he held a single-edged sword. The steel was as black as midnight with a unique design that eventually widened outward before cutting back to an angled point near the tip. He could see the reflection of everything around him in their sheen. From the cross-guard to the pommel, the swords’ grip had been fashioned in the shape of a dragon in midflight. Ayrion had never seen their like before, nor figured he would again. The twin blades were Ayrion’s signature mark.

  As he waited for his challengers to step forth, he slowly scanned the outer courtyard. The stone squad was surrounded by Elondrian lancers, decked in their formal uniforms of deep crimson and gold. They were all waiting to catch a glimpse of the man in black, known by all as the Guardian Protector. Ayrion was the youngest commander in the history of the king’s elite fighting force—the High Guard.

  In their black uniforms, bearing the crest of a silver falcon, the High Guard’s sworn duty was not to the protection of Elondria, as were the lancers, but solely to the protection of the High King.

  Above the courtyard was a raised terrace that extended out from the second floor of the palace, overshadowing the uniformed officers beneath. On its veranda a crowd was gathering with bated breath. Men, counting themselves as lordly, pranced around in their fine suits and puffed lace as the women, arrayed in a medley of rich color, endeavored to draw the attention of their male counterparts in hopes of ensnaring a reasonable match.

  From where he stood, Ayrion had a clear view of the center balcony. As always, the central gallery was reserved for members of the royal family and their guests. Rhydan, the High King of Aldor and its five kingdoms, sat head and shoulders above the rest, his gaze proudly taking in the scene below.

  Ayrion held his king in high regard, not only because of Rhydan’s thirty-five years of rule, in which time he had garnered the respect of not only Elondria but every other kingdom under the purview of the High Throne, but because he was known to be a man of just values and fair council. Most importantly, he was much like the father Ayrion had been forced to grow up without.

  On the king’s left sat the real intelligence behind his rule—his wife, Queen Ellise. Her hair was streaked with silver, but that did nothing to detract from the remarkable strength that could be seen in her sharp emerald eyes. The king rarely made a decision without first seeking her council. Her wisdom and compassion had been the guiding factors behind every move the king had made, and Elondria was the better for it.

  Dakaran, their son and only living heir, sat rather stiffly on his father’s other side, his face fixed with a scowl. Ayrion couldn’t remember the last time he had actually seen Dakaran smile, except of course when trying to gain victory over his latest short-lived conquest, or when placating some member of the ruling aristocracy. His romantic endeavors never lasted more than a couple of weeks, which Ayrion always found rather odd, what with Dakaran’s long brunette hair and handsome face, not to mention his lofty position as crown prince.

  Most likely it was Dakaran’s ruthless mannerisms which tended to drive away all respectable women. There were, however, plenty of ambitious contenders with eyes for nothing more than the prince’s wealth and position. They, on the other hand, would be more than happy to overlook his shortcomings on the off chance they might one day be chosen for his bride.

  Behind Dakaran stood Valtor, the prince’s advisor and Arch Chancellor to the White Tower. He wore the crimson robes and mitre of his office with the insignia of a single blade piercing a rising sun. His long black hair cupped the sides of his gaunt face, giving his rimmed eyes a sunken appearance.

  To the far side of the royal balcony sat the king’s honored guests, including ambassadors from each of the other four kingdoms. They rested comfortably on benches canopied by silk sheets while children scurried around the railing in front of them to gain a better view. Ayrion had a feeling that his present circumstances were due more to the ambassadors’ attendance than anything else.

  The king held the highest seat of power, but only so far as the Provincial Authority would allow. Since the time of Torrin, no king was allowed complete authority over the entirety of Aldor. During his reign, Torrin had divided the land into five kingdoms, each with its own ruling body. He wanted to make sure that Aldor never fell under tyrannical rule. A single overlord from each o
f the four kingdoms: Sidara, Keldor, Briston, and Cylmar, with the High King over the fifth and largest kingdom of Elondria, formed what was known as the Provincial Authority.

  The king could pronounce edicts and pass laws but they were subject to rejection upon a unanimous vote by the four overlords. The only kingdom the king had complete control over was Elondria.

  Ayrion scanned the waiting crowd above. It wasn’t the pomp and grandeur of those seated above that drew his attention, though. His eyes were searching for someone else. He scanned the long line of nobility until finally coming to rest on a small group of young ladies off to the side, known to be the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. They held none of the outward show the other women at court so eagerly flaunted, but their dress could hardly be considered slovenly either.

  Ayrion smiled when he saw her. Amarysia.

  She was looking directly at him. Her rich honey-golden hair was waving in the afternoon breeze. Somehow, the thought of her watching him with those deep blue eyes kept Ayrion more off guard than the armed men he was about to face.

  She smiled.

  He pulled his gaze away before it became any more awkward.

  Behind him he could hear the crowd parting with eager anticipation as five rather large men, wearing the Elondrian crimson and gold overtop of their leather body armor and chainmail, stepped out from the assembly and into the circular ring. Each man held a double-edged broadsword at least four feet from point to pommel.

  Ayrion had a gift with weapons. His family was part of the Upaka, which, ironically enough, in the old tongue meant protector. A term one could hardly relate to his people. Whatever they were before, they were now a tribe of warriors who sold their services to the highest bidder. Mercenaries would be a more legitimate term. They preferred to remain separated from the influences and governments of the world, free to roam without limitation. This—they believed—was their birthright.