The Gray Tower Trilogy: Books 1-3

by Alesha Escobar

  Bazyli had Cliff sit at one of the desks toward the front, facing him. He stood across from the young man and motioned toward his half-empty cup of tea. “I’d like to finish my drink, so why don’t you command it to come to my hand through your Words.”

  Cliff stared at Bazyli and then turned his gaze to the right, where the cup sat on the desk in the far corner. He spoke Words, and the cup jerked and nearly teetered off the desk. Cliff drummed his fingers on his table and sighed. “I can do this...I know it.”

  “I have no doubt you can,” Bazyli said. “When you voice Words, let them flow smoothly and take your time. There’s no need to be terse or rough.”

  I held my breath in anticipation as Cliff cleared his throat and tried again. The Words rolled from his tongue fluidly, and the cup flew off the table and nearly crashed at Bazyli’s feet, but the man caught it. Though I couldn’t see Cliff’s face, because his back was turned toward me, I knew he must’ve worn a pleased expression. I whispered a goodbye to them both, and, as I headed down the corridor, I turned my thoughts back toward the next Master Wizard on my list I needed to speak with--the mysterious Jerome, or as I knew him, Ekwueme.

  When a Master Wizard ascended to the Council of The Three, he would choose a new name to signify that his mind, will, and entire identity was meant for the service and prosperity of the Gray Tower. The Three served as advisers to the Head of the Order of Wizards, they made decisions and decrees relating to Tower law, and they approved or rejected candidates for Master Wizard status. In fact, they would be bestowing the honor on a group of wizards tomorrow evening.

  Each of The Three wore a color representing their magic and their duty. Master Edom wore the Red, and he was the Master Enchanter who helped maintain and strengthen the Gray Tower’s physical and magical boundaries. Edom was responsible for imparting us with the knowledge of the Gray Tower’s whereabouts, and he could also rescind this gift from a member who had been expelled. Any outsider coming near the Tower would be deflected by Edom’s protective spells, and the only thing that could ever unravel this protection was an Anomos spell, the most powerful enchantment breaker in existence.

  Ekwueme wore the Yellow, and his color signified intellect and the power of thought. He was the Master Philosopher, and would use his projections and calculations to help forecast and guide world events, and those of the Gray Tower. The third member of the Council, Beata, wore the White and represented purification and energy. She was a Master Nature Wizard, and could feel and read the shifts in magical energy around the world. This was how the Order knew which territories to visit and gain new recruits to the Tower. This also helped when it came to hunting down Black Wolves, because of the particularly negative energy that groups of them would give off.

  I went straight across the lawn to the Council Hall, where The Three had their council rooms. A few Boetheos I had supervised earlier passed me and gave a quick hello as they went back to the kitchens for food and drink, or back to their residences. I walked up the front steps of the Council Hall and entered the arch-shaped building. The walls and dark marble floors inside reminded me of a mausoleum. I bowed when I saw Master Beata. She dressed in the same garnache as the other Master Wizards, except hers was white and she wore a matching long cape. I supposed wearing garnaches--which conjured images of monastery monks--was the preferred uniform for the Medieval Master Wizards, and no one ever bothered to update the attire.

  I couldn’t help but tense a little as we crossed paths, but she seemed to be in a rush and greeted me in a low voice before moving on. I felt uneasy about the fact that I was running out of time. I needed my mask fortified no later than tonight, and I doubted Serafino had done this on his own. I continued on toward the front desk. An Elite sat at the desk at the end of the long hall, and behind him stood a large door shaped like an arch. I was just about to announce myself and ask for Ekwueme, but the Elite spoke first.

  “Isabella?” He pressed a button at the desk, and the large door opened. “Ekwueme is waiting for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  I stepped through, and the door closed behind me. This was my first time visiting Ekwueme’s council room. There were three of them altogether, one for each Master Council Member to work on his projects for the Tower. Edom, the one who wore the Red, stood in the first council room with his door open. He was speaking with the Head of the Order, Kostek Ovidio. I rushed past to get to Ekwueme’s room, and I entered with a sense of uncertainty. I remembered how Veit Heilwig once told my father that he helped us because they were friends--but why did Ekwueme want to help? Or Serafino? What did they hope to gain?

  “Welcome, Isabella.” Ekwueme gazed at a large mechanical globe suspended by an iron rod in the middle of the room. It slowly rotated and even responded to Ekwueme’s promptings. An Elite Philosopher with dark red hair and unusual amber eyes stood next to the globe with a clipboard and pen, jotting down Ekwueme’s prognostications.

  “Good afternoon, Master Ekwueme.” I bowed.

  Ekwueme turned and regarded me with warm eyes as he swept his golden yellow cape aside. He wore a dark gray garnache with black pants and long-sleeved shirt underneath. His swarthy face looked aged, though he had no wrinkles, and he was as tall as Brande. “The sporadic battles in the Pacific will continue,” Ekwueme said, as the mechanical bronze globe rotated to display the Pacific Ocean. A throbbing red color beamed in the area to indicate conflict or war. “Japan continues to play this cat and mouse game, and if the United States continues to hold back, there is a ninety-eight percent chance of a strike from Japan by the end of this year.”

  The Elite quickly wrote down the information. “Have you calculated the likely target, Master?”

  Ekwueme gestured for me to stand near him and get a closer look at the globe. “Pearl Harbor.”

  The Elite copied down the answer. “Should we inform the U.S. ambassador?”

  Ekwueme gazed at me. “Yes.”

  I thought about Hotaru and how he murdered Ken, Henry Smith, and those other men. The U.S. would not be in the mood to hear anything from the Gray Tower at this moment, even if the Tower claimed it was trying to help.

  I opened my mouth to speak. “Master--”

  “I know what you’re going to ask,” he said. “I’ll answer you.”

  Was it possible to be impressed and scared at the same time? “All right, then.”

  Ekwueme motioned for me to walk with him and circle the globe. The Elite ignored us and waited only for the Master Wizard’s projections for world events.

  “Philosophers can project events and people’s actions based on logic, knowledge of human nature, and mathematical calculations. Strong Philosophers can project ahead a few hours, and the best can calculate the coming days.”

  “And you, Master?” I watched the globe rotate again, and Ekwueme signaled to the Elite to let him know that he was dismissed.

  When the other wizard left, Ekwueme said, “Your father can project by weeks, and I am the only person alive who can do so by months.”

  But it didn’t mean Philosophers were perfect in their calculations, and their minds grew old and tired like everyone else’s, sometimes more so. Sixteen years ago, he decided to aid my father in shielding me when I was just a child. He did this knowing it was treason to the Tower. Why?

  “Why are you hel--”

  “Bring that black book sitting on the table over there.”

  I followed his instruction and brought the book over. I opened it to the page he indicated. “What is this?”

  “Your father brought that to me on January 10, 1925. He had discovered it in France.”

  The aged and worn page had an image of a gray tower filled with fire, the very top burning like a bright torch. At the bottom of the page, a familiar signature had been written: Michel de Nostradame, or Nostradamus.

  The room suddenly chilled, and I recalled my ominous dream. “The Broken Tower. You believe this will happen?”

  “Believe?” He flipped the pages
forward. “I work with numbers, facts, patterns and probabilities.”

  “Believed...calculated...whatever. My father took it seriously, and he brought it to you because he thought you would too.”

  He walked over to the door and opened it. He called the Elite back in. “Elias, please share with Miss George last week’s projection for the Gray Tower.”

  Elias glanced down with his amber eyes and consulted one of the pages on his clipboard. “Nothing, Master.”

  The globe began rotating, and Ekwueme gestured toward Elias. “Three days ago, my projection for the Gray Tower.”

  “Nothing, Master.”

  “And...today’s projections.”

  “Master, there are none.”

  “This has happened to me only one other time...in June of 1915.” Ekwueme turned to watch the globe. “Elias, go to the Grand Hall and inform the U.S. ambassador that I wish to meet with him today. If he refuses, tell him that I’m aware of the atomic bomb project, and I have information that will be of use to him.”

  Elias bowed and left the room again. I watched Ekwueme give an anxious expression--June 1915--the month and year of my birth. I spoke up. “You’re afraid. Something horrible is coming, but you don’t know what it is. I’m supposed to help, right? I have to fix it.”

  He stared into my eyes. “I could have ordered your father’s death that day. I knew exactly what he was asking of me. However, he made a compelling case as to why a little girl who burned with the Fire of Time should be allowed to live. Each of us involved in concealing you has had a hand in guiding you, and in molding you. You will be the only Drifter we allow to live. You are most likely the key to nullifying the prophecy of the Broken Tower, and succeeding where the other Drifters have failed.”

  I felt a lump in my throat, and anger arose in me. Once again, the Philosophers have reduced me to a calculation...a probability. “There’s going to be a war here at the Tower, and it’s your fault. I’ve seen it, in a vision.”

  He began circling the globe. “Explain.”

  “If the Masters hadn’t indoctrinated people like Neal Warren, Hotaru Kimura, and all the others into thinking they’re saving the world by killing the Drifter, then members of the Order wouldn’t choose sides and fight one another. We’re going to destroy ourselves, and then who’s going to be here to stand against Octavian, his Cruenti warlocks, and Black Wolves?”

  He shook his head. “You are incorrect. I’ve never made a projection that suggests a civil war would occur here. You should reassess your vision.”

  “How do you know? I thought you couldn’t project anything recently--for the Gray Tower, anyway.”

  “There is an old saying back home in Nigeria. A chuo aja ma a hughi udele, a mara na ihe mere be ndimmuo. If the vulture fails to hover at the end of a sacrifice, then you know that something happened in the land of spirits.”

  “What does that mean?”

  A firm knock at the door interrupted us. Kostek Ovidio, the Head of the Order, stepped in. His pure white hair fell to his shoulders, and coupled with his pale skin, it emphasized the severity of his all-black uniform. He greeted Ekwueme and then addressed me. “Come, walk with me.”

  A neutral expression fell over my face, though my shoulders tightened and the back of my neck burned. Ekwueme faced the globe once more, and it resumed its rotation.

  “Master Ovidio, was there something you needed from me?” I followed him down the hall, into a small, private library. Most of the books were locked away in long glass cases that were protected by an enchantment.

  “Isabella, I understand that you’ve been informed of...matters regarding your father.” He gazed at me, and I knew he had detected my odd magical aura.

  My throat felt dry. “Yes, and you probably know how I feel about it.”

  His deep brown eyes observed me. “I...wish to show you something.”

  “Ekwueme already showed me his projections.”

  “These are not projections.” He pulled out a key and unlocked the nearest case. He grabbed a dark red book with its title in gold engraving.

  I took the book from him and handled it carefully. I skimmed its pages. “This is two hundred years old.”

  “There are twenty more books like this one, some even older, which describe what I’m about to tell you.”

  I closed the book and set it aside. “Master, I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  “Some people who disagree with us about the Drifter say we are envious of his gifts, or we are cowards, or that we simply would never allow anyone to rival our power or position in the world. These are all false accusations.”

  “Then why?”

  They didn’t even want to judge Drifters on a case-by-case basis. I had risked my life many times fighting warlocks and Black Wolves, and sabotaging the Nazis. Why would someone like me be such a threat?

  “Are you aware of the First Drifter, Besart Frasheri? His history is in that book you hold.”

  I nodded. “Yes, but I don’t believe all Drifters should have to carry his guilt.”

  “Would you take that chance?”

  “Why not?”

  “Beata, who wears the White, has the unique ability to sense the rifts that Drifters create. A few days ago she felt a demon, or shadow being, enter our world. The Drifter has done this. Your father is growing in his powers, and now he willingly brings monsters to our doorstep.”

  I wanted to groan. Beata must’ve felt the shadow figure that showed up in Spain. It wasn’t my father’s fault, but mine. I thought maybe the dark being had just gone away, but who knew what it was up to right now? I thought about my brother and when he told me I shouldn’t move forward until I understood more about Zaman in my desperation to quickly control my powers, I refused to listen. I didn’t even want to look into whether or not Dr. Grey was correct about a missing page from the texts. I did all those meditations, and even used my powers to escape that laboratory, and now frightening shadow figures have stepped into the world. If anything ever happened to the exorcist, Father Maolán Martin, I’d also have an angry demon attempting to possess me, body and soul, and use me as his tool.

  I felt like a monster. Even if I weren’t one, I’d be made into one.

  I bit my lip and decided not to argue any further against him. Could I even justify myself? I had already made one of the mistakes they feared the Drifter would make, even if it was unintentional. “If you want me to leave the Tower--”

  “I don’t want you to leave, but you ought to understand what kind of abomination you’re protecting when you aid your father. Yes, I have heard of some of your exploits on your father’s behalf. The only reason I have not thrown you into the dungeon is because Ekwueme asked for leniency.”

  I felt like withering like a dried up flower and sinking into the ground. This was how he would feel about me as the Drifter. Ovidio opened his mouth to speak, but then turned his gaze toward Master Bazyli, who had ambled his way into the little library. I didn’t even realize I had started trembling, and Ovidio gazed at me with a stern expression, as if telling me that I would find no compassion or pity with him.

  “Bazyli,” he said, acknowledging the elderly wizard, “what do you say to Ms. George, who believes her father will not cause the world trouble?”

  The old man slightly bowed. “The last time I answered that question, you placed me into early retirement.”

  Ovidio’s jaw tightened. “I have an appointment to keep with The Three, Bazyli, but there is something we must discuss later. Isabella, you may not leave the Gray Tower without my permission. If you so much as walk by the Main Gate, I’ll see to your punishment myself--and even Ekwueme will not be able to save you.”

  “Yes, Master.” I bowed so that he wouldn’t see the wounded look in my eyes.

  “And I want you to go to the Master Physician for a cleansing. Now.” Ovidio turned and headed for the door.

  Bazyli stepped aside to let Ovidio pass, and then sighed in my direction. “The Master Alche
mist asked me to take you down to the garden. I figured we’d gather ingredients for a new batch of rose pills since two Boetheos found the Sherry in the kitchens and drank themselves sick.”

  I buried my anger and hurt, and responded, “Shouldn’t they have been sent to the infirmary?”

  Bazyli coughed--or chuckled, I couldn’t tell. “They’ll wait for the rose pills, and God willing, by then they’ll have learned their lesson.”

  We left the private library and exited the Council Hall. We cut across the lawn and stepped onto the pathway that led to the garden. We passed a few ambassadors and they noted our uniforms, and greeted us according to our rank. I walked next to Bazyli, matching my pace with his and dying to ask him what he knew about my father. However, every time it even looked as if I’d open my mouth, he began grumbling and shaking his head.

  At his instruction, I picked up one of the wicker baskets sitting on a stand and began cutting roses by the stems. Once again, I decided to broach the subject of my father in a roundabout way. “Master Bazyli, don’t you think it’s kind of ironic?”

  He glared at me, his face darkening with the oncoming sunset. “What’s ironic?”

  I dropped another rose into the basket; the flower smelled sweeter to me than perfume. “That we’re going to make a potion handed down to us from a Drifter.”

  “Hmph. Doesn’t mean Nostradamus wasn’t good at potions.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re that old,” I quipped.

  “I see you have your father’s charm.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed my lips. “Isn’t there anything that could be done?”

  He squinted his eyes as the sky grew dark orange and daylight faded. “If I were you...I’d be careful about who I chose to speak with about this matter.”

  “Sorry, Master Bazyli.”

  He waved his hand. “I need to get to the old Tower to keep watch. Take the roses to the apothecary and follow the instructions from the potions book. And don’t deviate from the rose pill formula.”

  “Of course.”

  I watched him leave, and I wondered what he had said in defense of my father all those years ago. It gave me hope that he could be an ally, but then I could also tell that he was bitter--Bazyli, the Philosopher, thrown into the old Tower and made to babysit Boetheos. I had put a few more roses into my basket when I heard the padding of footsteps come in my direction. It was almost dark, but I could still make out the face of the man approaching.