Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (10 page)

“His skill and knowledge are years ahead of his age”, his father wrote. “I wish I could take all the credit, but truth be told the lad’s a natural. He will surpass me, I’m sure of it, and I could not be prouder.”

A tear ran down Michael’s face. A’lan had not been a man of many words, but his writing more than made up for it. Michael’s fingers trembled as he turned the page to the last entry. He was both excited and sad. To finish the journal would be to say goodbye all over again, but he would be saying goodbye to someone he knew better than when he had started.

The entry talked of General Baldwin hiring them to build a new table for the garrison’s grand hall and the trip planned into the Beral Forest for just the right wood. His father weighed the advantages and disadvantages of many types, considered the purpose of the table and for whom he was making it and decided hands down it had to have a Birdseye maple top. “Nothing but the finest for a friend, even if I did quote him for cherry,” he wrote. He threw in a few more praises for Michael’s abilities and then ended the entry with: “You are my son, nothing will ever change that.”

Michael sat up staring at the last sentence. Had his father known that he would someday read his journal or was he simply writing what was on his heart? Still the passage seemed directed at him and why did he say nothing would ever change that. Max’s words rang in his mind, “You’re the son of a king.” The life he had hoped to live may be slipping away, but the journal was a piece of it he could hold on to. He leafed through the remaining pages of the journal hoping to find something else left by his father. He is my father, no matter who sired me. The last two pages were stuck together. Gently pulling them apart he found one last message:

There is much for you to know. Remember your favorite hiding place where you had such a scare. What you found when you were twelve, find now. The narrow light will show you the way. Trust Max completely.

His father knew this day would come. Michael was certain of it. He also knew Michael would read his journal. Or perhaps it was only a precaution in case he was not alive when the day came. “What you found when you were twelve.” He was twelve when he got his bottom tanned for reading his father’s journal. There must be others, but he had searched the house corner to corner and found none. So where were they? To find more of his father’s writings would be like finding a treasure trove, but why hide them? What was in them? He had to go back to his house. He was not leaving until he did.

C
HAPTER
7

Leaving Home

Max stood in the darkness of the doorway, eyes darting back and forth, scanning the courtyard. The only movement he saw was the midnight watchmen on the rampart surrounding the garrison. Perhaps he was being too cautious—he was in one of the greatest fortresses in Timmaron—but if nightstalkers could be released on the world what other creatures of the dark one might be free?

He pulled his cloak close as he stepped out into the courtyard. It would be another two hours before the sun rose to push away the night’s chill. Falon trailed close behind as they walked across the yard to the stables. Jensen Baldwin had given them two mares as a parting gift. Max suspected the General did so in part for saving Garen’s life so many years ago. Max never felt like Baldwin owed him anything, but he understood all too well that sense of being indebted to someone.

Two guards stood watch at the town gate with two more on the flat roof of the gatehouse thirty feet above. One of the two guards on the roof, Benjamin, adjusted his cloak to keep out the chill. The oldest son of an innkeeper, but barely past being a lad, he had a knack for needing a healer. A quite likable fellow, everyone called him Benny, and very out of place in a soldier’s uniform. If a mishap could befall a person, it would happen to Benny. For all his clumsiness, he made up for it in determination. He had a heart of gold. Max had no doubt Benny would shine one day saving the life of a comrade. He only hoped the young man survived the deed to enjoy his moment of glory.

“Morning to you gentlemen,” Max said, much more chipper than he felt.

“Morning? It’s still night as far as I’m concerned,” growled Dirk, one of the Lancaster boys.

The stout captain shot Dirk a stern look. “It is rather early, Master Thorn, even for you,” he said stepping in front of the gate.

“Sickness does not care about time, Captain Laramon.”

“Yes, well, perhaps it can wait a couple of hours till daybreak?”

“I’m afraid not. This young lady came a great distance to ask for my help, and I cannot delay any longer. I would have been gone sooner, but the soldiers who arrived yesterday needed me.”

The captain grimaced; only Belfor still breathed. He glanced at Falon and back at Max. “We do thank you, Master Thorn. If only they had reached here sooner, perhaps...”

“Time is everything to the sick, Captain.” Falon nudged him. “Speaking of time, we really must be off.”

“The night is no time to start a travel, Master Thorn. There may still be more rabid wolves about.”

“I thank you for your concern and, fortunately, we will not be leaving town till daybreak; however, I must gather supplies from my house and make preparations.”

The captain gave him a weighing look then stepped aside with a salute. “The Creator be with you and keep you, Master Thorn.”

“The Creator be with you and keep you, Captain Laramon.”

He looked up to the gatehouse roof. “Young Benjamin, please take care of yourself. I won’t be gone more than a month, but I fear much can happen for some in a month.”

The other three soldiers chuckled. A month, bah! He would probably never return, but a story was needed for why he was leaving and who better to spread it than soldiers.

“We will take extra good care of him, Master Thorn,” Jason said, slapping Benjamin on the back.

“The Creator favors you, young Benjamin,” Max said as he walked through the gate, “even if it is in a peculiar way.”

The guards broke out into full laughter. Max looked back over his shoulder. Benjamin was smiling at him. He returned it in kind and wondered when he would hear laughter again.

***

The sun broke the horizon, its golden rays chasing away the pre-dawn gray, as Michael stepped out of the garrison.

The Sword was strapped to his back, but no one could see it. “A spell of illusion” Max had called it. Garen could see it, but only because he knew it was there. Max said a spell of illusion could only work on those who did not know the truth, and as long as he did not draw the Sword or alert someone to its presence then no one would be the wiser. Michael was not so sure. Then again, someone would have commented about him joining the army if they saw him carrying a sword. And carrying this sword openly would get him in a lot of trouble.

He took a long look at the town lying before him, wondering if he would ever see it again. Several people had placed orders with him recently. Ivan needed a new chair, and the Jenkins family needed a larger table not to mention the many repair jobs he had intended to get to in the next few days. He hoped they would understand. Bertram was a decent carpenter, but he lacked a certain expressiveness.

“You going to stand there till Feastday?” Garen said, reining in his dappled grey horse next to Michael.

Michael shot his friend a sidelong glance then nicked his brown roan to a walk. “Come on, I need to get home.”

The events of the past night played vividly in his mind when the cabin came into view. Stepping on the porch, he grimaced at the pile of black dust in his doorway. Three arrows lay in that pile of blackness, shafts blackened where broadheads should be, and part of his axe blade had eroded away.

The stout oak front door lay cracked and splintered on the floor. The top hinge had been ripped out of the doorjamb. Bent and twisted, the bottom hinge managed to remain attached to the door frame by a single nail.

Garen whistled when he viewed the wreckage in the front room. Michael proceeded to the bedroom to get his larger backpack. Stuffing clothes into it, he began thinking of where his father may have hidden the rest of his journals. Based on the number of entries in the one he had, he thought there were perhaps three more. He looked through his wardrobe, raping on the back for hollow spots, but it was solid. His search of the desk proved no better.

“What’re you looking for?” Garen asked as Michael started inspecting the bookshelf.

“My father’s journals,” Michael replied, pulling out books and thumbing through them quickly before dropping them to the floor.

“You have it.”

“I have the last one.” Michael tossed another book aside. “I think he left more.”

“Oh.” Garen looked around nervously. It was daytime, but he half expected something else to spring through the door. “Do we really have to find them now?”

Michael paused to give him a sardonic glance. Garen held up his hands in defense and began looking around the room for more books. “So how come you didn’t know about them before?”

“Dad hid them.” Michael finished thumbing through the last book.

“Why?” Garen asked, looking in the cupboard.

“Somehow, he knew something like last night might happen.”

“How’d he know?”

“I’m not sure, he just did. And I believe he left me important messages in those journals.” Michael rapped on the back of the bookshelf looking for hollow areas. Like the wardrobe, it was solid. He sat down on the fireplace. “Favorite hiding place that gave me such a scare” he quoted.

“What was that?” Garen asked.

“The last entry my father wrote was a cryptic message about where the journals are hidden. Here see for yourself.” He opened the journal to the last message.

“What about that time when we climbed the chimney?” Garen mused.

“I doubt he would have hidden them up there. Not without me noticing him up there for no reason.”

“No, I mean what about a loose stone in the hearth,” Garen replied.

A quick inspection of the hearth proved fruitless. Michael blew out the air in his lungs, exasperated. He and Garen had gotten into plenty of mischief, so no particular incident stuck out in his mind. Then his eyes fell on the corner of the chest through the bedroom doorway the same time Garen mentioned it. He had locked himself in it once when playing hide and seek. It had been a good hiding place until he tried to open the door and realized it was locked. Banging on the lid in a panic, his father had come to his rescue.

The contrasting colors of dark walnut and light, blonde maple made the chest solid and beautiful. Rectangle in shape with rounded corners accentuated by an intricate crest of a lion’s head chiseled on the lid made it one of his father’s greatest creations. Michael laid his fingers over the crest realizing it was the same as the pommel of the Sword.

He took everything out of the trunk and inspected it from top to bottom. The walls were too narrow to provide any concealment, and the lid held no secrets either. Rapping on the bottom did no good since the trunk stood on legs and the bottom would, of course, sound hollow.

Michael sat down next to the trunk, stumped. Surely this was what his father had been alluding to. He surveyed the outside of the trunk, noting the engravings, looking at each place where the different woods met, trying to see if there was any reason other than creative for it. He tried to place himself in his father’s shoes, imagining him building it. The chest was almost as old as he was. His father built it shortly after returning home with him. A “celebration chest” he called it; a celebration of new life, Michael’s in Whitewater’s Forge and his own exchange of traveling and adventure for one of family and community. The merging of the two distinctly different woods symbolized this concept.

“The narrow light will show you the way,” Michael quoted, fingering the wood patterns of the chest. It was an old religious proverb, and his father had been fond of incorporating religious teachings into his work. On the back of the chest were twelve thin ribs of maple inset in the walnut and evenly spaced except for the bottom one which was a finger’s width farther apart. Placing one hand under the chest and the other on the inside bottom of the trunk, Michael’s heart jumped. His hands were not touching the same piece of wood; there was space between his hands. Turning the chest over he worked the rib of maple till it slid out and then removed the bottom, revealing a hidden compartment. The inside floor of the chest was a false bottom.

Inside the compartment were six books, three pouches, and a thick leather belt. Michael quickly perused the books and found four were journals, and each had the same cryptic message on the last page. His father had been a meticulous man indeed. The dark red leather bound book contained a foreign language, and the other, bound in dark green leather, was a book of maps.

The three pouches were distinctly different. One, of black felt, held twelve fine jewels and the second was a simple traveler’s purse made of sturdy wool, but the gold and silver coins inside were not so simple.

“Michael, I know your father traveled far, but I have never seen some of these markings,” Garen said holding up one of the gold coins for inspection. “Where’d he get them?”

“I don’t know,” Michael replied. “These jewels are beyond anything I’ve ever seen, not that I’m an expert.”

“Talk about saving up for a foul day,” Garen said, grinning.

Michael deposited the gems back in the pouch and cinched it closed. “I think he was doing that since Max put me in his care.”

Opening the leather pouch Michael whistled. “Look at these shurikens.”

“I don’t think we have time for a game of stars, Michael,” Garen said.

“Stars” was a simple game Michael’s father picked up in a far-off, exotic land. It used three small triangular pieces of metal called shurikens, thrown at a board with markings of varying value.

“These were not created for a game,” Michael replied, handing one to his friend.