Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) (12 page)

Alex had never known his real father; he had died in an accident when Alex was a baby. Alex’s mother had told him many times how Aleister had been there for her after the accident. How he had proven instrumental as her advisor with matters of state while she sat in mourning. Later she had fallen in love with him.

Regardless of what people said about the Queen of Cintaur marrying her advisor, Alex could not think of anyone he would rather have as a father. Aleister always had time for him and treated him like he mattered, even choosing to take Falon and him to Shaladon to oversee its rebuilding for his mother. He had actually asked Alex to accompany him. The asking had made him feel important, a rarity in his life as the younger sibling in a royal family.

In Shaladon, Aleister let him roam free in the castle of Dalarhan, something his mother would never approve of. When his nannies complained, Aleister shrugged and said, “A boy needs adventures to grow.” And what better place than a vast castle?

High spires, crenulated walls, towers bristling with ballista or catapults and so many rooms Alex lost count. The outer curtain wall was so thick six men could walk abreast. But the best part was the secret passageways.

Alex learned about many of them following Aleister around, but there were some secrets that even Aleister knew nothing about. Alex was proud of himself for finding them. Part of him wanted to tell Aleister, but the desire to have something he could call his own won out. Besides, the passageways proved very useful in playing jokes on his sister and the servants.

Once Falon had caught him emerging out of the wall behind a tapestry. That particular passageway was of minor importance since it only led from their quarters to the Courtyard of Heroes. Still, he was furious with himself and swore no one would discover another of his secrets. And so they had not.

It was one such passageway he chose this particular night. Ever since Falon’s departure, something in the farthest reaches of his mind had been struggling to make itself known, something that had been sparked by their argument. He had taken to wandering the secret passages, wanting to be alone. Wanting to think.

He wasn’t certain why he chose this particular passage, perhaps because it led to the dungeon, or the sewer depending on which way you turned at the junction. Each matched the way he felt equally.

His mood may have chosen the passage to the dungeon, but screams drew him in. Screams were nothing unusual, it was a dungeon, but these shrieks seemed to reach far into his mind, waking something he did not realize was there. Curiosity pulled him to the dungeon; horror kept him there.

From a sliver in the wall, a horizontal space between stones where mortar had been intentionally left out, Alex watched Aleister torture the old seer, Thomas. The old man had befriended Falon. For some reason, she had taken a special interest in the old man, spending countless hours at his home. Watching Aleister enjoy the pain he inflicted rocked Alex to his core, yet he still felt drawn to the man. He had to suppress the urge to open the secret door and reveal himself.

Aleister questioned the seer about Falon; where she had gone, what she was after, how the seer had freed her from his control. Aleister raged at the old man to answer. He took the poor man to the brink of death then healed him so he could do it all over again. The only answer the old seer would give was chanting in some foreign language.

“You will not free my slaves!” Aleister screamed. “That whelp brother of hers is mine! You hear me, old man? You will not free him, too. He is mine!”

Like a stone thrown through a window, the spell clouding Alex’s mind shattered. Truth had been spoken, and a flood of emotion and realization hit him at once. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, tears streaming down his face as he wrestled with his new reality. The screams coming from the dungeon accentuated his despair.

Aleister was vile and evil. Falon had tried to tell him, tried to free him. He remembered every moment of their final argument now. She had begged him to flee with her, but he had refused. His body convulsed with silent sobs, afraid to make a sound. Falon had risked everything to save him, and he had repaid her by telling Aleister she fled. At least she escaped despite his stupidity. He longed to run after her, to escape this nightmare, to tell her he was sorry. To tell her, he was free.

Alex’s mind reeled with possibilities; questions about important events in his life and new realizations solidified in his mind. Was his father’s death an accident? Mother was under his control; she had to be. Aleister had taken control of Cintaur and then Shaladon. What was he planning to do next?

The slamming of the dungeon door grabbed Alex’s attention. He looked through the slit. Aleister was gone. The old seer lay on the rack, stretched out to the point Alex feared his arms might be out of socket. He could hear the man mumbling so at least he was alive.

Heart pounding, Alex stood on the precipice of a defining moment in his life, but one look at the battered old man’s body and he knew he couldn’t walk away. He needed to atone for his failures. Besides, the old man knew where Falon had gone; reason enough to get him away from Aleister.

Alex opened the secret door and slipped into the dungeon. Far down the hallway he heard a metal door slam shut. Fear threatened to seize him, and he glanced back at the secret door. Thoughts of failing his sister again steeled his nerves, propelling him forward.

Pity swept through him as he viewed the seer’s body. The old man made a faint moan as Alex unbound him from the rack and lifted him on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Slipping back into the passage, he pulled the door closed, mind spinning with ideas. At the junction of the passage, he turned and headed for the sewers. There were store rooms down there no one knew existed, at least no one had used them in a long time. He could keep the seer there and nurse him back to health. Then he could find out where Falon went.

Somehow he would make things right. No matter what it cost him.

C
HAPTER
10

A Warm Bed

Max sat in his saddle brooding while the sun crept over the trees. Michael grimaced at the man’s scowl as he and Garen made their way down the side of the ravine. Max had been adamant about getting away early. By Michael’s estimation is was still early, but the man’s glare said differently.

“You’re late,” Max growled.

“I had to find something,” Michael replied, matching his tone.

“We don’t have time for searching. We have to reach Anista by nightfall.”

“Anista’s a full day’s ride!” Garen said.

“So it is,” Max replied. “And we must avoid detection as best we can.”

“What happens at nightfall?” Michael asked, suspecting he knew the answer.

“When the sun goes down the gates of Anista will close and the nightstalkers will find us. If we’re caught in the open, we may not survive.”

Michael felt the weight of Max’s glare, but he refused to apologize for being late. His father’s journals were far too important to leave behind.

“Thank you for seeing Michael this far, Garen, but it won’t be safe for you to continue with us.”

“I’m going,” Garen stated.

Michael’s eyebrows lifted. What happened when Garen touched the sword?

“Very well. We’ve no time to discuss it now,” Max said turning his dappled gray mare and spurring her to a gallop.

The last sliver of red-orange sun peeked over the ridge line of the Bithshar Mountains when Anista finally came into view. Enveloped in shadow, the city twinkled with light. Tired and worn, their horses sweaty and lathered, the four riders plodded along. Michael remembered hearing about races where men competed to see who could go the furthest in a single day’s travel. The appeal escaped him.

A howl pierced the silent dusk. It was not the sound of a wolf. It was not a sound they wanted to hear. Michael looked at Max and for the first time in his life saw fear in those wise eyes.

They spurred their horses forward charging for the city, reigning in under the stone gatehouse just as the heavy wood doors were being shut. An old, wizened man barred their way with several armed men ready to offer aid if any mischief broke out.

“What be your business here to be charging towards us like the Soulless One be chasing ya?” the gatekeeper snapped.

“Good evening to you, sir,” Max replied. “We heard awful howling as we approached, such that it frightened our horses and our wits.”

“Aye, I heard them howls myself. Tis truly an evil sound but just wolves mind you. Well, yeh look like honest folk to me. What say ye?”

“We’re travelers in need of supplies and beds,” Max said, slipping a silver coin into the gatekeeper’s hand.

The gatekeeper smiled wide. With a wave of his hand to the other men, the gate doors closed. “Aye, you can find both, I say. Baron’s Inn, that’s the best to be found in these parts if yeh ask my opinion. Course, me brother owns it, so I’m a wee bit partial to be honest.” The gatekeeper laughed a raspy laugh. “It be down the main and to the left on the square.”

“Thank you for the advice—”

A blood-chilling howl filled the evening air, close to the wall.

The gatekeeper jumped. “Bloody! What in the Creator’s name. Jimmy! What ya see from up there, eh?”

The young lad atop the flat roofed gatehouse did not reply right away. He stared down at something outside the wall.

“Jimmy!”

The boy jolted at the old man’s shout and looked down at them, his face ashen white.

“Well, boy, out with it. That wolf had to be within spittin’ distance. What say ye?”

“It was awful, sir. Its eyes, they, they were red. It looked right at me! I thought it was gonna take my soul right then and there.”

“Ah, pardon the lad,” the gatekeeper said ashamedly to the company, “my wife’s nephew. His mum needs to let go the apron strings if ya know what I mean. Jumps at shadows if he’s given the chance. Bloody red eyes,” the gatekeeper growled. “Hey, Roland, you see Jimmy’s red-eyed monster?”

“Naw, just somethin’ black slipping into the brush. Biggest wolf I laid eyes on.”

“Strange them’s coming this close to the wall,” the gatekeeper mused then smiled at the four travelers, “but they’s out there so nutin’ to worry ‘bout, ya hear. Now off with ya to find what ya need. May the Creator favor ya in yeh travels.”

With that, the old man left them to their journey and climbed the stairs to the top of the wall, cuffing Jimmy on the back of the head before peering into the dark where Roland pointed. They had reached the city, but the nightstalkers were out there. Waiting.

Making their way through the darkening streets, Michael peered down alleys half expecting to see red eyes. His father brought him to Anista once when he was twelve. One of the town’s three inns burned down and his father took him along to help rebuild it. Max led them down several streets before arriving at a large three-story inn. “The Boar’s Head” proclaimed the wood sign over the door swinging in the breeze.

“You seem to know this place, Max. Been here before?” Michael asked, dismounting his horse.

Max looked at him sternly. “Follow me and don’t say anything to anyone.”

Michael and Garen shared a questioning look before following Max.

The grand hall was warm and inviting. Chandeliers hanging from the open timber beams of the high ceiling cast plenty of light. Despite its spacious size, most patrons gathered around the fire blazing in the hearth, drinking tankards and laughing loudly. Others sat at tables enjoying a hot meal. Michael eyed the enormous boar’s head mounted above the fireplace. What a great hunt it must have been.

A short, round man wearing a stained white apron approached them. “The Creator favor you, Max,” he said as the two exchanged a hug. “It’s been ages. How are you?”

“Tired and hungry, my friend. Tired and hungry.”

The innkeeper laughed. “Well, we can fix both!”

“Michael, Garen, Falon, meet Serin, the owner of this fine establishment.”

“Pish, posh! Flattery will get you nowhere. Pleased to meet you,” Serin said greeting each with a handshake and a flattering comment about Falon’s beauty.

Serin escorted them to a separate room away from the noise of the grand hall. The furniture was nice, but not fancy. Two chairs and a matching sofa bordering a tightly woven rug in front of the fireplace made Michael realize how weary he felt. A large dining table, darkly stained walnut, dominated the opposite side of the room. Few adornments covered the walls; a nice painting of a sun setting behind green, rolling hills hung over the fireplace and a dartboard on the far wall, but Michael had no interest in trying out his new shurikens at the moment. On the opposite wall, past the table, stood an oak bookshelf.

Serin stoked the fire, apologizing for not having the room ready for them when they arrived—despite the fact he could not have known—and left with a promise to bring food. Michael took off his pack and the Sword then sank onto the sofa, legs stretched out toward the warm fire. It felt like the best sofa he had ever sat in. For once he felt too tired to critique the room’s workmanship.

Garen settled into the opposite side of the sofa, propping his feet on the arm of the nearby chair with a sigh of relief while Falon glanced over the books on the bookshelf. Michael watched her, a little surprised she had the energy to peruse a bookshelf. He found himself wondering who she was and why she came in search of them. It seemed like a job for a scout or professional traveler like A’lan had been. She came across as rugged and strong–traveling would do that to you–but Michael sensed she was cultured and refined under that hard exterior. He could almost picture her in the court of nobles.

A young boy entered and began taking their packs before Michael realized the Sword rested in plain sight against the sofa. The boy misinterpreted his reaction, apologized for startling him, and left with their packs. Michael looked at Max, worried.

“Relax, Michael, he can’t see what he doesn’t know is there,” Max assured him.