Michael Sullivan - Avempartha

Esrahaddon led them across interior bridges that spanned between spire shafts, up and down stairs and through great rooms. Not a torch or lantern burned, but she could see perfectly, the walls themselves giving off a soft blue light. Vaulted ceilings a hundred feet high spread out like the canopy of a forest with intricately lined designs that suggested branches and leaves. Railings ran along walkways and down steps, appearing as curling tendrils of creeping vines, sculptured from solid stone in vivid detail. Nothing was without adornment, every inch imbued with beauty and care. Arista walked with her mouth open, her eyes shifting from one wonder to the next-a giant statue of a magnificent swan taking flight, a bubbling fountain in the shape of a school of fish. She recalled the crude barbarity of King Roswort’s castle and his disdain for the elves-beings he likened to rats in a woodpile. Some woodpile.

There was a music to this place. The muted humming of the falls created a low, comforting bass. The wind across the tips of the tower played as woodwinds in an orchestra-soft reassuring tones. The bubbling and trickling of fountains lent light, satisfying rhythms to the symphony. Into this harmony crashed the voice of Esrahaddon as he recounted his first visit to the tower centuries before and how he had trapped the beast inside.

“So since you trapped the Gilarabrywn nine hundred years ago,” she said, “you plan to trap it here again?”

“No,” Esrahaddon told her. “No hands, remember? I can’t cast that powerful of a binding spell without fingers girl; you should know that better than anyone.”

“I heard you threaten to cage it again.”

“The Gilarabrywn doesn’t know Esra doesn’t have hands, does it?” Royce put in.

“The beast remembered me,” the wizard took over. “It assumed I was just as powerful as before, which means aside from the sword, I am about the only thing the Gilarabrywn fears.”

“You just wanted to scare it off?”

“That was the idea, yes.”

“We were trying to get the sword and hoped we might also save the both of you in the process,” Royce told her. “I obviously didn’t expect it to grab Thrace, and there was absolutely no way I could have guessed she would have taken the sword with her. You’re certain she took a sword hilt from the pile?”

“Yes, I was the one who spotted it, but I still don’t understand. How does the sword help? The Gilarabrywn isn’t an enchantment; it’s a monster that the heir must kill and…”

“You’ve been listening to the church. The Gilarabrywn is a magical creation. The sword is the counter measure.”

“A sword is? That doesn’t make sense. A sword is metal, a physical element.”

Esrahaddon smiled, looking a bit surprised. “So you paid attention to my lessons. Excellent. You’re right, the sword is worthless. It is the word written on the blade that has the power to dispel the conjuration. If it is plunged into the body of the beast it will unlock the elements holding it in existence and break the enchantment.”

“If only you had been the one to take it we’d have a way to fight the thing.”

“Well, you did save me at least,” Arista reminded them. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank us too soon. It’s still out there,” Royce told her.

“Okay, so Thrace hired Royce-I don’t know how that transpired, but okay-still I don’t understand why you’re here Esra,” she admitted.

“To find the heir.”

“There isn’t an heir,” she told them. “All the contestants failed and the rest are dead I’m sure. That monster destroyed everything.”

“I’m not talking about that foolishness. I’m speaking about the real Heir of Novron.”

The wizard came to a T-intersection and turned left heading for a staircase that lead down again.

“Wait a minute,” Royce stopped them. “We didn’t come this way.”

“No we didn’t, but I did.”

Royce looked around him. “No, no, this is all wrong. Here I was letting you lead and you clearly don’t have a clue where the exit is.”

“I’m not leading you to the exit.”

“What?” Royce asked.

“We’re not leaving,” the wizard replied. “I am going to the Valentryne Layartren and the two of you are coming with me.”

“You might want to explain why,” Royce told him, his voice chilling several degrees. “Otherwise you are jumping to a pretty big conclusion.”

“I will explain on the way.”

“Explain now,” Royce told him. “I have other appointments to consider.”

“You can’t help Hadrian,” the wizard said. “The Gilarabrywn is already at the village by now. Hadrian is either dead or safe. Nothing you can do will change that. You can’t help him, but you can help me. I spent the better part of two days trying to access the Valentryne Layartren, but without your hands, Royce, I can’t reach it and it would take days, perhaps weeks for me to operate alone, but with Arista here we can do it all tonight. Maribor has seen fit to deliver both of you to me at the precise moment I need you most.”

“Valentryne Layartren,” Royce muttered, “that’s elvish for artistic vision, isn’t it?”

“You know some elvish, good for you, Royce,” Esrahaddon said. “You should pursue your roots more.”

“Your roots?” Arista said confused.

They both ignored her.

“You can’t help the people back at the village, but you can help me do what I came here to do. What I brought you here to help me with.”

“You need us to help you find the true Heir of the Empire?”

“You’re normally quicker than this, Royce. I am disappointed.”

“I thought you were keeping it a secret?”

“I was, but circumstances have forced me to reconsider. Now quit being so stubborn and come with me. You might look back on this moment one day and reflect on how you changed the course of the world by simply walking down these steps.”

Royce sighed and nodded.

“Thank the gods,” the wizard said. “Let’s get moving.”

“Wait a minute.” Arista stopped them. “Don’t I get a say in this too?”

The wizard looked back at her. “Do you know the way out?”

“No,” she replied.

“Then no, you don’t get a say,” the wizard told her. “Now please, we’ve wasted enough time, follow me.”

“I remember you being nicer,” Arista shouted at the wizard.

“And I remember both of you being faster.”

They were off again, heading deeper into the center of the tower. As they did, Esrahaddon spoke again. “Most people believe this tower was built by the elves as a defensive fortress for the wars against Novron. As both of you most likely have guessed, that’s not true. This tower predates Novron by many millennia. Others think it was built as a fortress against the sea goblins, the infamous Ba Ran Ghazel, only that’s also not true since the tower predates their appearance as well. The common mistake here is that this is a fortress at all-that’s the result of human thinking. The fact is, the elves lived for eons before man or goblin, and perhaps even before dwarves entered the world. In those days they had no need for fortresses. They didn’t even have a word for war as the Horn of Gylindora controlled all of their internal strife. No, this wasn’t some defensive bulwark guarding the only crossing point on the Nidwalden River, although that certainly became its use many eons later. Originally, this tower was designed as a center for The Art.”

“He means magic,” Arista clarified.

“I know what he means.”

“Elven masters would travel here from the world over to study and practice advanced Art. Still this wasn’t just a school. The building itself is an enormous tool, like a giant furnace for a blacksmith, only in this case, the building works as a focusing element. The falls function as a source of power and the tower’s numerous spires are like the antenna on a grasshopper or the whiskers of a cat. They reach out into the world, sensing, feeling, drawing into this place the very essence of existence. It is like a giant lever and fulcrum, allowing a single artist to magnify their power almost beyond reason.”