The Gift of Battle

  As Gwen stopped before the drawbridge before them, leading to the tower, he peered out at it suspiciously.

  “I don’t trust this place,” he said.

  She laid a comforting hand on his wrist.

  “You are a true and loyal friend, Steffen,” she replied. “I value your friendship, and your loyalty, but this is a step I must take alone. I must find out what I can, and having you there will put them on guard. Besides,” she added, as Krohn whined, “I will have Krohn.”

  Gwen looked down, saw Krohn looking up at her expectantly, and she nodded back.

  Steffen nodded.

  “I shall wait for you here,” he said, “and if there’s any trouble within, I shall come for you.”

  “If I don’t find what I need within that tower,” she replied, “I am afraid there will be much greater trouble coming for all of us.”

  *

  Gwen walked slowly over the drawbridge, Krohn at her side, her footsteps echoing on the wood, crossing over the gently rippling waters beneath her. All along the bridge were lined up dozens of monks, standing at perfect attention, silent, wearing scarlet robes, hands hidden inside them, with their eyes closed. They were a strange lot of guards, unarmed, incredibly obedient, standing guard here for Gwen didn’t know how long. Gwen marveled at their intense loyalty and devotion to their leader, and she realized it was as the King said: they all revered him as a god. She wondered what she was getting into.

  As she neared, Gwen looked up at the huge, arched doorways looming before her, made of ancient oak, carved with symbols she did not understand, and she watched in wonder as several monks stepped forward and pulled them open. They creaked, disclosing a gloomy interior lit only by torches, and a cool draft met her, smelling faintly of incense. Krohn stiffened beside her, growling, and Gwen walked inside and heard it slam behind her.

  The sound echoed inside, and it took a moment for Gwen to get her bearings. It was dark in here, the walls lit only by torches and by the filtered sunlight which poured in through stained glass high above. The air in here felt sacred, silent, and she felt as if she had entered a church.

  Gwen looked up and saw the tower spiraled ever higher, with gradual, circular ramps leading up the floors. There were no windows, and the walls echoed with the faint sound of chanting. The incense hung heavy in the air here, and monks appeared and disappeared throughout, walking as in a trance in and out of the chambers. Some waved incense and some chanted, while others were silent, lost in reflection, and Gwen wondered more about the nature of this cult.

  “Did my father send you?” echoed a voice.

  Gwen, startled, wheeled to see a man standing a few feet away, wearing a long, scarlet robe, smiling back at her good-naturedly. She could hardly believe how much he resembled his father, the King.

  “I knew he would send someone sooner or later,” Kristof said. “His efforts to bring me back into his fold are endless. Please, come,” he beckoned, turning aside and gesturing with his hand.

  Gwen fell in beside him as they walked down a stone, arched corridor, heading gradually up the ramp in circles to the higher levels of the tower. Gwen found herself caught off guard; she had expected a crazed monk, a religious fanatic, and was surprised to find someone affable and good-natured, and clearly in his right mind. Kristof did not seem like the lost, crazy person his father had made him out to be.

  “Your father asks for you,” she finally said, breaking the silence after they passed a monk walking down the ramp the opposite way, never lifting his eyes from the floor. “He wants me to bring you back home.”

  Kristof shook his head.

  “That’s the thing about my father,” he said. “He thinks he has found the only true home in the world. But I have learned something,” he added, facing her. “There are many true homes in this world.”

  He sighed as they continued walking, Gwen wanting to give him his space, not wanting to press too hard.

  “My father would never accept who I am,” he finally added. “He will never learn. He remains stuck in his old, limited beliefs—and he wants to impose them on me. But I am not him—and he will never accept that.”

  “Do you not miss your family?” Gwen asked, surprised that he would commit his life to this tower.

  “I do,” he replied frankly, surprising her. “Very much. My family means everything to me—but my spiritual calling means more. My home is here now,” he said, turning down a corridor as Gwen followed. “I serve Eldof now. He is my sun. If you knew him,” he said, turning and staring at Gwen with an intensity that frightened her, “he would be yours, too.”

  Gwen looked away, not liking the look of fanaticism in his eyes.

  “I serve no one but myself,” she replied.

  He smiled at her.

  “Perhaps that is the source of all your earthly worries,” he replied. “No one can live in a world where they do not serve someone else. Right now, you are serving someone else.”

  Gwen stared back suspiciously.

  “How so?” she asked.

  “Even if you think you serve yourself,” he replied, “you are deceived. The person you are serving is not you, but rather the person your parents molded. It is your parents you serve—and all of their old beliefs, passed down by their parents. When will you be bold enough to cast off their beliefs and serve you?”

  Gwen frowned, not buying his philosophy.

  “And take on whose beliefs instead?” she asked. “Eldof’s?”

  He shook his head.

  “Eldof is merely a conduit,” he replied. “He helps cast off who you were. He helps you find your true self, all you were meant to be. That is whom you must serve. That is who you will never discover until your false self is set free. That is what Eldof does: he sets us all free.”

  Gwendolyn looked back at his shining eyes, and she could see how devoted he was—and that devotion scared her. She could tell right away that he was beyond reason, that he would never leave this place.

  It was scary, the web that this Eldof had spun to lure all these people in and trap them here—some cheap philosophy, with a logic all to itself. Gwen did not want to hear any more; it was a web she was determined to avoid.

  Gwen turned and continued walking, shaking it off with a shudder, and continued up the ramp, circling the tower, gradually going up higher and higher, wherever it was leading them. Kristof fell in beside her.

  “I have not come to argue the merits of your cult,” Gwen said. “I cannot convince you to return to your father. I promised to ask, and I have done so. If you do not value your family, I cannot teach you to value it.”

  Kristof looked back at her gravely.

  “And do you think my father values family?” he asked.

  “Very much,” she replied. “At least from what I can see.”

  Kristof shook his head.

  “Let me show you something.”

  Kristof took her elbow and led her down another corridor to the left, then up a long flight of steps, stopping before a thick oak door. He looked at her meaningfully, then pulled it open, revealing a set of iron bars.

  Gwen stood there, curious, nervous to see whatever he wanted to show her—then she stepped up and stared through the bars. She was horrified to see a young, beautiful girl sitting alone in a cell, staring out the window, her long hair hanging on her face. Though her eyes were wide open, she did not seem to take notice of their presence.

  “This is how my father cares for family,” Kristof said.

  Gwen looked back at him, curious.

  “His family?” Gwen asked, stunned.

  Kristof nodded.

  “Kathryn. His other daughter. The one he hides from the world. She has been relegated here, to this cell. Why? Because she is touched. Because she’s not perfect, like him. Because he’s ashamed of her.”

  Gwen fell silent, feeling a pit in her stomach as she looked at the girl sadly, wanting to help her. She started to wonder about the King, and started to wonder if Kristof had any t
ruth to his words.

  “Eldof values family,” Kristof continued. “He would never abandon one of his own. He values our true selves. No one here is turned away out of shame. That is the blight of pride. And those who are touched are closest to their true selves.”

  Kristof sighed.

  “When you meet Eldof,” he said, “you will understand. There is no one like him, nor will there ever be.”

  Gwen could see the fanaticism in his eyes, could see how lost he was in this place, this cult, and she knew he was too far lost to ever return to the King. She looked over and saw the King’s daughter sitting there, and she felt overwhelmed with sadness for her, for this entire place, for their shattered family. Her picture-perfect view of the Ridge, of the perfect royal family, was crumbling. This place, like every other, had its own dark underbelly. There was a silent battle raging here, and it was a battle of beliefs.

  It was a battle Gwen knew she could not win. Nor did she have time to. Gwen thought of her own abandoned family, and she felt the pressing urgency to rescue her husband and her son. Her head was spinning in this place, with the incense thick in the air and lack of windows disorienting her, and she wanted to get what she needed and leave. She tried to remember why she’d even come here, then it came back to her: to save the Ridge, as she had vowed to the King.

  “Your father believes that this tower holds a secret,” Gwen said, getting to the point, “a secret that could save the Ridge, could save your people.”

  Kristof smiled and crossed his fingers.

  “My father and his beliefs,” he replied.

  Gwen furrowed her brow.

  “Are you saying it is not true?” she asked. “That there is no ancient book?”

  He paused, looked away, then sighed deeply and fell silent for a long time. Finally, he continued.

  “What should be revealed to you, and when,” he said, “is beyond me. Only Eldof can answer your questions.”

  Gwen felt a sense of urgency rising within her.

  “Can you bring me to him?”

  Kristof smiled, turned, and began to walk down the corridor.

  “As surely,” he said, walking quickly, already distant, “as a moth to a flame.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Stara stood on the precarious platform, trying not to look down as she was pulled higher and higher in the sky, seeing the vista expand with each yank of the rope. The platform rose higher and higher along the edge of the Ridge, and Stara stood there, her heart pounding, in disguise, the hood pulled low over her face, and sweat trickling down her back as she felt the desert heat rising. It was stifling this high up, and the day had barely broken. All about her were the ever-present sounds of ropes and pulleys, wheels squeaking, as the soldiers yanked and yanked, none realizing who she was.

  Soon, it stopped, and all was still as she was standing at the peak of the Ridge—the only sound that of the howl of the wind. The view was staggering, making her feel as if she were standing at the very top of the world.

  It brought back memories. Stara recalled the time she’d first arrived at the Ridge, fresh from the Great Waste, with Gwendolyn and Kendrick and all the other stragglers, most of them more dead than alive. She knew she was lucky to have survived, and at first, the sight of the Ridge had been a great gift, had been a sight of salvation.

  And yet now here she was, prepared to leave, to descend the Ridge once again on its far side, to head back out into the Great Waste, back out into what could be a sure death. Beside her, her horse pranced, its shoes clicking the hollow platform. She reached out and stroked its mane reassuringly. This horse would be her salvation, her ticket out of this place; it would make her passage back across the Great Waste a very different scenario than it had been.

  “I don’t recall orders from our commander about this visit,” came the commanding voice of a soldier.

  Stara stood very still, knowing they were talking about her.

  “Then I shall take that up with your commander himself—and with my cousin, the King,” Fithe replied confidently, standing next to her, sounding as convincing as ever.

  Stara knew he was lying, and she knew what he was risking for her—and she was forever grateful to him for it. Fithe had surprised her by being good to his word, by doing everything in his power, as he had promised, to help her leave the Ridge, to help her have a chance to go out there and find Reece, the man she loved.

  Reece. Stara’s heart ached at the thought of him. She would leave this place, however safe it was, would cross the Great Waste, cross oceans, cross the world, just for one chance to tell him how much she loved him.

  As much as Stara hated to put Fithe in jeopardy, she needed this. She needed to risk it all to find the one she loved. She could not sit safely in the Ridge, no matter how glorious and rich and safe, until she was reunited with Reece.

  The iron gates to the platform creaked open, and Fithe took her arm, accompanying her, as she wore her hood low, her disguise working. They stepped off the wooden platform and onto the hard stone plateau atop the Ridge. A howling wind passed through, strong enough to nearly knock her off balance, and she clutched the horse’s mane, her heart pounding as she looked up and saw the vast expanse, the craziness of what she was about to do.

  “Keep your head down and your hood lowered,” Fithe whispered urgently. “If they see you, that you are a girl, they will know you’re not meant to be up here. They will send you back. Wait until we reach the far end of the ridge. There’s another platform waiting to bring you down the other side. It will take you—and you alone.”

  Stara’s breath quickened as the two of them crossed the wide stone plateau, passing knights, walking quickly, Stara keeping her head down, away from the prying eyes of soldiers.

  Finally, they stopped, and he whispered:

  “Okay. Look up.”

  Stara pulled back her hood, her hair covered in sweat, and as she did, she was dazed by the sight: two huge, beautiful suns, still red, rose up in the glorious desert morning, the sky covered in a million shades of pinks and purples. It seemed as if it were the dawn of the world.

  As she looked out, she saw the entire Great Waste spread out before her, seeming to stretch to the end of the world. In the distance there was the raging Sand Wall, and despite herself, she looked straight down. She reeled from her fear of heights, and she immediately wished she hadn’t.

  Down below, she saw the steep drop, all the way down to the base of the Ridge. And before her, she saw a lone platform, empty, waiting for her.

  Stara turned and looked up at Fithe, staring back at her meaningfully.

  “Are you sure?” he asked softly. She could see the fear for her in his eyes.

  Stara felt a streak of apprehension rush through her, but she then thought of Reece, and she nodded without hesitation.

  He nodded back at her kindly.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

  He smiled back.

  “Find the man you love,” he replied. “If it cannot be me, at least it can be someone else.”

  He took her hand, kissed it, bowed, and turned and walked away. Stara watched him go, her heart filled with appreciation for him. If she hadn’t loved Reece the way she had, perhaps he would be a man she would love.

  Stara turned, steeling herself, held the horse’s mane, and took the first fateful step onto the platform. She tried not to look out at the Great Waste, at the journey before her that would almost certainly mean her death. But she did.

  The ropes creaked, the platform swayed, and as the soldiers lowered the ropes, one foot at a time, she began her descent, all alone, into nothingness.

  Reece, she thought, I might die. But I will cross the world for you.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Erec stood at the bow of the ship, Alistair and Strom beside him, and peered down at the teeming waters of the Empire river below. He watched as the raging current forked the ship left, away from the channel that would have led them to Volu
sia, to Gwendolyn and the others—and he felt torn. He wanted to rescue Gwendolyn, of course; and yet also had to fulfill his sacred vow to those freed villagers, to free their neighboring village and wipe out the Empire garrison nearby. After all, if he did not, then the Empire soldiers would soon kill the freed men, and all of Erec’s efforts to free them would have been for naught, leaving their village back in the hands of the Empire once again.

  Erec looked up and studied the horizon, very conscious of the fact that every passing moment, every gale of wind, each stroke of the oar, was taking them farther away from Gwendolyn, from his original mission; and yet sometimes, he knew, one had to divert from the mission in order to do what was most honorable and right. Sometimes the mission, he realized, was not always what you thought it was. Sometimes it was ever-changing; sometimes it was a side journey along the way that ended up becoming the real mission.

  Still, Erec resolved inwardly to vanquish the Empire garrison as quickly as possible and fork back upriver toward Volusia, to save Gwendolyn before it was too late.

  “Sir!” yelled a voice.

  Erec looked up to see one of his soldiers, high on the mast, pointing to the horizon. He turned to see, and as their ship passed a bend in the river and the currents picked up, Erec’s blood quickened to see an Empire fort, teeming with soldiers, perched at the edge of the river. It was a drab, square building, built of stone, low to the ground, Empire taskmasters lined up all around it—yet none watching the river. Instead, they were all watching the slave village below, packed with villagers, all under the whip and rod of Empire taskmasters. The soldiers mercilessly lashed the villagers, torturing them on the streets under hard labor, while the soldiers above looked down and laughed at the scene.

  Erec reddened with indignation, seething at the injustice of it all. He felt justified in forking his men this way up the river, and determined to set wrongs right and make them pay. It might just be a drop in the bucket of the travesty of the Empire, and yet one could never underestimate, Erec knew, what freedom meant to even a few people.