Chapter 22

Bryan stood atop the Tower of Ur, watching the breaking dawn spread over the world, staring out at limitless sky and ocean, and he felt as if he were being reborn with the world. The view was breathtaking. From up here, he could see it all: the crashing of the Sorrow in every direction, the barren, windswept peninsula of Ur, the treetops of the great wood. Beyond them, he could see across all of Escalon. The sky broke and shifted in color, the sun’s rays slowly flooding the land, while gales of wind ripped through off the ocean, strong enough to nearly knock him off the side of the tower. He gripped the low stone wall, steadying himself, and looked down over the edge. His heart raced as he saw the ground, hundreds of feet below.

Bryan realized how lucky he was to be alive, to wake on this day, and he felt like a new man. His life had been spared last night, thanks to Kyle, and it profoundly affected him. He had never come that close to dying, and he had never had someone save his life before. It was an almost religious experience, and he felt something shift within him. He was beginning to feel something more profound stirring inside.

The sound of hammering filled the air all, and as Bryan finished his break and went back to his own hammering, nailing the iron pegs deep into the stone like all the others atop the tower, he turned and looked for Kyle. He spotted him on the far side of the roof, hammering away with the others, testing and retesting a rope as he threw it over the side. Bryan did not recognize all of the dozens of Watchers up here with the men, warriors emerging from somewhere in the tower, from all different floors, men with hardened faces he did not recognize. It seemed all the men in the tower had been mobilized since last night’s confrontation, and now they all prepared for war.

Bryan finished hammering in his peg, then threw his rope over the edge and tested it. It uncoiled all the way until it hit the bottom, then he coiled it up again, slowly pulling it up, his palms burning.

Satisfied, Bryan prepared to hammer in the next rope, and as he did so, he made his way over to Kyle, wanting to thank him.

“I still don’t see the point of this,” Bryan remarked to Kyle as he hammered in yet another peg.

Kyle did not look at him, staying focused on his work, his hammering.

“These ropes will help us fend off attack,” he explained. “They give us another option of defense and offense. They can also prove, more importantly, to be another escape route.”

“Escape?” Bryan asked, surprised. “Do we not fight to the death here?”

“Not for us,” Kyle explained. “But for the Sword.”

Bryan thought about that.

“Then it lives here?” he asked, curious.

Kyle glanced at him, then looked away.

“Whether it does or not, we must cover all contingencies,” he replied, “from above and below.”

Bryan wondered.

“Are there tunnels beneath the tower, then?”

Kyle continued to hammer, not meeting his eye.

“Our tower is mysterious,” he finally replied, “even to those who have served here for centuries. Not all is revealed to everyone, at every time. Each of us has pockets of knowledge about this place, different roles to play. Some know the rooftop, others, the tunnels. Some guard the Sword, if it is here, and others the windows.”

Bryan studied Kyle as he hammered alongside him, and he wondered. Had this boy lived for centuries?

A silence fell over them as the Watchers kept to themselves, immersed in their work, many giving Bryan a newfound look of respect. A few, though, he could sense, seemed jealous, or perhaps embarrassed that Bryan had pressed on and spotted the trolls when they turned back.

“I didn’t have a chance to properly thank you,” Bryan finally said to Kyle.

“For what?” he replied, still not looking, still immersed in his hammering.

“For saving me last night.”

“I didn’t save you. I did my duty.”

“But you saved me in the process,” Bryan insisted.

Kyle shrugged.

“That was not my intent,” he answered flatly.

Bryan felt hurt by that.

“Are you saying you would not have cared if I had died?” Bryan pressed. For some reason, it mattered to him. No one had ever cared enough to save his life before, and he wanted to know if that was what had really happened.

Kyle fell silent for a long time as he inspected his rope, pulling it tight, twisting it.

“I have seen many men come, and many go,” Kyle finally said. “I have seen many die. That is the nature of man, is it not?”

Bryan tried to understand.

“And what is the nature of your race?” Bryan asked. “Do they not die?”

Kyle shrugged.

“You have mortality,” he replied. “We have our vulnerabilities.”

“Like what?” Bryan asked.

Kyle fell back into silence as he continued hammering, and as he went back to work himself, Bryan felt stung by him. He had hoped to make a friend in him, but Kyle seemed oddly aloof. It irked Bryan all the more because all his life he had kept to himself, never reaching out to anyone before to befriend them. A gale of wind blew through, and the tower suddenly felt more cold and lonely than before.

“Figure you’re special, do you?” came a harsh voice.

Bryan turned to see one of the Watchers, Pult, a rugged man, unshaven, with a big square jaw and dark eyes staring back at him, a face filled with hostility.

“Because you spotted the trolls last night?” the man added. “And we didn’t?”

Bryan was not looking for a fight, especially from his newfound friends, but he knew that bullies were everywhere, and that he could not risk showing weakness on a first encounter. Weakness emboldened bullies, and he could sense this man was territorial, that he hated him for no reason. He had been around hate long enough to spot it when he saw it.

“You said it,” Bryan replied, not backing down, not wanting to appease this man. “Not me.”

The man reddened, clearly not expecting such a response.

“Let me tell you, stranger,” the man said, stepping close. “I’ve seen many drifters like you come into this tower. And I’ve seen just as many go. I’ve seen too many disappear in ways that are mysterious.” He smiled and stepped closer, but a few feet away. “There are too many ways to get hurt in this place.”

Bryan smirked and, deciding to show no fear, turned his back on the man. He bent over the tower wall and tested his rope.

“And I’ve seen blowhards all my life,” Bryan replied, his back to him. “They like to talk. They bore me. I like to take action. If you have something to say, draw a dagger. Otherwise, you’re just talk.”

Bryan suddenly felt a kick in his back, and a moment later, he felt himself sliding over the side of the tower. He was stunned—he had not expected this man to attack him here, in daylight, before all the others.

Seconds later Bryan was over the edge of the tower, sliding, falling, and he reached out and grabbed the rope with both hands, swinging a few feet from the top. He slammed into the stone as he swung, winded, and his heart pounded as a gale of wind blew him from side to side. He looked down, saw the drop hundreds of feet below, and knew it would kill him.

Bryan reached to pull himself up on the rope, when suddenly a hand came down—a young, smooth hand—and pulled him up in one quick motion, with surprising strength.

Bryan landed back on the rooftop, on his hands and knees on the stone, gasping. Irate, he looked everywhere for the bully, but he was nowhere in sight. The rest of the crowd kept their eyes on their work, either not wanting to get involved, or not caring if Bryan survived.

Only Kyle stood over him, and stared down at him.

“Saving you’s getting to be a full-time job,” he remarked, shaking his head, then went back to his work.

Bryan, still stunned, was grateful as he slowly regained his feet.

“Why?” Bryan asked, approaching him. “If you don’t care, why bother saving me?”

Kyle grinned, still looking down at his hammer.

“I like not being the only outsider here,” he finally replied. Then Kyle turned to him: “And I have to admit, things are a bit more interesting with you around.”