“What?”
“You said the sword was broken?” Arista asked.
“In two parts. I stole the blade half yesterday, now I need to get the hilt half. I’m pretty certain it is in that pile up there.”
“No it isn’t,” Arista said, shocked that her brain was still working enough to connect the dots. “Not anymore.”
———
The wizard led the way down the long crystalline steps, pausing from time to time to peer down a corridor, or at a staircase. He would think for a moment then shake his head and push on, or mutter, “Ah, yes!” and turn.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Avempartha,” the wizard replied.
“I got that much already. What is Avempartha, and don’t say it’s a tower.”
“It is an elven construction, built several millenniums ago. More recently it has been a trap that has held the Gilarabrywn, and more recently still, it has apparently been its nest. Does that help?”
“Not really.”
Although perplexed, Arista did feel better. It surprised her how easy it was to forget. It felt wrong. She should be thinking about the ones lost. She should be grieving, but her mind fought against it. Like a broken limb that refused to support any more weight, her heart and mind were hungry for relief. She needed a rest, something else to think about, something that did not involve death and misery. The tower of Avempartha provided the remedy. It was astounding.
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.