tower.
To make good on a promise.
Confusion sped through the wolf’s
mind at the image of “promise.” I don’t understand , he told her.
You can’t understand anymore.
Finish the kill. Scatter the bones. It is my gift to you.
It smells bad.
Faylle recoiled at the scent the
wolf projected. She stumbled, nearly fell onto the grass at her feet. She
focused on the grassland once more, looked for the faint line that was the main
road. You remember the stink, don’t you? she said.
No answer.
She snorted, lifted her nose to the
wind, tried to clear her nostrils of the stench. I go to the tower , she
said. Let me be. Finish the kill.
It smells like the tower.
At least you remember that much.
Faylle stepped forward, and her
bare feet met warm, smooth oaken panels. The road. She gazed south, up the
plank roadway, and hesitated only briefly as the wolf sent her one last
message.
I speak no more to those who go
to the tower , he said. There is death there. And no wolves. We have
sense enough to stay away, Wolf Lady. You never had sense.
She felt him move away, lead his
pack toward the remains of the kill.
Across hot planking she ran, ever
southward in the oppressive heat of late afternoon. The sky turned glassy, and
sweat beaded across her forehead, her upper lip.
And she ran on, toward the tower.
Grassland swept past. Hours crept by. The hot orange sun sank low, turned the
sky into a swath of molten reds and yellows and pale pinks just over her right
shoulder. Heat escaped with the sun, and the shadows of evening wrapped Faylle
in a cool blanket, dried the sweat on her face, billowed chilly air through her
loose brown tunic and trousers. The road widened, and as she came to the crest
of a slight hill, she slowed to a walk. Ahead of her, below, in the valley, lay
the tower.
All those she knew, from the
beginning, had called it “the tower.” There was never other name. A thick, gray
stoned tower, it stood encircled by a dry ditch some twelve feet deep that
filled with water when the rains came. Slit windows ran up the tower’s height,
providing light to those within, but no view inside to those without.
From her place on the hilltop,
Faylle could see candlelight glowing from one of the lower windows. The tower
had defended them until it was the last human dwelling left standing. The
unlucky ones had their homes turned into roads. Faylle shuddered, scraped her
foot across one of the oaken panels that made up the roadway. Whose house had
this come from? Mister Connell? Her mother, Marion? Or the three weaver sisters
who had lived so close to here?
All gone now.
Faylle made her way down the road
and across the stout oak drawbridge. She gripped the heavy iron knocker on the
front of the gate.
Once, twice, thrice, she knocked,
and waited.
A cold wind blew, whipping her hair
from her face. She scratched at a bug bite on her elbow, eyes still locked on
the iron-wrought door. From inside came the sound of metal on metal - a
screeching, squealing sound that hurt her ears. A boom followed, and she
stepped back as the small sally port - the smaller gate within the gate -
opened to allow her entrance.
From the sally port, a small,
slight, pale face gazed out at her, eyes wide. “He is expecting you?” the small
person whispered. Masculine or feminine? Faylle didn’t know.
“Yes,” Faylle said.
The small figure waved for her to
come in, and she followed, stepped into the musty darkness of the tower. The
air stank of closed, confined spaces and thick dust. Faylle stared into the
wide, circular room that made up the base of the tower. Lamps burned in sconces
along the wall - they used less smoke than torches.
The small figure who had led her in
started forward to the stairs, expected her to follow. Faylle had been in this
room many times before, and it still held no decoration, nothing other than the
lamps and staircase. She followed the servant to the stairs.
A new servant; a face she did not
know.
She mounted
To make good on a promise.
Confusion sped through the wolf’s
mind at the image of “promise.” I don’t understand , he told her.
You can’t understand anymore.
Finish the kill. Scatter the bones. It is my gift to you.
It smells bad.
Faylle recoiled at the scent the
wolf projected. She stumbled, nearly fell onto the grass at her feet. She
focused on the grassland once more, looked for the faint line that was the main
road. You remember the stink, don’t you? she said.
No answer.
She snorted, lifted her nose to the
wind, tried to clear her nostrils of the stench. I go to the tower , she
said. Let me be. Finish the kill.
It smells like the tower.
At least you remember that much.
Faylle stepped forward, and her
bare feet met warm, smooth oaken panels. The road. She gazed south, up the
plank roadway, and hesitated only briefly as the wolf sent her one last
message.
I speak no more to those who go
to the tower , he said. There is death there. And no wolves. We have
sense enough to stay away, Wolf Lady. You never had sense.
She felt him move away, lead his
pack toward the remains of the kill.
Across hot planking she ran, ever
southward in the oppressive heat of late afternoon. The sky turned glassy, and
sweat beaded across her forehead, her upper lip.
And she ran on, toward the tower.
Grassland swept past. Hours crept by. The hot orange sun sank low, turned the
sky into a swath of molten reds and yellows and pale pinks just over her right
shoulder. Heat escaped with the sun, and the shadows of evening wrapped Faylle
in a cool blanket, dried the sweat on her face, billowed chilly air through her
loose brown tunic and trousers. The road widened, and as she came to the crest
of a slight hill, she slowed to a walk. Ahead of her, below, in the valley, lay
the tower.
All those she knew, from the
beginning, had called it “the tower.” There was never other name. A thick, gray
stoned tower, it stood encircled by a dry ditch some twelve feet deep that
filled with water when the rains came. Slit windows ran up the tower’s height,
providing light to those within, but no view inside to those without.
From her place on the hilltop,
Faylle could see candlelight glowing from one of the lower windows. The tower
had defended them until it was the last human dwelling left standing. The
unlucky ones had their homes turned into roads. Faylle shuddered, scraped her
foot across one of the oaken panels that made up the roadway. Whose house had
this come from? Mister Connell? Her mother, Marion? Or the three weaver sisters
who had lived so close to here?
All gone now.
Faylle made her way down the road
and across the stout oak drawbridge. She gripped the heavy iron knocker on the
front of the gate.
Once, twice, thrice, she knocked,
and waited.
A cold wind blew, whipping her hair
from her face. She scratched at a bug bite on her elbow, eyes still locked on
the iron-wrought door. From inside came the sound of metal on metal - a
screeching, squealing sound that hurt her ears. A boom followed, and she
stepped back as the small sally port - the smaller gate within the gate -
opened to allow her entrance.
From the sally port, a small,
slight, pale face gazed out at her, eyes wide. “He is expecting you?” the small
person whispered. Masculine or feminine? Faylle didn’t know.
“Yes,” Faylle said.
The small figure waved for her to
come in, and she followed, stepped into the musty darkness of the tower. The
air stank of closed, confined spaces and thick dust. Faylle stared into the
wide, circular room that made up the base of the tower. Lamps burned in sconces
along the wall - they used less smoke than torches.
The small figure who had led her in
started forward to the stairs, expected her to follow. Faylle had been in this
room many times before, and it still held no decoration, nothing other than the
lamps and staircase. She followed the servant to the stairs.
A new servant; a face she did not
know.
She mounted
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