THREE

Joseph Asher enters The Hall of Illumination...

THREE

Torches staved off the dark in the windowless building. They burned some spice or incense, for the air inside smelled sweet.

Joseph jumped a little as the door closed behind them,with a deep thud. His host noted the boy’s discomfort; his gray eyes softened--as if he might smile--though he did not.

“I am called Tyrus,” said he. “You’ve entered a sacred place, boy.”

The man’s voice echoed as he spoke, as if the tiny stone building had suddenly become quite large. Joseph leaned a little to one side trying to see beyond his host. Instead of stairs going up to the castle--as he expected to see--a long, high tunnel stood before them, cut right out of the mountain. The way led down stone stairs and disappeared from sight. More lit torches lined the stair. The man called Tyrus looked keenly at Joseph’s face. “Not afraid of being underground are you, boy?”

A sudden indignation arose in Joseph’s mind at being called ‘boy.’

“My name is Joseph Asher, sir,” he said, trying to sound as grave as his host. This time the man’s smile carried from his eyes to his face. He turned towards the tunnel.

“Very well, Joseph Asher,” Tyrus told him, descending the steps. “Follow me, but mark your footing.” Joseph dared not ask where they were going, but kept his eyes on his feet as they descended. Cut out of the rock, the steep steps seemed worn by the soles of many boots. Coolness stole into the air the deeper they went. The tunnel seemed to lead straight down, for a while, but then it branched off into several other tunnels at different intervals. Walking quickly--to keep up with Tyrus’ long stride-Joseph noticed recesses here and there, cut into the sides of the tunnels. Wooden doors stood in them, carved with the same crest as that of the ring he carried.

Some of these doors stood ajar. Glancing into them as they passed, Joseph saw neat living quarters, like a barracks, clean and simply furnished. Once or twice he caught the sounds of voices. Not seeing any prisoners Joseph began to doubt this place was merely a dungeon.
Turning this way and that after Tyrus, Joseph felt completely lost. Hunger gripped his stomach; he could barely remember the meal of bread and an apple that Kosti had given him the day before. Soon the voices grew more collected and warmth crept back into the air... they were no longer alone in the tunnel. Here and there a gray-cloaked man stepped out of a door, greeting Tyrus with a respectful nod of the head. One door as they passed drew Joseph’s attention; a man stood inside, drawing on chain-mail tunic over a leathern shirt. Nearby, a long sword and scabbard lay on an adjacent cot.

“Is this another army?” Joseph ventured to ask.

“I am sure you have many questions,” Tyrus replied, not breaking his stride. “Some will be answered, shortly.” He looked down at his charge. “Are you hungry?” Joseph looked up at him and nodded. “Good. You need a bath... and clean clothes,” Tyrus went on. “If you’re going to see the King, that is.” Looking down at his hands, Joseph realized he was quite dirty. His mother would be appalled at his walking about the King’s castle in such a state.

“Ease your mind,” his guide continued. “We don’t usually outfit such young guests, but we can make do nonetheless.”

Tyrus stopped by an open door soon after, one like all the others. “Here is a room where you can wash and change.” He walked into the room and pointed to a large wooden tub of water, such as one would use for washing clothes. A wooden chair stood near the tub and a low bed sat--made up--against one wall. No other furniture was visible. On the bed lay clothes, a bit larger than Joseph’s size, but wearable nonetheless: a gray, linen shirt, outer tunic and fine, linen pants, stockings and a pair of worn leather boots.

“Best to wash quickly, Joseph Asher,” Tyrus said as he went out, closing the door behind him.

Cleaner--and wearing the nicest clothes he had ever owned--Joseph joined Tyrus outside the room some minutes later. His host nodded approvingly but lost no time in continuing their journey. The passage widened as they rounded a last corner; it ended in two large wooden doors, shaped as two halves of an arch. Two armed men in gray stood on either side; they nodded to Tyrus as he went up to the door. Joseph could hear the distant sound of falling water, like the stream that ran outside his village. Opening a smaller door--concealed in the large one--Tyrus waved Joseph through and then followed, himself.

All his life Joseph never forgot his first sight of the Shamar’s gathering hall. It’s brightness rivaled that of being outside in full daylight. Joseph’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the light, but soon his eyes roved a huge cavern, sitting in the heart of the mountain. Four massive stone columns supported the high, curving roof. A circular shaft--cut the very center of the rock ceiling--drew Joseph’s eye immediately. A shimmering waterfall fell down from the shaft, chased by golden shafts of daylight, into the largest pool Joseph had ever seen; its borders stood at least three feet off the cavern floor. Sitting between the support columns, the pool took up the entire center of the cavern. Joseph wanted to take a closer look at this wonder but Tyrus led him to a wide fireplace instead. A fire crackled in a nearby alcove, cut right into the cavern’s wall; smoke disappeared up a narrow shaft.

“Our Hall of Illumination,” Tyrus told his young charge. He spoke more loudly, above the sound of the falling water. “It is the meeting place of the king’s guard. Here, the torches here are never allowed to die, even during the day.”

As he listened, Joseph took in the sights of the hall in silence. Many large rooms opened into the great hall; in each stood tables covered in scrolls, maps, charts and sometimes a dagger weighing down a pile of papers. Dozens of men in gray cloaks grouped around various tables; each seemed deep in discussion over a map or a sea chart, or a scroll covered in writing. To his surprise, Joseph saw a few monks in among them, walking as if equal with the soldiers.

Above the open door of each room--embedded in the wall of the main hall--hung a different shield. Joseph recognized one such insignia as the symbol of his own province. Ten provinces were in the kingdom he knew. Joseph counted ten rooms. Poor with larger numbers, he guessed there were about sixty of the gray-cloaked soldiers both in the rooms and in the main hall. Some sat on the edge of the pool; some walked quickly in and out of the rooms with parchments; others stood by the fireplaces with mugs of ale, talking to one another.

Joseph stood near the fire, warming himself. Through all the noise and activity the pleasant aroma of roasting meat came stealing to the boy. Tearing his eyes from the wondrous hall Joseph looked into the fireplace. A large, savory fish turned on a spit over the flames.

“Is the little man hungry?” asked a cheerful voice.

Turning, Joseph beheld a monk; his eyes held an amused look. With a smile he walked towards the fireplace, a small wooden bowl in his hand. Leaning down by the spit the monk pushed up his sleeves, sprinkled a small amount of salt judiciously on the fish and turned the spit once. Looking sideways at the boy, the monk smiled again.

“Smells good?” he asked. Joseph nodded, ready to tackle the entire fish himself. The monk chuckled.
“I hear you have great courage for one so small,” said he. “But do you have the skill to catch your own lunch?” He pointed toward the marvelous pool.

“We each must bring our own meat to the king’s table. Here...” The monk handed Joseph a light spear, with a length of rope attached to the end of its handle. “You’ll need this.”
Joseph looked down at the spear in his hand and then over at Tyrus. His guide sat down at a nearby table and grinned at him.

“Go on, Joseph Asher,” he said, nodding. “Bring back a good, fat fish and you shall eat.”

With hesitant steps Joseph walked over to the pool, spear in hand. As he neared the water he took in a quick breath. The rippling surface shone clear and beautiful over blue stone tiles--cut into perfectly fitted squares--lining the bottom and sides of the pool. The water did not look very deep around the perimeter but--in the middle--Joseph could not see its bottom. Teeming with fish of all colors the water, itself, seemed alive. The fish looked well fed and swam with power around the blue-tiled depths. On the surface of the water--scattered like white flower petals--bobbed water lilies, glowing in the light from the shaft above.

A little turtle swam up close. Joseph made a face at it; he did not want to eat turtle. A plump, silver-scaled fish swam temptingly near to Joseph’s reach. Planting his feet firmly on the ground, he held the spear above his head and aimed for the retreating silver form. Throwing the spear took more strength than Joseph thought. Cool water splashed up as the shaft hit the pool’s surface. The fish swam away, unharmed. A few of the gray-cloaked men--sitting nearby on the pool’s wall--nudged each other, smiling.
Joseph saw the purpose of the rope. He pulled the spear back up, quickly wiping water droplets from his face with his sleeve. Gripping the top of the wall with one hand, Joseph readied the spear again. He threw it with all his force at another fish. The ensuing splash was larger but again, no fish. Joseph’s ears burned as he hauled the spear up once more. A wave of laughter went up from the few men standing or sitting nearby. Joseph set his jaw and looked for the next target with narrowed eyes.

“Here, Joseph Asher,” Tyrus’ voice came from behind him. “Let me show you how it is done.” Joseph stepped willingly aside, watching as the tall Shamar threw one side of his cloak over his shoulder.

Lowering his own spear into the water a little ways, Tyrus looked down into the water. He did not draw back the spear, but held it quite still. Joseph saw the fat, silver fish come nearby again, yet Tyrus did not move. The fish swam closer, then flitted away and then came swimming again right near the spearhead. With a quick lunge Tyrus thrust the spear through the fish, pinning it to the bottom of the pool. Amid a small cheer from his fellows, Tyrus held up the still wriggling fish and bowed slightly. Joseph managed a smile, himself, seeing it was a sport of some kind to the kings men. Handing the spear back to Joseph

Tyrus nodded towards the pool.

“I have caught my lunch, Master Asher,” he said. He paused, as if expecting a reply. Determination flooding back into his being, Joseph went to the pool wall once more. He lowered the spear as Tyrus had done. After two false lunges a large, glimmering red fish swam unexpectedly near. Closing his eyes as he pushed down, Joseph nearly fell in with the force he exerted on the spear. Opening one eye he saw the red fish was not swimming away, but struggled under his spear.

“Hey! He caught one!” a nearby soldier called out. “Push down harder boy, or it will get away!” Laughter and cheers rang from the others as Joseph hauled up the fish. Unwilling to handle the slippery, wriggling thing he proudly carried it--still on the spear--back to the fireplace. The monk smiled and took the spear and fish from the grinning boy.

He found Tyrus--seated at a table near the fire--next to a hooded Shamar.

“Well done,” Tyrus said, pointing to an empty chair. “Come sit while your food cooks.” Quietly, Joseph sat across from the cloaked stranger and scooted his chair in, still shaking water from his hands.

The newcomer sat as tall as Tyrus. He appeared to be watching Joseph from the depths of his hood. Joseph watched the fire, glancing at the man now and then. A close-cropped beard covered the man’s chin, but the cloak’s hood concealed his face.

“So, this is the boy who ran into the ivy square?” the stranger said.

As he spoke he leaned forward and pushed back his hood. Joseph nodded, studying the man’s face. The stranger’s brown eyes held a look of amusement. His noble face seemed unmarred save for a single scar, running from his cheekbone to his chin; more scars could be seen on the back of his hand, resting on the table. Glancing over at Tyrus’ hands Joseph noticed he, too, had scars; some went up the forearms, disappearing into the sleeve of his cloak. Joseph wondered where these men had fought and how they had come by these wounds. His father often told him that scars were visual reminders to soldiers--who had survived battles--that all men must die one day.

“What is your name?” the stranger asked, bringing Joseph out of his thoughts.

“Joseph Asher, sir.”

“I am Christopher,” the man told him. “I hear you have acted bravely this day, to get a message to us. You are... Lieutenant John Asher’s boy?”

Joseph nodded in reply, wondering how this man knew of his father. The stranger looked into the fire.

“Your father was loyal to the king... a good man. His death is an unfortunate loss to us.” He glanced back at Joseph. “Tyrus informs me you have a message for the King. I will take you to him, after you eat.” Christopher nodded at someone approaching the table. “Here is your food now.”

Turning, Joseph saw the monk drawing near again, bearing a plate in each hand. One he set in front of Tyrus; the other he placed by Joseph. Roasted fish steamed up a wonderful scent; piled next to the met were crisp potatoes and a thick slice of bread, with butter on it. His eyes bright Joseph picked up his fork to begin eating. The men opposite chuckled a little at his eagerness.

“We must pray,” said Christopher, sobering. “We must thank God for this food, blessed be His name.”
“Blessed be His name,” repeated Tyrus.
Not accustomed to prayer at meals, Joseph laid the fork back down.

“I have never prayed at meals, sir,” he admitted. “I don’t know how.” Christopher’s eyes held an amused look as he looked at the boy. He leaned forward and bent his head down slightly.

“Say this with me,” he said quietly. “God of life, and giver of Grace through your son, the Christ. We give thanks...”
Joseph repeated in his little voice, but noticed how the room began to quiet down; the activity stopped and the entire hall was still, save for the waterfall. “We give you thanks for this food”, continued Christopher, “That you have provided. For the mercies that you bestow to us we are truly grateful. Bless our King and may he bow his heart to you always, and we as his servants.” All those in the hall--with one voice--said: “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” Awed by the sound of the united voices, Joseph looked around the room as the men returned to their labors.

Christopher raised a mug to his lips, studying Joseph’s alert face.

“Eat, Joseph,” he said, kindly. “You still have much to tell us.” Looking across the table, Joseph saw Tyrus already eating. Taking up the bread, the boy ate with such enjoyment that only the hungry know.
After a few moments the friendly monk brought a mug of warm ale for Joseph. Staring at the cup, Joseph swallowed his mouthful and looked up at the man.

“I am not of age to drink ale, sir,” he told him. The monk chuckled.

“It is not exactly ale, my young friend,” he said. “It is mostly honey and water.” The monk walked away, saying over his shoulder, “but take care you don’t drink it by itself; it is good tasting but bitter to the stomach.”

Pushing away his empty plate, Tyrus began a low conversation with Christopher. Joseph listened as he ate, catching a word here and there. Waiting until Tyrus had paused in his conversation, Joseph spoke up.

“Who are the Shamar?” he asked, trying to sound more confident than he felt. The two men looked at him across the table.

“A question of interest,” Tyrus stated, leaning back in his chair comfortably. “We are the King’s servants... those who enforce his interests and gather information to protect the King and his people.”
Joseph contemplated the man’s words for a moment.

“My father never spoke of them before,” he returned. Tyrus cleared his throat.

“Secrecy is our greatest defense,” he replied. “The Shamar mingle in the armies, in trades all around the Kingdom and even among the priests and Senate. We are known only by the ring we carry; it bears the seal of the King.”

“My father told me that the man who gave him the message commanded him to bring it here,” Joseph said, gravely. “It was as if he outranked him.” Nodding, Tyrus sat forward.

“The seal we carry bears with it the authority of the King,” he explained. “Only the King , himself, or the High Marshals can overrule its command. Now finish eating.”

A few minutes later Christopher and Tyrus rose up and moved to leave. Joseph swallowed his last bite and followed, nodding his thanks to the monk by the fireplace. On the far side of the hall--past the great pool and the other province rooms--stood two bronze doors, each standing taller than Joseph’s house in Rishown. As Tyrus and Christopher approached, two Shamar slowly pulled one of the heavy doors open. A long, winding staircase rose before them. Christopher led the small party upwards. They climbed for what seemed an eternity to Joseph.

Finally the staircase straightened out. A window, high up on the wall came into view; the natural, bright light made Joseph squint until his eyes adjusted. As they came to the end of the stairs, the light increased. A long, white corridor of polished stone greeted them, with windows along the wall about four feet off the floor. Looking out the windows Joseph could see grass growing and realized that the windows were nearly at ground level, maybe a foot above it. A lush, beautiful garden could be seen outside, full of blossoms. Lawns and trees met the eye as far as the window’s edge permitted one to see. The corridor ended at another set of bronze doors guarded by more gray-cloaked men, standing with swords drawn. Without a word they opened up a door and let the trio through.

The room beyond was not as large as the Hall of Illumination, but it seemed almost as striking. The ceiling domed upwards, made entirely of small windows held in place with an intricate pattern of wrought iron Sunlight flooded into the space. Large, arched windows stood in the wall on all sides of the room, set near to the ground. A curious, green light emanated from these. A solid mass of trees and shrubbery, flowers and vines grew outside, hiding the windows. The only way to see directly into this room was from above, and only birds flew that high. Two fireplaces on opposite sides of the room warmed the giant space; a large, golden-haired dog slept peacefully in front of the nearest of these. All kinds of weaponry lined the walls: spears, swords, shields and curiously shaped daggers hung on brackets, as if meant for use at a moment’s notice. Brightly colored banners hung down from the massive rafters along the walls. Polished black and white marble tiles made up the floor beneath Joseph’s feet.

As his eyes adjusted to the light Joseph saw a throne against one wall, an arched window on either side. No gold overlay or gemstones could he see on the throne, only carved wood--burnished to a shine--and fine velvet cushions.

“Joseph.”

Tyrus called to him as he stood by the nearest fireplace, indicating for his young charge to draw near. After the cold of the cavern and tunnels, Joseph felt glad to warm his hands by the crackling flames; he saw the wisdom of the long, woolen cloaks. Thoughts of home came stealing into his mind, of sitting near the small hearth of his home at his father’s knee, listening to stories of battles long ago. Closing his eyes, he could almost hear his father’s voice. Moisture gathered in his eyes his once more; quickly, he wiped them with his sleeve, as if to remove a speck.

Other voices echoed in the room. Joseph heard Christopher, speaking to someone behind them, nearer the throne. Turning to look, Joseph’s eyes grew wide. Christopher handed his gray cloak to a servant and then sat down... upon the king’s throne. As Joseph stared another servant stepped up with a pillow, bearing a small, glistening crown, gold--wrought in an intricate design. Taking the crown Christopher put it squarely on his head. He looked at Joseph and beckoned for him to approach.

Realizing he stood in the presence of the king, Joseph feared to even move. After a moment, he felt Tyrus nudge his shoulder just a little, encouraging him to move closer.

“A small bow, young Joseph,” came his whispered instructions. Joseph awkwardly complied.

“Now,” said the king. “Tell me what brought you here... and everything you were told.” Stuttering a little as he spoke, Joseph fixed his eyes on the King’s crown and told of his father’s coming to them, wounded, of the doctor and the captain’s words and of the four priests. The King--leaning on one elbow--listened intently.

“Wait,” he interrupted. “Tell me again of when your father warned you. Whom did he speak of?”
Joseph searched his mind for the exact words. His father’s face came up before him; the urgency of the whispered words flooded the boy’s mind. Tears filled his eyes but he blinked them away.

“He said that the readers of the runes killed his men. Then, he said that they would invade us.”

At these words, the King sat up straighter. Tyrus drew in a sharp breath and lines creased his dark brow.

“Show me the message, and the ring,” the king instructed; his tone sounded far more serious than Joseph had yet heard it. A servant came over at once; he took the items from Joseph’s hand and gave them to the king. Taking out a small knife, the king slit the blood-spattered oilskin and unfolded the parchments inside. He spent some moments reading to himself, breaking now and then to look at the ring of the dead Shamar. At last he stood, walked over to Tyrus and handed him the message.

“Inform the men,” he said, simply. Tyrus bowed and walked quickly out the way they came. The king and Joseph were left alone.

All tension in the room seemed to leave with the message. The king drew in a long breath and walked over to the fireplace. Hesitantly, Joseph followed. Together, they stared into the flames a few moments in silence.

“In all my years,” the king said, after a minute, “I have never seen someone--as young as you--act so bravely.” He glanced down at Joseph. The boy’s serious brown eyes returned his scrutiny without fear. “It was by merest chance that you made it up those stairs at all.”
Joseph swallowed hard as the king spoke. He did not know exactly how to reply. The king did not seem to need one. “Was your father sending you to academy when you turn thirteen?” he asked.

“No, sire,” Joseph answered. “My father has me apprenticed to a blacksmith.” An amused look entered the king’s eyes. He turned his gaze back to the flames.

“Then a blacksmith you shall be,” he said. “But first, the feeding of the mind. I will send you to a different school and when you are ready, you will attend Palmadore Academy. It is a school for soldiers not far from here; there they teach military tactics and weaponry.” The king glanced at Joseph as he spoke. “Become skilled in the trade of a smith--as your father wished--but, also, you will be trained as a knightly swordsman. It is my wish that you join the military, but not as an officer. A common soldier is of more use to me. Even the bravest man must earn his honor.”

The king paused in his speech a moment. “You will not return home, but, do not fear... I will send for your mother on the morrow, as well as your things. Is she skilled in a craft?”

“A.... dressmaker, sire,” Joseph answered, a little awed by his sudden good fortune. In his mind, he pictured himself as a yeoman swordsman in some great battle.

“Good... the monks will find her a place in the village, near the school.” The king seemed satisfied with his plans. “One of my carriages will take you there now. Your living quarters will be ready, upon your arrival.”

Joseph looked at the king’s face for a moment.

“Sire, how do you know of my father?” he asked, without thinking. "He wasn't a general, not even a captain." He bit his lip, hoping the king would not be insulted by the question. Instead, the king turned to him.

“I have eyes and ears in every corner of my kingdom,” he said, “as Tyrus told you, in every trade, in the highest aristocracy, in the army and even in other lands. The army protects the Kingdom from invaders, but my Shamar--I have chosen to protect the just and righteous--and the fatherless and widows-- before Almighty God.” The king reached out and touched the carved mantelpiece. “This battle--that your father fought, with his men--was predicted by one of my Shamar. This message, that John Asher carried away was of great significance to the enemies of the Kingdom.”

“Battle?” asked Joseph. “We are at war?”

The king smiled.

“Yes, Joseph ... but, not always from  outside our borders.”

At that moment, the servant re-entered the throne room. Bowing, he approached and spoke quietly to his liege. The matter appeared of some great importance; the king straightened up and his face grew serious once again.

“I must attend to official matters, young Joseph.” He looked down on the boy and patted him on the shoulder. “Be studious; learn all you can... even from those who are less desirable company. Remember that even your enemy can teach if one knows how to learn. Speak to no one of what you have seen and heard here. Trust and obey... we shall meet again.” With this, he turned and walked from the throne room, leaving his servant behind.

“Come,” said the man. “This way.”

Walking towards the wall, the servant opened a small, side door. Joseph stepped through and found himself enveloped by the scents and sights of the king’s garden. Not much time was there to enjoy it, however; the servant walked briskly ahead and Joseph scrambled to follow him. Trees and shrubs of every shape and size, stood here  and there. In front of these stood rows of rows bushes, lining the path. Around the bases of the roses sat masses of black, shining stones, each the size of a gold coin. Joseph had never seen stones of such a nature. Stooping down, he picked up one that had strayed from its place on the path.

“I have never seen rocks like these,” Joseph said as he followed the servant.

“They are not of Earth,” the servant replied, still walking ahead. “A large rock fell from the sky a hundred years ago. It shattered into these smaller pieces you see here. They are found no other place. Keep that one, if you like.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joseph said, putting the stone into his pocket.

The servant led him through several more gates, corridors. They walked through an immensely long stable filled with tall, fine horses and a few donkeys. Working stable-hands stared after the boy as he followed the king’s servant. The man ushered him quickly to another door. As he walked through, Joseph wondered if opening and closing doors took up most of everyone’s time in the castle.

Finally, they stepped out into a shaded, cobbled courtyard surrounded by short turrets and thick walls. A large, bubbling fountain sat in its center, and by it a carriage waited. It looked just like the ones Joseph had seen rich men riding in. Drawn curtains covered the windows of the carriage. A footman opened the carriage door and stood, waiting for him to enter.

Inside, the dim light could not hide the fineness of the carriage; a soft, furry material covered the seats. Brushing his hands over it admiringly, he felt the carriage start to move. Moving over to one window, Joseph lifted one corner of the curtains. They swiftly left the courtyard, passed through two gates and in no time jostled down the road to the castle wall’s gate, to go back down the mountain. Settling back against the seat, he shook his head a little in disbelief, comparing the way he had come up the mountain to how he was going down it. He wondered how his father would have viewed him riding in the King’s carriage, going to a school that rich boys went to, in fine clothes and speaking to the King himself.

Letting the curtain fall, he sat back. He did not look out again until the feel of the road beneath changed; the stones felt rougher. Peering out the curtain, Joseph saw tall stone buildings all around. Joseph scooted across the seat, looking first out one window and then the other. There were not as many people here as the gate by which he’d entered the city, only a few carts here and there.

The carriage slowed and stopped as they passed through the south gate of the city. The mountains loomed high on the left as they drove through the gates. Sparkling blue water of the bay spread out to the right, as far as the eye could see. As the carriage rolled on, Joseph felt excitement well within him. He wondered what the school would be like and what his mother would say when the king’s servants told her the good news. Despite his whirling thoughts the constant sway of the carriage and the sound of the horse’s hooves on the flagstones began to lull Joseph to sleep. For a few moments he struggled against it--wanting to stay awake and watch--but eventually the boy fell fast asleep, considerably more comfortable than in his last slumber.

Twilight filled the carriage as Joseph awoke. Rubbing his eyes, the boy sat up. Peering out the curtained window Joseph could barely make out the bay in the gathering dark; black waters lapped the shore a stone’s throw from the road. A small market basket sat on the seat opposite him, lid closed. Scooting forward a bit Joseph unfastened the lid. The smell of fresh bread rose to greet him; inside lay baked rolls--tucked into a clean cloth--a few, round apples and a flask of water.

Closing the lid again Joseph spied a small door--above the seat--where one could communicate with the driver. Sliding the door over he saw the driver; now and then the man flicked at the horses with a long, thin stick. A gray-cloaked man sat next to him, his back to Joseph.

“Please, sir,” Joseph began. “Is this your dinner on the seat?” The driver shook his head;  the cloaked man did not move.

“Eat, young man,” came a voice. Joseph guessed the gray-cloaked man had spoken. “It will be a long while before we arrive at the monastery.” Settling back inside the carriage, Joseph ate of the rolls and fruit. He looked out the windows almost constantly. A small foothill rose in the distance--next to the bay; at its crest twinkled lights, far across the water.

The last colors of sunset faded as the first star glowed brightly in the darkening sky. Lights on the farthest hill shone a little brighter with each minute that passed. The pace of the horses slowed; they began to canter uphill. The carriage bumped and jostled about the uneven road. Lamp lights grew near, and then surrounded the carriage. Still onward and higher they went. Finally,  the carriage drove under a large, stone gate with raised portcullis and jolted to a halt.

Looking out the carriage window Joseph beheld a massive stone monastery. A broad staircase descended from its gray entrance; a tall tower stood to one side. Torches lit the courtyard; monks walked in pairs up the staircase, acting as if they saw fine carriages every day. Quiet voices and the sounds of shuffling feet reached Joseph’s ears, but--in the distance--he heard gentle waves, breaking along the shore.
In spite of his new clothes Joseph felt inadequate to step out into this other world. The carriage door opened, however. A gray-cloaked man stood without, beckoning to him. A monk drifted close as Joseph stepped out; he eyed the pale boy and glanced at the Shamar beside him. Without a word, the gray-cloaked man handed the monk a parchment, bearing the seal of the King. The monk read it quickly, in the torchlight, then nodded to the King’s guard.

“You can stable the horses with ours tonight,” the monk told the Shamar. “I’ll show the boy to his room.”
The gray-cloaked man left Joseph with the monk as he directed the driver.

Silently the monk led him up the front stair into the high stone entrance. They passed doors that opened to the nave of a chapel. The monk led Joseph through an open door and up a long, circular flight of stairs. They climbed a long time, and Joseph realized they were going up the tower. They passed door after door before the monk finally stopped at the last one, the end of the stairs.

“Here is your room,” he told the boy as he opened the door.

The small, circular room beyond had but a single window, a bed to one side, a small trunk and a study desk... with a single candle on it. Three--shelves cut out of the stone wall above the desk--harbored a few stacked books. A tiny fireplace held lit, glowing embers consuming the last of a slender stick of wood. Stepping past the monk, Joseph glanced at every surface, lingering by the window. He turned to ask the monk a question, but the man was gone. Going to the open door Joseph saw a shadow descending the stair, disappearing from sight a moment later.

Taking a deep breath Joseph shut the door. He sat on the bed, pleased to find it comfortable. Only a small draft--blowing in through some unseen crack--disturbed the quietness in the tower room. The fire crackled and popped; Joseph felt comforted by the sound of it. He closed his eyes, imagining--for just a moment--that he sat near his father’s chair by their own hearth. Letting out a long breath, Joseph blew out the candle and put himself to bed. He drifted off to sleep wondering if his mother had received word of him, yet.

---------

Purchase your own copy of The Road to the King on Amazon. Thank you.

Author's Note

Reviews encouraged. If you enjoyed this sample, make your way to the vast land of Amazon, and search for Steven Styles, to purchase your own copy of The Road to the King: http://www.amazon.com/Steven-Styles/e/B00I7XOUT4

Reviews

[Lucid Silence]

I'm really really loving this so far. I'm already making plans to get this tomorrow at the BAM a little while away. Great job!