The Supreme Warrior *2014 ABNA Contest 2nd Round*

CHAPTER 8: Alynde's Choice

EIGHT: Alynde’s Choice

Reality is a broken Mirror scattered into the grasp of many Men. The Supreme Warrior looks into the Hand of his Enemy and Adapts. The Foolish Warrior closes his Fist, and Bleeds.

—Caraazor 7:7 The Alchemy of War

The events of the last few moments left Cal with a great need for advice. After the endless complex lectures that Immel had inflicted upon his childhood, he believed the tutor might be the only person who could extract a semblance of reason from the confusion.

Cal entered the small door at the base of Immel’s slim spire. He groped in near darkness until he found the foot of the stone staircase that wound up the hollow tube of the tower. Slowly, he climbed. No windows relieved the darkness of the stairwell. The only light bled from cracks between the floorboards at the top. Strangely, the darkness comforted him.

At the top landing, a trapdoor constructed of rough planks lashed together by dark iron bands capped the enclosure. With a great heave, he pushed it open and climbed the attached ladder. Blinding sunlight assaulted his eyes. Cal’s eyelids slammed shut to protect his abused irises.

After a few moments, the nearly-blinded young man dared to crack open his eyes. As the white afterimage faded from his blasted mind, he took in his surroundings in a weak attempt to regain his equilibrium.

Six large picture windows, separated by thin columns of stone, formed the walls of Immel’s chamber. A magnificent confection of cut glass formed the equally transparent roof. When Cal’s great-grandfather, Aldon II, had built the Crystal Tower, it had been a wonder. Nevertheless, the exposed room froze with cold during the winter and shone painfully bright during the summer. This transparent perch now belonged to Immel. The tutor was the only man in Grelig’s household who chose to suffer the misery of living in the room at the pinnacle. He spent many long nights in the tower staring at the night sky, tracking the movements of the heavens.

Cal found his tutor looking out the east window.

“Why do the Barons fight?”

Dreamily, the tutor responded, “What do you mean?” Immel did not even bother turning his gaze from the window.

Cal sing-songed fragmented sentences in a tone intended to win attention from imbeciles (or distracted geniuses), “The Barons. They endlessly kill each other. Why?”

Immel’s voice turned sharp and analytical, instead of foggy. “Calidon, you do not understand the forces involved. To lay a proper foundation, I will have to explain the history of...”

“Give me a real answer!” he yelled. “One that means something...in the real world!”

Immel’s retort matched anger with anger. “You want Reality?” he rhetorically demanded. The tutor jabbed the forefinger of his shrunken right hand toward the east window. “That’s Reality!”

Cal looked out of the window where Immel’s bony right index finger pointed. He saw nothing but green fields.

“What do you see?” demanded Immel. His voice was a whip.

“I...I don’t kn...” stammered Cal.

“Look closer!” The tutor shook his wasted arm for emphasis. “What do you see?”

His dim vision made out a dozen or so circles of people, each holding a brightly colored banner that connected to a maypole in the center. They laughed and cavorted. They spun on the grass like lazy tops.

Cal’s bewildered answer came grudgingly, “They... They’re running around a may-pole.”

Immel had confused him once again. Why should I care about idiots gone a maying?