Read Online Keeper of the Eye (The Eye of the Sword Book 1) by Mark Shane - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Shane
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improbable. Timmaron was not like Valan. Those crazy zealots killed magichae on sight. Yet this very day he had plucked King Darin’s decree from Belfor’s saddlebags declaring all magichae be arrested. A far cry from Valan’s treatment, but a step closer regardless. Baldwin found himself wishing King Edwin, Darin’s father, still lived. Darin’s youthful exuberance was taking the country in a direction Baldwin did not like.
The door loomed before him. He had seen something evil tonight. He still had a hard time comprehending nightstalkers running loose in the world, and a close friend was tied to it somehow. He hesitated, hand on the door. Hard decisions lay at hand. He feared them, a foreign feeling for him. Difficult decisions were part of being a leader, but these decisions involved a deep friendship and a debt he could not repay.
Footsteps echoed up the stairway. “Is everything well, Sir?” Stren asked, emerging from the dimming light.
“I’m afraid everything is about to change, and ‘well’ is a word I doubt we’ll use for some time.”
Stren nodded. "Nothing remains the same, sir. The tempest of battle looms but I go where you go."
Baldwin chastised himself for stalling. Stren’s faith was worthy of more competent leadership. “Come, my friend, we have a story to hear.”
Baldwin’s stomach turned with apprehension as he opened the door. His sparsely decorated chambers accentuated the life of a soldier rather than being an escape from it. Only a few colorful banners depicting famous battles livened the stark gray walls. The Baldwin family coat of arms, a hawk with claws bared on a white banner, rested above the fireplace. Sconces hung in their rings on the walls, and the fire had recently been stirred to life, but neither helped to ease the ominous edge from the room.
Garen sat picking at a knot in the table with his fingernail. Next to him, Michael stared blankly into the fire, his mind far from his body. Across the cherry wood table, Falon sat sharpening a throwing knife. Under different circumstances, he would have been very interested in learning how a girl her age managed to look so regal and dangerous at the same time. Max sat at the opposite end of the long table waiting patiently. Baldwin’s anger had not subsided much, so some distance was probably good.
Sitting down, looking at no one particular, he removed his gloves with deliberate slowness. His questions must be precise, without emotion getting in the way and silence was his ally. Thick, almost oppressive, the uncomfortable silence should help him get to the bottom of the night’s events.
He glanced at Garen then Michael. What was the lad’s role in this? Did it involve his son? Certainly not! Both were good boys. Neither would willingly have anything to do with such darkness. Would Max for that matter? His gaze shifted to Falon. He knew nothing of her except she was a foreigner. Her appearance was timely to say the least. Her eyes met his with fire and determination. Strangely, he had the feeling she had seen more battles than many of his men.
Finally, he set his gaze on Max. The healer had appeared one day and took up residence. How long ago had it been? Garen was one, so that would make it sixteen years now. He had quickly established himself as a skilled healer, making the rounds in Whitewater’s Forge and other nearby towns. Wounds and illnesses seemed to offer no challenge to him, even some Baldwin would have thought beyond the abilities of a healer.
One summer Garen had been struck with Valutian fever. His skin burned like fire and red welts covered his body. Even submerged in cold water did little to cool the fever. Few people survived the fever, and Garen’s chances appeared all but gone with Max away in Almanthor. Baldwin had sent his swiftest rider to fetch Max, but an eight-year-old stood little chance of fighting such an illness. Then Max arrived late in the night surprisingly unworn from a fast and hard
The door loomed before him. He had seen something evil tonight. He still had a hard time comprehending nightstalkers running loose in the world, and a close friend was tied to it somehow. He hesitated, hand on the door. Hard decisions lay at hand. He feared them, a foreign feeling for him. Difficult decisions were part of being a leader, but these decisions involved a deep friendship and a debt he could not repay.
Footsteps echoed up the stairway. “Is everything well, Sir?” Stren asked, emerging from the dimming light.
“I’m afraid everything is about to change, and ‘well’ is a word I doubt we’ll use for some time.”
Stren nodded. "Nothing remains the same, sir. The tempest of battle looms but I go where you go."
Baldwin chastised himself for stalling. Stren’s faith was worthy of more competent leadership. “Come, my friend, we have a story to hear.”
Baldwin’s stomach turned with apprehension as he opened the door. His sparsely decorated chambers accentuated the life of a soldier rather than being an escape from it. Only a few colorful banners depicting famous battles livened the stark gray walls. The Baldwin family coat of arms, a hawk with claws bared on a white banner, rested above the fireplace. Sconces hung in their rings on the walls, and the fire had recently been stirred to life, but neither helped to ease the ominous edge from the room.
Garen sat picking at a knot in the table with his fingernail. Next to him, Michael stared blankly into the fire, his mind far from his body. Across the cherry wood table, Falon sat sharpening a throwing knife. Under different circumstances, he would have been very interested in learning how a girl her age managed to look so regal and dangerous at the same time. Max sat at the opposite end of the long table waiting patiently. Baldwin’s anger had not subsided much, so some distance was probably good.
Sitting down, looking at no one particular, he removed his gloves with deliberate slowness. His questions must be precise, without emotion getting in the way and silence was his ally. Thick, almost oppressive, the uncomfortable silence should help him get to the bottom of the night’s events.
He glanced at Garen then Michael. What was the lad’s role in this? Did it involve his son? Certainly not! Both were good boys. Neither would willingly have anything to do with such darkness. Would Max for that matter? His gaze shifted to Falon. He knew nothing of her except she was a foreigner. Her appearance was timely to say the least. Her eyes met his with fire and determination. Strangely, he had the feeling she had seen more battles than many of his men.
Finally, he set his gaze on Max. The healer had appeared one day and took up residence. How long ago had it been? Garen was one, so that would make it sixteen years now. He had quickly established himself as a skilled healer, making the rounds in Whitewater’s Forge and other nearby towns. Wounds and illnesses seemed to offer no challenge to him, even some Baldwin would have thought beyond the abilities of a healer.
One summer Garen had been struck with Valutian fever. His skin burned like fire and red welts covered his body. Even submerged in cold water did little to cool the fever. Few people survived the fever, and Garen’s chances appeared all but gone with Max away in Almanthor. Baldwin had sent his swiftest rider to fetch Max, but an eight-year-old stood little chance of fighting such an illness. Then Max arrived late in the night surprisingly unworn from a fast and hard
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