They passed the busiest parts of the castle and ventured into parts he hadn't yet seen. The stone corridors echoed with their footsteps. The suits of armor periodically posted like ghostly sentinels became dustier and lacked the exquisite polish of the main halls. The tapestries hanging from the walls that depicted battles and myths from Reach history became faded and moth-bitten around the edges. But still, Wren led them on.
At length, she pointed to a doorway. "Know where that leads?"
He tried picturing where they were from outside the castle. "A tower?"
She nodded. "Usually, a magister of the Warlocks' Circle occupies it, to be on hand to advise and assist the King. But right now, it's Kaleras who's taken up residence."
"Kaleras? The Warlock of Canturith?"
"Is there any other? But we don't want to go in there — he'd probably blow us up before we'd crossed the threshold. This way."
The hallway she led him down now was as dusty as any he'd seen and seemed to lead nowhere. But when they reached a wide window, Wren pressed her hands around the edges, found a latch, and swung it noiselessly open.
"Someone keeps the hinges oiled," he observed.
"My father showed me this spot. Look — you have to see the view!"
Garin watched apprehensively as she opened the window wider to a gust of wind and stepped out. Peering out after her, he saw a narrow ledge, no more than two feet wide, just outside the window. His stomach did flips watching Wren slide nimbly out onto it.
She looked back and saw him hesitating inside. "Don't be a cat in a stable! Come on!"
He set his jaw. If I can face three ghouls, I can step out of a window. Besides, he knew he'd never live it down if he didn't follow her now.
"Just don't look down while you're moving!" Wren shouted over the wind. "And lean toward the wall!"
Knowing there was nothing for it, Garin held his breath and stepped out. A squall billowed around him, unsettling his balance. For one thrilling moment, he thought it would sweep him from his feet and send him tumbling far, far below. Then he leaned toward the castle and felt the pressure of cold stone beneath his hands and exhaled shakily.
Wren's hand closed over his arm. "Don't worry — I have you."
As she held onto him like a mother her small child, he felt it should have bruised his pride, but he found it hard to mind.
A dozen feet past the window, the ledge widened just enough to be comfortable. Wren settled down, feet dangling over the edge, and Garin sat cautiously next to her. He breathed another sigh of relief and was glad when Wren didn't take her hand away from his arm.
She pointed with her free hand. "Now look!" she said with a wild grin. "Didn't I say you had to see it?"
Garin looked out. Halenhol stretched out in all directions below them, a checkered landscape of red, tan, and orange roofs. Tens of thousands of people — hundreds of thousands, even — lived there below him, all of them with their cares and concerns, with only this city held in common. Miles away, the city walls rose white and gleaming in the sunlight, and beyond that, the gold and green fields of farms were on colorful display. A shining river ran through them, stretching to the distant forested hills where the Ruins of Erlodan hid. The hills receded into a blue haze, then seemed to fall off the World altogether. Above them, puffy white clouds, like giant tufts of wool from the largest sheep ever bred, dotted the berry-blue sky.
"Night take me," he breathed.
She leaned closer to him and spoke in his ear over the incessant gale. "Father would take me here sometimes when the winds had died down. He'd play the lute and sing songs of far-off places. Often, he sang of your secret father. Always was proud of composing his legend."
Garin gave a low laugh. "Tal's not my father."
Despite the scene stretching before him, his mood grew somber as he thought of his actual father. When he'd last seen him, he'd been four, and Father had knelt before him, told him to be good for his mother, then ruffled his hair and left for war. He'd been sure he'd return, sure as only young children could be.
But he hadn't.
"What were you thinking of?" Wren asked.
"My real father. How he looked the last time I saw him." He glanced sidelong at her, conscious of her warmth pressed against his side. "Do you ever wonder about your mother?"
He felt her shrug against his shoulder. "Sometimes. I've asked Father about her twice, but he never had much to say beyond what I've already told you. They didn't know each other well. It was just…" She shrugged again. "An accident."
"Accidents don't have to be bad."
"Oh?" She arched an eyebrow at him. "And was I a good or bad accident?"
Her hand that wasn't holding his arm was resting on the leg closest to him. As he reached to take it in his, he felt braver than he had when he'd stood against the ghouls.
"We'll see," he said with a slow grin.
Tal stopped before the door to the east tower. Long had he loathed stepping foot within towers, and long had he avoided it. Too many dark memories within rooks had led him to skirt around them when he could. But now, he knew it couldn't be helped.
Taking a breath to master himself, he knocked.
The silence stretched for several long moments. He was just about to knock again when a man's voice, aged but strong, called out, "Come in!"
He tentatively set his hand to the handle, half expecting it to catch on fire, and pushed the door open.
The man sat facing the opposite wall, a desk before him filled with an assortment of strange objects. Books with strange drawings. Vials filled with unidentifiable fleshy parts. Glass orbs with white, feathery substances suspended within them. A glance around showed the rest of the tower filled with similarly odd items. Tal's lips curled. If he hadn't already known who occupied the east tower, their surroundings would have been clue enough.
"I'm disappointed," he said to break the silence. "I thought you'd set better defenses than that."
"I did," Kaleras said without turning. "But you've forced me to dismantle them."
Tal stepped further in. Despite the hour of the morning, the tower was dimly illuminated, for Kaleras had drawn curtains over many of the narrow windows. The spiral staircase that ran around the edge of the tower ascended into shadow.
"What is it with magicians and towers?" Tal wondered aloud. "Do they need everyone to not only look up to them figuratively, but physically?"
"The farther we can see, the farther our workings reach."
Tal peered over the warlock's shoulder to see he did nothing more mystical than writing a letter, and in ordinary ink. "A lover's correspondence?" he said, spiking the words with hidden intent.
Kaleras set the quill back in its stand and turned to face him. His hair, once a tawny red mane, had faded to a thinning silver curtain hanging past his shoulders. His face still retained some of his handsome features, but age, scars, and a magician's worries had lined and hollowed it, and his skin hung loosely about his jowls.
"This is a strange way to begin a thank you," the warlock said finally.
"And why should I thank you?"