The Tower of Bashan Read Free Page A

Caelic side of the valley, the jungles of Juntark faded into a lush, hilly landscape.
    How is this possible? Sorcery?
    Only now did Andrasta fully believe the stories her mother once told. No longer did they seem like fairy tales with their foreign descriptions.
    Skylarks sang as a warm breeze danced across her face. She shielded her eyes from the glare of the morning sun as it reflected off retreating fog. In the distance, tiny rows of trees decorated hilltops. White specks she thought might be sheep moved slowly inside low, stone walls that crisscrossed each other. Farther out, the faint gray outline of her grandfather’s castle stood against the horizon.
    She breathed deeply. It even smells different. Cleaner.
    Despite having gone without sleep the night before, the excitement of walking the land her mother once knew gave Andrasta energy. She climbed back into the saddle and made for the castle.
    Farmers paused warily as she passed them, griping their tools of trade in a way that said they were ready to defend themselves. Young children working the fields ran away or hid at their parents’ sides. Already, she felt unwelcomed.
    By midday, she reached her grandfather’s castle. A ten-foot granite wall boxed in the large, square keep behind it. Small towers jutted out from the corners of the wall with a fifth protecting the gate. According to her mother’s stories, the castle was small and unimpressive by Cael’s standards, but to Andrasta it loomed large. Her father’s home was one of the few among the Juntarkan tribes that consisted of mostly stone. Even then, the walls protecting Kanu’s palace were made of felled timber.
    Two guards greeted her. They wore mail similar to her own, but each paled in stature to the warriors of the Dawaro tribe. Fear and uncertainty shone brightly in eyes peeking out from their bowl-shaped helms.
    She remembered her brother’s words. They do hide behind their armor. They aren’t as large, or from the look of things, half as fierce, as a warrior from the Dawaro tribe.
    “Who goes there?” asked one of the guards.
    Andrasta remembered the lessons her mother had taught her about the Caelic language and replied slowly, doing her best to enunciate each word. “My name is Andrasta, from the Dawaro tribe. I wish to speak to Lord Dacey.”
    “You are a messenger, then?”
    “Of a sort.”
    “What is your message?”
    “Are you Lord Dacey?” she asked, trying to place the right amount of annoyance on the foreign words.
    “No.”
    “Then why am I still talking to you?”
    The guards exchanged looks. “Wait here,” said the other. “We’ll let his lordship know of your arrival.”
    Later, an older man with more salt than pepper in his beard, and neither atop his head, rode out atop a white horse. The older man and the half dozen guards flanking him wore dark blue tunics emblazoned with a red sun.
    Andrasta knew her grandfather immediately. Mother looked so much like him. She dismounted quickly and took a knee. “Lord Dacey.”
    Lord Dacey grunted. “You might be the first Juntarkan messenger to arrive at my doorstep and show me any respect. You’re also the first I’ve seen dressed with any civility. As well as the first woman.” He paused. “Rise. Let’s hear Kanu’s message. I assume it’s about the food shortages we’ve heard about.”
    She rose slowly and grasped for how to begin. All her life she had imagined meeting her grandfather, yet confronted with the situation, her tongue felt heavy.
    “Well, what is it? I’ve not got all day to sit out here.”
    “I was hoping we might speak in private. The message is of a delicate matter.”
    “Delicate? From Kanu?”
    “The message is not from Kanu, my lord. It is from me.”
    “You?”
    Andrasta felt the piercing stare of blue eyes she once found comfort in as a girl when they belonged to her mother. “You see, I am your daughter’s child. Your granddaughter.”
    One of the guards coughed. Dacey’s eyes narrowed.