The Names Our Children Will Know

Starting Again - Draft One

Charles frowned at the chilly blankets of mist surrounding his tower. He knew his wisteria wouldn't like the mist crowding out its sunshine. The mist was pressing and heavy, not unlike the weight of being deep underwater. He murmured a reassuring word to the wisteria–as if the plant could understand him–and turned to go back inside to watch his protective curtain rise out of the ground and draw out the rest of that map he'd been working on.

Something kept bothering him, however. His job was to protect everyone in Bolifecalis from outside threats. When he had moved to the tower, his mentor had explained his duties–monitor the country, watch for threats to its citizens, and guard the map that could lead questers to what was supposedly left of the ancient spellbooks.

Colin Johnson, the man who had allegedly made the plague out of anesthetic and a little bit of magic leftover from when the world was a different place, was reportedly moving again. One informant said that he was in the ruins of Lilosh, one had mentioned Howling Beach, another had countered with the claim that he had been spotted at the local bar. No one seemed to know where exactly he was, but then again, Charles didn't expect anyone to really know anything about finding him.

The last people he had sent to find the plague man were dead.

Even so, it was worrying. The plague was bad enough, but compounded with its creator, nothing good could come of it. Charles had sent a pair of mapmakers to find Colin only a year ago, but Charles had heard nothing about the two of them since then. Colin had a vendetta against the world and enough motivation to keep him going through even the most trying of difficulties.

The shimmering curtain rose up on time to shield the tower, unimpeded by the mist. Charles nodded to himself, glad that there was still that to remain the same. The protective curtain had been there before Charles took up residence in the Tower, made to protect the man or woman living there while he or she protected the men and women of the country. Since no one really knew a lot about these enchantments, people tended to make up stories about the place.

Many people avoided the protective Tower because of a legend telling about the ghouls who haunted it, but Charles knew better. The place had been empty and abandoned when he and his mentor took up the mantle of protectors. It was lonely, with the wild wisteria growing up and around the tower, but Charles had quickly trimmed and tamed the vine when he first moved into the tower. If anything, that was all that haunted the tower–an impossibly tall wisteria tree, clutching at the stone walls like grasping hands.

The peace and silence surrounding the Tower was absolute. Charles knew that nothing could get through the barrier–so when the crunching thud against the wall of the barrier echoed into Charles' room where he was carefully copying out a cautionary letter to the queen of Boliecalis, he nearly jumped out of his skin. His calligraphy pencils held like daggers, Charles crept out of his tower and into the thick, soupy stillness that was held spellbound by the fog.

What he saw shocked him into real laughter for the first time in days. James Wesson, the man who had ordered the clever flyant woman and her little werian sister steal his map, had apparently been walking his horse through the fog and had run smack into his glowing barrier. Wesson was far less than pleased, and was saying so loudly and angrily, even if Charles couldn't hear him.

Charles tapped on the barrier, making it shimmer and ripple like he'd just dropped a pebble in a pond. Wesson jumped nearly three feet in the air. Tessa dropped into a fighting stance. Jordan ducked and covered her head. Charles grinned a little ghoulishly.

"Welcome back to the West Tower," he told them, gesturing to his spreading lawns. "Glad to see you're not dead yet."

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