The Trials of Ildarwood: Spectres of the Fall Read online

  Much to his amazement, though, no immediate dangers greeted him upon first setting foot inside. Despite the damaged state of the home’s exterior, each room Tannus could see was surprisingly well preserved, and an inexplicable warmth still lingered in the air. The fireplace was full of gray ash and cinders, but there were no visible signs of life, wild or otherwise, anywhere else to be found. The furniture, though dusty, was all in good condition, and while the house was certainly in need of countless repairs, it did not appear as though the elements had yet found their way in.

  Next to the living room, Tannus found an office with thick books upon its shelves. The only clean object hidden within was an aging board made of Ildarwood with a map of the town carved into it. On the table beside it, dozens of Ildarglass beads–each a different color, and every one unique in size and shape–were either scattered about or otherwise piled up into a heap.

  Proceeding down the hallway, Tannus came across a pantry whose door was wide open. It had been emptied of all but some dirty glass containers and a broom with barely any bristles left attached to its head. Even the kitchen was surprisingly intact, Tannus discovered, and somehow still clean enough to prepare a nice meal–not at all what he had expected.

  In the dining room sat an ornate table carved from a deep-red wood–dark cherry, Tannus assumed. Then his attention shifted to the crumbling Ildarwood tree nearby, which grew up through the center of the house. A staircase to the second floor still boxed it in–no doubt a perfect frame for the tree at some forgotten point long ago, when it had still had life.

  It was the first time Tannus had ever seen what happened when an Ildarwood tree was left to starve all on its own. Gently pressing his hand against its trunk, he was amazed to feel its heart still beating, weak though it was. As his brief touch breathed some small amount of life back into it, Tannus stared with amazement while a single Ildarglass pearl sprouted from its bark and gave off a warm golden glow.

  Directly above him, a tiny fading Ildarstar turned slowly in the Asterport on the roof. So long had it gone without nourishment that one might have easily mistaken it for a marble, and so tranquil was the scene beneath it that Tannus could have spent days there contemplating its history–that is, until the jarring clamor of metal pails colliding with the basement floor nearly arrested his heart.

  Hurrying back to the side hallway, he swiftly found the closed cellar door right beside the kitchen, yet as he stared down at the knob with deep apprehension, he feared whatever might await him on the other side. In truth, there was nothing in the world more terrifying to Tannus than a dark and creepy cellar, especially after years of hearing his gram’s scary stories.

  Thinking back to one sleepless night in particular, he recalled her saying with utmost sincerity that she had buried his grampy in her basement “’cause it was a whole lot cheaper than payin’ for a funeral.” Though Tannus knew she was fond of exaggeration, he had avoided any trips to her cellar ever since.

  Compelled by curiosity to continue, he clenched his sword tightly in one hand before opening the door as slowly as possible with the other. He was relieved for a moment when nothing leaped out to attack him, but then he very nearly gagged at the fetid stench of mildew that wafted up from the darkness. Still, he could not help but continue.

  After taking note of his need for light, Tannus held his free hand out in front of him and focused on the air just an inch above his palm. Then he squinted and forced himself to imagine a bright and mighty flame coming to life right there in the center. For untold seconds, he stood there, convinced of his inevitable success, until finally a few tiny particles swirled up and encircled each other in a silent yet elegant dance. The time had come. If Tannus was going to succeed, this was the precise moment when it would happen. Then he watched with anticipation as the particles combined at last, only to form the most embarrassing little ember poor Tannus had ever seen. “I guess that’s better than nothin’,” he whispered before beginning his slow descent, one creaky step at a time.

  With no more light to guide him than his meager Goldenfire creation could cast, Tannus paused at the bottom of the stairs to give his eyes some time to adjust to the new environment. Soon he could just about see the vast and veritable trove of antiquities awaiting him, with furniture and broken crates all piled up on top of each other in the darkness. Along the ceiling grew roots from the Ildarwood tree above, and on the walls nearby, a terrifying collection of rusting antique tools had been hung with meticulous precision. Among them were some so menacing in appearance that Tannus nearly fled at first sight of them.

  Every step he took from that point on made his heart beat faster, but only after walking past a tall and teetering stack of crates did he finally see something that caught his full attention. In the corner of the basement, behind a large cloth-covered shelf, Tannus found a pile of objects glowing faintly beneath a sheet. After sheathing his sword for a moment, he lifted the cloth with utmost caution and discovered a tarnished Ildarglass picture. Behind it, at least two dozen others had been stacked and stored with care, and in each and every one of them, Tannus found a group of smiling children standing in the Ildarwood staring back at him.

  Studying the pictures with immense curiosity, Tannus could feel the warmth in his heart growing as he allowed his gaze to linger. It was as if the children’s joy, frozen forever in time, still somehow radiated from the image and left a tingle upon his skin. Picture after picture he flipped through, amazed that someone had collected so many. It was such a rare gift, after all–the ability to capture a single moment so perfectly in Ildarglass–that only the richest families in Ranewood could usually afford the service.

  Kneeling down to inspect one of the pictures more closely, Tannus marveled at the level of detail. The image was not at all flat like a painting, he noticed. Instead, he very nearly felt as though he were somehow standing there, in that picture with those children the moment it was taken. And stranger still, Tannus found their smiles contagious.

  With one surprising find brightening his spirits, Tannus eagerly searched the clutter nearby for other hidden treasures long abandoned. His excitement only grew upon discovery of a nearby table stacked with books in different piles. Beside them, countless clippings from newspapers had been left to wither in the darkness. Tannus noticed a theme to the ones he could still read. Each headline was momentous, he realized, taking note of some grand event–a wedding, a new child, or an appointment to a prominent post, just to name a few. Even unexpected deaths were announced and detailed, one after another, in the stack.

  In the center of it all was a large, ornate book bound in leather. Silver embellishments weaved along the spine and edges, and it practically glowed as Tannus gazed upon it. No title could he see upon the cover, but there, on the very first page inside, he found a handwritten message left behind for any who happened across it:

  The Spirit of the Trials

  We enter the world as empty books, awaiting the stories within.

  Our authors write, both day and night, and so our stories begin.

  The chapters grow, and soon you know the way the story will end.

  A tale we haven’t read before, or the same old story again?

  I’ve read some books, if truth be told, with stories warm and bright.

  Their authors, very careful, took time to craft them right.

  And when their tales continued, once authors’ days were spent,

  Such joy they brought to readers, no matter where they went.

  Still other books I’ve come across had stories sad and bleak.

  With best or worst intentions, their authors bound them weak.

  Their careless strokes and dark ink soaked into their pages blank,

  And in that way, the books, they say, into the darkness sank.

  Most books, they’re in the middle, though, with chapters bad and good.

  Their authors tried to right the
m, and did the best they could.

  Beyond their reach, the stories each, took lives on of their own,

  And once their plots unfolded, some earned their names in stone.

  Perhaps there are some lessons here–I think them sad but true:

  Some authors should stop writing, the damage that they do;

  Good books should stop absorbing from bad books on their shelves,

  Though care should still be given to help them mend themselves.

  Let’s mourn the books that end too soon, not those that last too long,

  And help the lost ones find the shelves on which they most belong.

  And for those books that write themselves, in hopes of second chance,

  Let’s give them needed guidance, lest chapters not advance.

  And even if we’re authors not, or pen or ink without,

  We still can give books meaning–of this, I have no doubt.

  For sometimes, books, the thing they need is just a second read,

  To lay out different chapters, and help them to succeed.

  For in each book we come across, we make a lasting mark,

  Leave good or bad impressions, cause fires or a spark.

  So should a book give you the chance, help find its happy end,

  And in so doing, turn that book into a lifelong friend.

  Tannus stared down at the poem for several moments as its words and meaning soaked in. Then, as he turned to the next page, he whispered, “Lame,” and carried on.

  Each page thereafter seemed to mirror the pictures on the floor. On every page to the left, he found an image of smiling children on First Day, and on every page to the right, he found the same group celebrating Homecoming beside the Astercourt years later, once their Trials were complete.

  At first Tannus could not believe how much the kids had grown and changed in between, but as he neared the end of the book, he noticed a sad and tragic pattern. Though subtle at first, with each passing year, fewer and fewer Ildarbound appeared in the second picture than in the first, and by the time Tannus reached the final page with a picture on the left, there was no companion picture on the right.

  “Eighteen years ago,” Tannus whispered, noting the date written on the page. From that point on, there were no other pictures to be found on the remaining pages, and as the possible reasons behind that began to sink in, a deep and paralyzing fear consumed Tannus. In an instant, the ember he had conjured was extinguished, and there he was left, all by himself, in the cold and bitter darkness.

  “Seriously?” he whispered, desperate to ignite another spectral flame, but no matter how hard he tried to focus, his efforts were in vain.

  BOOM!

  Freezing in place, Tannus listened for the source of the noise as his heart began pounding through his chest. It must’ve been that old screen door slamming against the house, he reasoned. That’s it. It was just the wind. But then there was a footstep. Then another. Then a third. Someone else was in the house, and each step brought them closer to the cellar door he had left open.

  As he peered through the darkness toward the stairs, there was just enough light coming down for Tannus to see the shadow of a figure in the doorway. Every muscle in his body seized up in that moment, so overwhelmed with fear had he become. Some unknown person had trapped him down there, and that terrifying realization only fully sank in once the air around him grew colder and the door began to close.

  There were no other methods of escape he had been able to discern that day, and his chance to flee was evaporating by the second. All he knew for certain was that he needed to make a move or otherwise risk being trapped down in the darkness–possibly forever. And so, with what little light was left coming down from the stairs to guide him, Tannus sprinted past the bookshelf, leaped over a pile of boxes, and squeezed past all the piled stacks on his way to the rickety stairs. It was with only a second of light left, however, that he finally reached the first step–just as the sound of the doorknob clicking shut echoed within his ears.

  For just a few brief seconds, Tannus was convinced that his heart had stopped. Then, with terrified desperation, he shouted, “Hold on! Please! Open the door!”

  Never before had anyone climbed a flight of stairs more quickly, and once he finally reached the top, Tannus forced the door open and fell to his knees to apologize to whoever might await him on the other side. Much to his surprise, though, the house was still empty. There was nobody in the kitchen, or in the hallway, or in the dining room. He heard nothing upstairs, and both the living room and the office were every bit as abandoned as they had been not long before.

  Maybe it was just my imagination, he thought as he walked around, still flustered. Then a subtle whisper caused his heart to stop once more.

  “Get . . . out . . .”

  Before Tannus even realized what was happening, he shrieked at the top of his lungs and sprinted out the door so quickly that he nearly left scorch marks on the Ildarwood floorboards behind him.

  In his wake, he left a mist of tiny silver specks so subtle that most would not have even noticed them. The minuscule droplets, like sparkling dust upon the air, danced around each other aimlessly before drifting suddenly in different directions. Some moved gracefully down the hallway and passed through the kitchen before swirling through the dining room and finding their way over into the thirsty old tree. Other particles gravitated upward toward the ceiling, cascading gently into the star and causing it to burn slightly brighter, if only for a moment.

  All the rest, however, drifted toward a closet just a few feet away. Passing through the door, the Silver swirled gracefully around itself before flowing gently into the outstretched palm of a proudly grinning boy with bright blue eyes. Dustane had been eager to get revenge on Tannus, and when he had seen him rush into the farmhouse that day, he had known it was a golden opportunity–one he simply could not afford to miss.

  By the time Tannus finally reached his gram’s cottage that afternoon, he could barely breathe or feel his legs. Ashamed that he had left behind what few meager supplies they could afford just to pursue some ghostly boy, Tannus feared his gram’s soul-crushing disappointment in him once she learned of his mistake. And yet, after stepping inside with nervous apprehension, Tannus was amazed to find her sitting at their kitchen table with a beaming smile and a veritable feast of food inexplicably set out in front of her.

  “Gram . . . I . . .” he began before stopping to process what he was seeing.

  “’Bout time!” she shouted. “Dustie said you were gonna be late, so I figured I might as well get started without you.”

  For just a few moments, Tannus was so far beyond confused that he thought himself hallucinating. “Yeah, um . . . he cooked for you too?” Tannus asked, still in a prolonged state of stupor.

  “Nope. I made it all by myself,” his gram announced proudly.

  Scanning the cottage quickly, Tannus noticed a large vase of flowers near his gram’s bed and several loaves of bread stacked one on top of the other upon the kitchen counter. In the sink, he found a mountain of dirty pans and unwashed dishes, and glancing inside the icebox, he found fresh milk and cartons of eggs beside a pile of salted meats.

  “You . . . got out of bed?” he managed, still in shock. “By yourself?”

  “Well, I didn’t really have much of a choice. Your little friend forgot to put a whole slab of bacon in the icebox before he left, and I’d rather die than see good bacon go to waste.”

  “So . . . you got out of bed . . . and cooked the whole thing?”

  In response, his gram cackled with glee. “Look, if I’m gonna die, I might as well die fat and happy. Besides, there isn’t anythin’ I wouldn’t do for a good meal. And if you don’t believe that, you can just go right on downstairs and ask your grampy.”

  II

  An Old Stone Facade

  Are you
serious?” Telara shouted, her voice echoing throughout the corridors of Brent Manor.

  “Here we go,” Alder mumbled to himself before his office door burst open and his daughter stormed inside.

  “Are you two trying to ruin my life?” she demanded, stomping her foot and glaring across her father’s desk through a pair of crooked glasses.

  “Who is it?” Alder asked, staring past the frizzy dark brown hair sprouting wildly from each of Telara’s braids, and focusing instead on his open office door.

  “I’m not joking, Dad! This isn’t funny!” Telara insisted, desperate to be perceived as a strong Ondalan woman who should never be trifled with.

  “Telara, sweetie, if you’re saying something out there, I can’t hear you through the door. Maybe you should try knocking first so I can invite you in.”

  “Are you seriously going to make me do this right now?”

  “I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to hear you unless you knock to come in first,” Alder insisted, his focus shifting back to the papers in front of him as he rested his bearded face against his hand.

  “Oh, come on! You can’t just–argh!” Telara fumed before finally gritting her teeth and knocking on his desk with unbridled resentment.

  “Who is it?” Alder asked without looking up.

  “Telara!”

  “Telara who?”

  “Dad!”

  “Oh, come in, sweetie. It’s so good to see you after a long day at work.”

  “You do realize nobody thinks you’re funny when you do this kind of stuff, right?”

  “Would you prefer I punish you for barging into my office without permission?”

  “What made you think it was a good idea to invite the other girls over without asking me first?”

  “You girls always have a sleepover the night before school starts.”

  “First of all, we’re not even going to school anymore. Secondly, our Trials don’t even start for another three days. And thirdly—”