GARION
The lake was quiet, too quiet for Garion's liking. The fog lay thick upon the waters, a low white shroud drifting around the three boats as they cut toward the Isle of Wisdom. The oars slid in and out with a steady rhythm, soft splashes swallowed by the gloom. Thirty men accompanied him, King Alern's hard men, veterans each one of them, yet even they sat tense, shoulders tight beneath steel and mail, as if they could feel the weight of the place pressing down on their chests.
Garion felt it too.
He'd felt it since they passed the Grey Mountains at dawn, the cold wind funneling down between the peaks like a whispered warning. The mountains ringed the lake like a giant broken crown, sharp stones jutting out of the fog. The Isle sat somewhere ahead, though the mist hid all but the ghost of its outline.
He shifted in his seat, the boat making a crackling sound beneath his boots.
"Steady," he murmured to the oarsmen. "The lake's deep here, deep enough to swallow a mammoth whole."
"Deep enough to swallow all of us," muttered Sir Rylos, though quietly; none of them wished to tempt the lake with boldness.
Garion paid no mind to him. His thoughts were already drifting, northward toward the island. He thought of what awaits them there, he did not like the answers in his head. A knight's life is forever lived on a knife's edge, like a flame flickering beneath heavy dark clouds. Because of that, he must always remain ready, ever prepared to fulfill his duty and embrace whatever the day may bring. He did not remember who told him those worlds.
His wits were scattered as he thought of many things at once. Those thoughts included home, the capital of Tydoria had been his home since he was a young man, standing by a young King Arlen. But true home was Foxfang, a small stone castle east of Tydoria.
He had hoped, Creator willing, to be back in the capital before the celebrations began. The whole city would swell with visitors, dignitaries, old nobles crawling out of retirement to pay homage. Arlen needed his guard then more than ever. Garion needed to be there.
It was not pride, not entirely. It was duty, legacy. His father had guarded kings, and his grandfather before him. And someday his son would inherit the same oath. But legacy felt like a fragile thing, easily broken by absence.
They were getting closer and closer to the island now.
He had been here once before, a few years ago, escorting King Arlen when he came to consult Wennek the Wise. He had never known a colder place, cold in water, cold in stone, cold in spirit. And yet… the Isle had been alive, bustling with robed scholars and acolytes, scribes hunched over tomes, the tall bell-tower ringing with afternoon prayer. Wennek himself had received them with ink-stained fingers and a dozen scrolls tucked beneath his arm.
To imagine that place silent now—
No. He would not imagine it. Not yet.
The lake mist pressed close around them, the boats cutting through it like shadows. At Garion's side, the lad cradled the cage of royal messenger birds. Three small wings were to bear the weight of whatever they discovered on the island. The boy whispered a quivering prayer, soft enough to be consumed by the wind.
"Creator guard us." The boy prayed. Garion felt the prayer settle in him. Creator guard us, indeed.
But if the Creator meant to guard any man, surely He would guard the people on the Isle of Wisdom, the heart and mind of Erddarn. His grip tightened on the ship's railing.
He had known Arlen before he was king, before the crown, before the Golden Throne, before the songs. Back when he was only Prince Arlen, standing bloodied atop the Fields of Silent Lament, surrounded by the dying screams of usurpers. Garion remembered the mud clinging to his boots, the stink of burning flesh, the broken shields and muddled banners of the southern king strewn across the trampled earth.
Alern had fought like a man possessed, a man who had lost everything and would lose no more.
Garion had followed him then. He would follow him now. He would follow him into the jaws of death itself if fate demanded it.
The king had asked only him to go and discover the truth. Garion would give him that.
And then he would return, Creator willing, before the festivities began.
"Land ahead!" one of the men on a boat ahead of him called.
Garion stood, fog curled around his greaves, slowly, like a corpse rising from water, the island emerged.
Only… it was not an island.
It was nine or more. He could not tell.
Broken pieces of land jutted out of the lake like the bones of a giant creature, torn apart and scattered. Charred and smoking trees leaned at distracting angles. Entire sections of forest had been ripped from their roots. Dark stones lay shattered in deep gouges, as if some monstrous weight had fallen upon them. Even the air smelled wrong, iron, ash, and something he could not name.
The Isle of Wisdom had been split like a ripe fruit.
"Creator save us," whispered Mylven, another one of his men. Garion stared, throat tight.
"No," he whispered. "Creator did not do this."
They pulled ashore on the largest fragment, which had once been the main landing pier. The dock was gone, swallowed by the lake, but the stone path remained, cracked and steaming faintly in the morning chill.
"Stay sharp," Garion ordered as his men disembarked.
They climbed the slope. The fog parted. And there, spread before them, was the truth.
No robed scholars.
No tall Masters towers.
No sound of human life.
Only ruin.
The Sanctory of Erddarn had been reduced to piles of rubble.
The White Tower, where Master Wennek had feasted the king, the magnificent library, collapsed into heaps of stone and scorched parchment. The scriptorium was gone entirely, its foundation blackened as if by dragon fire, though no dragon had been seen in Erddarn for hundreds if not thousands of years.
Bodies were few, but what they found chilled them: robes shredded, limbs twisted unnaturally, faces contorted in terror, as though death had come too fast to understand.
But worse was the silence.
Not the natural silence of morning, nor the peaceful hush of a temple. This silence felt forced, hollow, unnatural, a wound cut into the world.
Garion removed his helm. The wind stung his eyes. He had not wept since the Fields of Silent Lament, but the sting was sharp enough that he almost did now.
"By all the heavens," one knight muttered.
Garion clenched his jaw. He remembered Wennek bowing stiffly to the king.
He remembered the apprentices; the acolytes carrying scrolls.
He remembered laughter... soft, tired, scholarly laughter.
Gone.
All gone.
He knelt beside one of the fallen students of the Isle, barely more than a boy. Garion's fingers brushed the cold cheek.
"I swear to you," he murmured, voice low and steady,
"whoever did this… I will find them.
And I will cut them down for the king, for the realm...
and for you."
A cry went up from one of his men.
"Commander Garion! You'd best come see this!"
Garion rose and turned in haste. He feared he already knew. This was no storm, no, and certainly no seaquake. No mortal hand had done this, he knew.
Something had come to the Isle of Wisdom, and whatever it was… it had not stayed.