Late one winter evening, when the wind howled around even the solidity of the Gray Tower’s ancient stone, inside all was quiet and warm. As if by magic, the Tower provided sanctuary from the oppressive cold and snow. Not a breath of air made its way from outside into the Tower.

Old Aeral woke up in his comfortable leather chair, barely registering the embers of the dying fire. He had fallen asleep there, putting the finishing touches on his manuscript translation of the Book of Ages. The work had taken him five years, and another year of revision and corrections, but it was at last completed.

He eventually became awake enough to notice that a man sat on the love seat over to the side, leaning on a stack of books. Aeral smiled briefly towards the man, and then got up and poked at the fire, trying to resuscitate it to life. In a moment, part of the wood began to glow brighter, but the spark was short-lived. Aeral told the man, “Well, now, I suppose my successor has been found.”

“Indeed she has. Palia’s progress has been remarkable.”

“You always have an eye for people. Think she will be able to continue my true work?”

“I have every confidence in her.”

“Ah, that’s good to know.” Old Aeral went back to sleep in his chair, for the last time. He was finally free to go home, to the reunion he longed for, knowing his successor was firmly in place and under watchful care.

Palia, the Master of the Gray Tower, began the arduous process of putting the mounds of scrolls, books, artifacts, and sundry into some kind of order. She began to fashion a home for her and Anror out of the history of the tower, memories of the Old Master, and their future plans. The vacant old leather chair was left where it was, since they considered it too sacred and special to sit in it, and too important of a link to the Old Master to get rid of it. Nothing Palia did could erase the accretion of memories the long years had brought to the Tower, and she did not want to. Her subtle touches turned the bookish old place into a more open and inviting home.

And the manuscript of the Book of Ages had to be taken to the Great Library to be published. With great care, the battered and disarrayed manuscript was put into order, and scribes began making copies. All of the Masters and scholars heralded it as one of the best and most complete translations ever seen, and scribes made copies for libraries and Towers all over the kingdom. Many commissioned copies as much to have a link to the Old Master who had touched their lives in some way as much as they did to have a copy of the book. Reading his carefully chosen and insightful words reminded so many of the words he had spoken to them in life.

The years turned. A man who knew Master Aeral well began to visit the Gray Tower on occasion. He told them about Master Aeral’s life, and his work. He began to teach Palia things Master Aeral knew but never had time to pass on. Soon, the Gray Master knew the true mission Aeral engaged in. Palia grew into being a Master every bit of the same stature as Old Aeral, and her work deepened in its scope as the years turned.

The years turned. Palia bore Anror a child, a boy who grew up so quickly no one could believe it. He excelled in his studies, and was always looking for deeper and more mysterious books to read. Having been weaned on the legends of the Gray Tower where he lived, he soon began to dig into the old stories of Master Aeral. That led him to read Master Aeral’s masterpiece, the translation of the Book of Ages. The whole idea of the ancient manuscript in its unreadable language intrigued him. He found a worn, leather-bound primer on Old Elvish someone had donated to the Great Library many years ago, and began to learn what the strange symbols meant. Soon he was able to read the language, and was granted special permission to study the original Book of Ages, which was housed in a secure archive. The squiggles and dots of the ancient writing dazzled him, and he spent a whole year copying the book, page by page, relishing every line as he understood the language better and better.

As he grew, a sister joined the family. She was the opposite of her brother in every way. She would not be quiet or sit still, and her father lavished his attention and love on her, although she would frequently wear him out long before she was tired herself. She was so physically active that they enrolled her in the College of Swords as soon as they could to drain off her excessive energy. Whether it helped or made it worse was open to debate. Between the two siblings, a subtle and deep bond grew. They had nothing in common and did not even get along, but enjoyed not getting along and each other’s company as they grew older. The girl was fiercely protective of her older brother, to the point of frequently getting into trouble over it. The opposites completed each other, as if perhaps, two halves of a person had been born a year apart.

A man whom the boy had seen in the Tower many times came by to visit, and was pleased to learn about his progress. He took the growing, adolescent boy aside one day, and told about Master Aeral’s unfinished plans for a commentary. The philologically inclined boy launched into it that afternoon, and year by year, page by page, he brought the great work closer to completion.

The years kept turning. For only the third time in the history of the Colleges, a brother and sister were named Journeyman and Protector. To finish the commentary, the pair wanted to talk to the one authoritative source which could not be used from the halls of the College: native speakers. Their Quest was to find the elves and finish the book. They came back with the information they needed, and so much more, more than a lifetime’s worth of adventure packed into one summer.

When the last word was finally written, with a tear of regret, the book was closed, and the last link to the living, vibrant legacy of Master Aeral was complete.

But the years kept turning anyway. “Hey,” a bored Protector said to her Journeyman older brother one rainy afternoon in the Gray Tower, poking him. Her brother looked up from his writing at the impish look on her face. “If we’re going to South Port with Mom, who’ll be in boring meetings all the time with who knows who, why don’t we grab a ship and visit the Three Islands?”

END