Disclaimer: The Old Kingdom, its territories, Yrael, the Charter, and the Abhorsen belong to Garth Nix.

Already the world was moving on. By decree of the King, the old ways were slowly being dissolved. The old forts, guard towers, the murns, the Ratterlin slums that still remained―all were fading into the gathering twilight of the people's memory. No one had been named in the old styling for many years, and those old enough were clamoring to change. Cormac could only pity the royal scribes; people seemed to be flooding toward Belisaere every day, eager to have their names changed on the records. Just the other day he had passed a caravan, an entire village that had upped and embarked on the difficult journey to the capital. The man at the head, one Uric abh Vendeth, spoke of the surname he wished to procure for his family.

"You should hurry, son," he advised as they parted ways. The man's walking stiff was gnarled and bent, much like the man himself, and Cormac felt a flash of trepidation. The walking stick was already dead. Uric would be, too, very soon. As it were, Cormac had no intention of following the temporary exodus to the capital. It wouldn't be practical, not when there were unbound creatures afoot. But Cormac knew it would impolitic not to humor an old man who was so obviously passionate about this.

"To Belisaere?" Cormac ventured. He pretended to consider Uric's advice, running a large, calloused hand through his hair and adopting a faraway look. Finally, he shrugged, as though giving in. "I have business in Nunwwick," he said apologetically, but swiftly added, "My cousin and I plan on going to Belisaere after the rainy season ends."

Uric frowned in a fatherly fashion, far too invested in business that didn't concern him. That was the way of all men such as Uric, Cormac supposed. There came a time when folk became too old to distinguish between their own children and complete strangers, but that sort of misplaced care never bothered Cormac. "There is no way you can make it to city before then? I am not sure if the King has allowed for multiple surnames to be taken." Uric paused to peer owlishly at something over Cormac's shoulder. Reflexively, Cormac tensed, before following the old man's gaze. It was only his "cousin," approaching with a very sour look on his face. Unperturbed, Uric barreled on. "At worst, you may be forced to take on your village name. What did you say you were registered under?"

Cormac smiled at Uric, feeling the inexorable pull of the hunt and open road. "abh Orsen. They call me abh Orsen."

With that, the two men finally parted ways. Uric, stooped with too much worry, led his people northwest to Belisaere and a new start on life, however superficial.

Cormac, unconcerned and carefree, continued with his fellow to the northeast. The two cut striking figures, tall and sun-filled, trotting opposite the torrent of pilgrims toward the swampy peninsula. Cormac had been "asked" to investigate unnatural occurrences at Tower Dala, which currently made up the southern portion of Belisaere's harbor guard. Tower Iyls, situated on the northern peninsula, as well as Tower Dala were undergoing the same upheavals of change as the rest of the kingdom. No longer would each Tower being fitted with a full garrisons of guards and a fleet of swift sea-skiffs. The King, acting on advice of the Queen, had decided in his infinite wisdom that a great chain net would better protect the capital city. And so it would be.

In theory. There had been talk of mutiny among the guards of Tower Dala, although for reasons very different than being located to a new fort. It was there that Cormac became involved. A friend of his mother had asked for her help, but she elected to send Cormac instead. By all accounts he looked the part of roving hero―he had the strapping figure, the flashing and bright eyes, the practiced step of an experienced fighter. But his mind was elsewhere: he dreamed of forges, cold mountain air, a vivacious and viciously beautiful red-haired girl. Cormac fingered the bandolier fastened across his chest, the only indication he was no mere traveler. The more practical of his weapons were hidden by his traveling cloak: he had hooked his hammer on his belt, where it currently hit the back of his leg with each step; his hunting knife lay bare and cool atop his thigh; a shepherd's sling he had tied around his upper arm, disguising it as simple ornamentation. Those were tools he was familiar with, but the bells frightened him. They entered his life as a mere commission, then a liability, and finally a boon, a gift that had been given craftily and taken warily.

Cormac's train of thought was crudely interrupted by a smack to the back of his head. "Touch those bells one more time…" his "cousin" warned.

"Ow! What was that for?" Cormac stopped in his tracks, rubbing the spot where his companion had hit him.

The other man shot him a superior look, one that straddled the line between smug and condescending, a distinction that Cormac hadn't known existed before they began traveling together. It was still a shock to Cormac that people believed his lie that the two were cousins. Certainly they acted as such, with an easy, aggressive rapport. But they looked nothing like each other: where Cormac was dark-haired and dark-eyed, Yrael's hair was the rakish blonde of dirty water, and his eyes were blue like a shallow and quick mountain stream. Cormac carried himself with the affability of a lolled-tongue hound, all wagging tail and barely-contained energy. Yrael was too still, too relaxed to be truly believable, or even human.

"What?" Cormac repeated, the hurt working its way into his tone. It was not as though he was truly in pain, but also like a dog he had the habit of being overly-dejected when hit. Without him really trying, his long face assumed a look of the utmost suffering as his thin mouth and brows shifted in an almost comical manner. Instead of answering, Yrael walked on in pointed ignorance, leaving Cormac to huff after him. "What?"

"I'm sorry 'cousin,' I didn't catch that," mocked Yrael, placing melodramatic emphasis on the lie. He didn't stop walking, instead quickening his pace so that Cormac was relegated to staring at the back of his head.

Cormac sighed, a long-suffering sound that he was no stranger to making. Over the course of their "adventures" together, he had learned perhaps only one thing about Yrael―the man could be damn annoying when he so chose. "I'm sorry," he said, with much more tolerance than was due. "I just didn't think people would believe you're my uncle."

Now it was Yrael's turn to stop cold, allowing Cormac to overtake him. Cormac was taller, and had significantly longer legs. He was a good distance away before Yrael's temper finally snapped. "Mac!" Yrael shouted threateningly, and broke into a run. Cormac grinned over his shoulder, and began running as well.

However unbelievable, it was true. Yrael was the half-brother to Astarael, Lady of the Mountain, sister of the Queen, and mother to Cormac. Astarael looked her age, a plainspoken and rough-hewn woman of nearly forty. Yrael was only two years younger than she, but looked no older than five-and-twenty. Cormac had long given up asking Yrael about the disparity between his age and his appearance―he chalked that one up to the man's ridiculous vanity. Yrael was a fairly recent fixture in Cormac's life, and so they never had the time to build up the relationship that an uncle typically built with his nephew. They had met as adults: Cormac an untested young man and Yrael at least looking the part, and so they treated each other as such. If anything, they were brothers―Yrael easily fell into the role of elder, and Cormac the role of younger. To label themselves as "cousins" almost felt like cheapening their relationship. Any mention of 'uncle' or 'nephew,' after everything they had gone through together, was more offensive than anything else.

Eventually Yrael caught up to Cormac, as he always did. A brief scuffle, a big toothy grin on the part of Cormac, a smirk for Yrael as he ruffled 'Mac's' hair―beyond their constant traveling, there wasn't much more to their lives than this. They were what they were: Cormac abh Orsen, blacksmith, hunter of unbound Free Magic creatures, servant of the Charter, and self-professed idiot; Yrael, bound to his sister's lineage, sharp, rakish, and rude. Friends. There were only a few lenses through which their lives could be colored. It was Cormac's way to never bother to look farther than what was directly in front of him. It was Yrael's to assume a façade and pretend all was well.

"What's the matter old man?" Cormac taunted, writhing free of Yrael's stranglehold. He hunched over, pretending to be Uric from the main road. "Is something bothering you, Uncle? Can I get you something for your back, Uncle? Shall I fetch something for you, Uncle?" Like an oversized young buck, he pranced around Yrael, who rocked back on his heels and watched Cormac in aggravated amusement.

"Hilarious," Yrael pronounced, finally cuffing Cormac around the ears in the time it took a normal person to blink. Cormac chuckled, rubbing the injured spots, and the two fell back into step towards Dala. When they first met, they never would have imagined they could laugh together like this, like now. Yrael had been brooding, belligerent, entirely reluctant (and that was an understatement). Cormac had been a nervous ball of untrained energy, entirely dependent on Yrael for survival on the hunt and on the road. Cormac supposed they had been brothers even then; as much as Yrael liked to say otherwise, Cormac knew he had always cared. And if Cormac was right about what had happened between Yrael and Astarael, perhaps Yrael was one of those unlucky few who cared too much. Then, Yrael had put forth a fiery wall of antagonism. Cormac liked to think he had changed since.

The two assumed the quick pace of soldiers on the march. They had left their horses at the last town, in the care of a toothless old ostler. The Sallows, as the twin peninsulas around Belisaere were called, were swampy and no place for horses. Tower Dala sat amidst the water-choked trees and nests of snakes, a rickety old building of cracked wood and black stone. Their boots squelched as they made their way through the saturated earth, their hands swatting away flies.

"Nice country here," said Cormac after they had been walking in silence for a while. He wasn't one for silence, Cormac, and felt that having midges in his mouth was preferable over dead air. The midges seemed to feel the same. He choked, spitting out a mouthful of the small flies, and almost ran headlong into a tree.

Yrael shot him a resentful, disbelieving look, but nevertheless took the bait. "Absolutely lovely," he muttered tersely, barely opening his mouth beyond a hairsbreadth. Cormac noted that somehow Yrael managed to avoid taking a mouthful of bugs, and then, in his observation, ran into a cluster of vines. He sputtered, consuming more than his fair share of leaves before finally freeing himself. Yrael's eyebrows lifted in a wearily amused expression―Cormac's special kind of grace was nothing new.

"Are we almost to the Tower?" Cormac asked, ducking and waving a spider web out from in front of his face. He wasn't sure, but were swamps supposed to have this many bugs?

Yrael rolled his eyes, lithely dodging a tree branch and stepping over a tree root at the same time. They both knew the map was in Cormac's pack (Yrael traveled "lightly," which Cormac came to learn actually meant "nothing.") but they also knew that Yrael had the uncanny ability to know exactly where he was at all times. "Almost," he asserted, and sure enough, as they cleared one final tangled root, Tower Dala rose above them like a god. The treetops, which had so recently obscured the fort, now adorned its base, and the thick fog that had shrouded it now curled around Tower Dala like a lover, its tendrils making their way into cracked and gaping windows.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" breathed Cormac, not noticing the swarm of midges that capitalized on his awe.

In reply, he received a derisive snort. "Yes, I have. And so have you. You're always like this. We could arrive at a hole in the ground and you'd probably be moved to tears." At that, Yrael pushed through a clump of ferns towards Dala, and disappeared into the fog.

"Some people appreciate a sense of wonder, you know," Cormac shot back, tripping over himself to catch up. "People might like you more if you weren't such an ass!"

Yrael made a dismissive motion with his hand, still striding forward. "That's the point, Mac."

Under Tower Dala's mournful and ever-watchful eye, the fog swallowed the two men up, leaving nothing but their disembodied voices to scare the crows and still, stagnant water.

***

They had exchanged words with the foreman and garrison captain only cursorily. The foreman, a short and fiery man with bristles for a moustache, gestured wildly at the tower, his cowed workers blinking dolefully up at Cormac and Yrael from their ragged tents. Mogget, he had introduced himself before launching into his tirade, hadn't had anything useful to say. He was more concerned with meeting his deadline than anything else, and those things roaming the tower were putting him seriously behind schedule. Already the crew at Tower Iyls had installed the boom hook―they were still making modifications, and if Lord abh Orsen and his servant could please hurry do their job, than he could get back to his?

The captain had even less to say. He carried himself with a world-weary superiority, and seemed more interested in asking them if they, in their extensive travels, had ever visited the ruins of Aerymurn. He spoke at great length of how he was one of the survivors, and how shameful it was that he, a poor soul such as he, should be removed of his command in such a manner. Replaced by a winding post, could Lord abh Orsen believe it? And no, he had never seen the creatures in the Tower, only knew they had killed a dozen workers, and two of his men. But Aerymurn, Lord abh Orsen! Shame!

To be fair, Cormac had been more concerned with their mangling of his name. After they had excused themselves from the foreman and the captain and made a swift retreat into the tower, Cormac shot Yrael a tight-lipped look. "Lord abh Orsen? Have people truly forgotten?"

"It's in the old fashion, Mac, and an unpopular one at that. Honestly, your clinging to that name is just as bad as that captain's clinging to Aerymurn. He wasn't even there when it happened," Yrael said bitterly, slamming the door of the tower behind them with particular vitriol. He then kneaded his temples, as though their exchange with Mogget and the captain had been physically painful.

Cormac started. "And you were?"

Yrael said nothing, instead moving on to massage the bridge of his nose.

Shrugging, Cormac traced a Charter mark in the air. It glowed ochre, lighting up their immediate surroundings. "But still. 'Lord son of Orsen?' That's ridiculous. Either he calls me Lord or abh Orsen, not both." He took a tentative step deeper into the tower, the Charter mark pulsing above his head.

"Oh, poor Mac. Were those nasty people being mean to you? I'm sorry," Yrael said sarcastically, turning to bolt the door with a fallen rafter before following Cormac. "Don't get your trousers in a twist."

"You're just mad," Cormac began, shooting a grin as Yrael came up beside up, "because he called you my servant." He looked pointedly at Yrael's short hair, which was only a little longer than the close shear of a field laborer. Cormac's own hair, which had the messy habit of falling into his eyes (always clinging erratically around his ears and the nape of his neck in loose waves), marked him as someone who could afford the luxury.

Yrael huffed, taking the bait. "Technically I am your servant."

Cormac unsuccessfully stifled a laugh. "I'll be sure to remember that, then. Remember, you said it, not I."

His companion rolled his eyes violently, and Cormac sensed that his temper was getting close to the surface again, which would be even more amusing. "Can we just do our jobs? Kill whatever is here, collect our reward, and drink it away? Is that too much to ask, or will I have to kill you, too?"

Cormac assumed a surprised look, but one exaggerated into full-blown mockery. "That's funny. I must have left Yrael back with the captain. I'm sorry Mogget, I'll be sure to do my job quickly, so you can do yours." He referred to the rotund foreman, who had been so insistent that they kill the creatures as soon as possible.

"Be careful," Yrael snarled, "or that nickname might stick."

Cormac waved his hand with grandiloquence. "You worry too much, Yrael. I can't see why anyone would seriously call you Mogget. What sort of name is that, anyway?"

"A horrible one," muttered Yrael.

They fell into silence as they picked their way through the tower. Strewn furniture was everywhere, and rusty-black stains seemed to shift and squirm on the walls. They both knew what it was, but Cormac found it easier to pretend someone had thrown cheap wine everywhere. The air inside the tower was dry and still, which struck Cormac as odd, considering how damp the swamps were. It was if they were in another world entirely, a never-ending labyrinth of ruination. And Tower Dala had only been abandoned a fortnight ago? It was as though decay had taken on a physical form, and swept bodily through.

"Something isn't right," said Yrael suddenly, as they came upon a winding staircase. He drew back, tensing up and hands curling so that they resembled claws.

"I'll say," replied Cormac, poking his head up into the stairwell, and emerging thoroughly dusty. "I hope this hasn't happened to my room. I've been away for well over a fortnight."

"No." Yrael emitted a veritable growl, reminding Cormac once again that his friend was not quite human. "Can't you feel it? It's as though this place has been abandoned for years. Centuries, even."

Uneasily, Cormac slid one finger over the banister, and balked when it came away coated with dust. The dust was thicker than he had thought; his finger hadn't even touched the actual banister. "It's like―"

"Death," finished Yrael, looking more puzzled than fearful. He narrowed his eyes, lips pursing in deep contemplation. He moved one hand so that it rested over his heart, as if he were feeling for something. "No, it couldn't be," Yrael muttered.

"Care to share?" Cormac stood in front of Yrael, stooping slightly so that he could look him in the eyes.

"She's isn't here," muttered Yrael, now running his hand through his hair in agitation, still not meeting Cormac's eyes.

"Who isn't here?"

"Ast―" began Yrael distractedly as he looked up, but caught himself before he could finish the name. He frowned as their eyes finally met, and Cormac caught a brief flicker of recognition in Yrael's eyes, as though he had seen someone else for a heartbeat. The look cleared, and Yrael swallowed loudly. "It doesn't matter. This is something else." Yrael pulled Cormac away from the stairwell, no easy feat considering the younger man was bigger. Yrael's fingers dug into Cormac's arm, threatening to stop the flow of blood.

"What's wrong with you?" Cormac pulled away and rubbed his arm. His expression was still easy, but his voice betrayed his true concern, as well as his growing fear.

"We have to leave," answered Yrael, making another grab at Cormac's arm, but Cormac pulled away again.

"What happened to killing this thing? Doing our job? Drinking our money? What's gotten into you, Yrael?"

"Nothing has gotten into me," hissed Yrael. "Cormac, you don't understand. You and I, we kill Free Magic creatures, unbound things. What is here, in the tower…" Yrael trailed off, his face abruptly changing from fierce agitation to a blankness that scared Cormac even more.

"What?" pressed Cormac, taking hold of Yrael's shoulders and shaking him. "What's here?"

He was answered by a soft, wet sound. It was a shuffling noise, a crawling keen, one that wormed its way up Cormac's back and sent shiver coursing through his body. He turned slowly, afraid of what he might see. Cormac, who was blindly brave enough not to cow in the face of Free Magic creatures bound and unbound, who had looked his own death square in the face more times than he cared to count, was afraid now. And he had good reason to be.

What was in the tower was far more disgusting than Cormac could ever imagine, far more frightening than he could ever imagine. A score or so of gray, fetid bodies were sloughing on the floor toward them, drawing themselves forward with limbs in various states of decay. A miasma of stench, a foul cloying smell that was reminiscent of corpses, that was corpses clawed at Cormac's face, sending him reeling back into the stairwell. "Yrael!" he coughed, grabbing the collar of his companion, who was still staring blankly at the approaching horde. "Yrael! Move!" he cried.

Cormac bodily lifted Yrael up and into the stairwell, free-flowing fear giving him brute strength. With their prey now gone, the creatures let up a terrific wail, and as Cormac dragged Yrael up the stairs, he could see their bony limbs straggling up the stone close behind them. He quickened his pace, feeling his heartbeat pounding in his ears. As he flew up the stairs, he caught a door in his peripheral vision, and, feeling the utmost desperation of cornered animal, through himself through it, battering the old thing down. He, followed by Yrael, who was still being dragged by his collar, crashed onto the second story landing of the tower, a white burst of dust clogging their throats and temporarily blinding them.

Even after that, Yrael did nothing but slump against a broken piece of furniture, a troubled expression still working slowly over its features. Cormac would have remarked on this, had he not been so terrified of the things in the stairwell. His stint as a battering ram had left him dazed, but still he struggled up and groped his way over back to the doorway, which yawned in open amusement at their plight. Magic had always been Yrael's strong point―Cormac tended to play the role of muscle, but he knew a few practical spells. But nothing he knew could have helped them now. His Charter light bobbed up the stairwell, the creatures thrashing in its wake. This cleared Cormac's mind, and he remembered, in a flash, a burst of magic that Yrael had used when they first started traveling.

His confidence strengthened by need, he hurriedly traced Charter marks onto the landing. Each mark glowed a fierce blue as they were drawn, and when the pattern was complete a blinding flash of light ripped through the air. Astonished, Cormac stumbled back, clasping his hands over his ears as a tremendous cracking sound followed. When his vision finally cleared and his ears stopped ringing, he ventured back to the stairwell and peered down.

The stairs had been smoothed over in a thick coat of slick, black ice. He could still hear the wailings of the creatures from the floor below, but they seemed to have been stalled, at least for a time. He stood up, leaning heavily against the door frame, and kept vigil for a moment, his mouth drawn into a half-grimace as he reflected.

Finally, Yrael stirred. Cormac felt the hairs on the back of his neck as Yrael stood up in his peripheral; he pretended not to look too questioning, or betray just how upset he was at his friend's inexplicable behavior. Yrael followed Cormac to the doorway. "You did this?" he asked, toeing the ice with caution.

Cormac wanted to take credit, but had never quite mastered the art of boasting. "I remembered you doing something similar," he answered. "Back in Lowwick? You turned the pass to ice." He shifted, standing back from the doorway to allow Yrael to survey his handiwork.

"Yes," began Yrael, anchoring himself with the doorway before peering around the corner of the stairs to see how far the ice reached. He interrupted himself with a low whistle of appreciation, and then turned back to Cormac. "But I hadn't used Charter magic then. Who taught you how to do this?"

Cormac chose that moment to wipe the sweat from his face, but was entirely unsuccessful in hiding his blush from Yrael. He blushed almost as red as the hair of a particular girl, an old traveling companion of theirs who had since parted ways with them. "Probably my mother," muttered Cormac, his face taking on the expression of someone who had been caught doing something particularly embarrassing.

"I don't think so," said Yrael cheery appraisal, and clapped Cormac on the back so heartily that it almost sent him careening down the icy slope.

"I didn't think you would," admitted Cormac, and the both of them turned to examine their new surroundings.

If anything, the second floor of Tower Dala was even worse than the first. Swarms of flies buzzed in dark corners, broken chairs and desks leaned at maddening angles, weapon racks winked with red patina. The walls were still splotched with blood, but now in vaguely human shapes.

Sighing, Yrael ventured forward into the ruins, picking his way over the debris. Cormac watched him go in silence; normally he knew better than to ask about Yrael's odd behavior, but Yrael had never before made himself a liability in battle, not until now. "Yrael―" Cormac called, standing absolutely still in the gathering dark.

Yrael seemed to have been expecting this. "Mac, please," he began, stopping to not-quite look over his shoulder. "Now isn't the time."

Cormac closed his eyes, inhaling deeply and shaking his head in disbelief. For once he could not find it in himself to tolerate Yrael's constant avoidance. The stillness hung between them another presence in the room. Finally, Cormac snapped. "Then when is the time?" he shouted, punctuating his anger with a tenseness that ran throughout his entire body. "I don't care if this is something you can't, won't fight―I can handle myself well enough. There's a window, jump out of it if you have to. But if you know something, then―" he paused, restraining himself from cursing.

Yrael regarded the floor with a resigned sadness. Cormac recognized the face: he had seen it before, when they had first met as strangers and Yrael watched him with what Cormac now understood was empathetic suffering. The look had been there when Cormac had first invited him home, and Yrael watched his mother in the garden and somberly turned away. It had been present when Cormac made his first kill, when Cormac first spilled the blood of another man. It was the look of timeless and helpless realization, an ancient type of understanding that Cormac couldn't fathom, or even begin to bear. His anger faded, and his voice dropped to a whisper.

"I deserve to know, Yrael," he finished. Fog rolled in through the broken window, blanketing their feet and shifting across their faces like shrouds.

Yrael's voice was hoarse, but it cut through the fog. "They aren't alive," he said, still not facing Cormac. "Those things in the stairwell," he began tentatively.

"What?" pressed Cormac, squinting to keep Yrael in sight as the fog cyclically swallowed them whole and spit them out.

"They're dead."

The revelation, that secret Yrael had found so terrible, sank slowly into Cormac's understanding. And then he laughed. "That's it? Yrael, we've faced worse! You're trying to tell me you're afraid of a bunch of dead things that forgot they've passed on? You almost had me worried!"

Yrael turned testily toward Cormac, reclaiming some of his old fire. "You idiot," he snarled, advancing on Cormac. "That isn't even the half of it―"

A renewed wailing interrupted him, this time coming from what sounded like their own floor. "Another staircase?" suggested Cormac, finally reaching for his hammer and hunting knife.

Yrael shook his head empathetically, eyes narrowed and ears pricked as he tried to listen for the source of the sound. "There's only one central staircase in the tower. There must be more of them on our level."

"What?" exclaimed Cormac, his face shifting into an expression of wide-eyed, open-mouthed surprise that Yrael would have normally laughed at.

Instead, Yrael ran toward a dark corner of the room, disappearing from view. Cormac, against his politer tendencies, let loose with a string of curses, and sprinted after Yrael. They almost collided with each other, Yrael carrying a dilapidated chest of drawers like a pillow, and Cormac running feckless and blind. Once he got his bearings again, Cormac did a double take.

"Barricading," said Yrael simply, and pushed his load up against a door that Cormac had not noticed before. The taller man nodded, and hurried off to help.

"Other doors―shouldn't we be worrying about those?" Cormac yelled, the thought occurring to him as he was halfway across the room with a heavy weapons rack, spears and swords still clattering on it.

"This is just the landing. One door only," grunted Yrael in reply, as the door began to rattle.

"My offer still stands, you know."

Yrael looked up from the door to shoot Cormac an annoyed look. "Not the time," he said testily.

"We can always jump out the window." Cormac was smiling despite himself, but nevertheless went to join Yrael at the door, throwing his full weight into keeping it shut.

"Not an option," was Yrael's reply, and Cormac didn't miss the smile.

Author's Note: This started out as a teensy little break from "Children of the Open Air," but grew into this three-part behemoth that you see right now. "Tower of the Dead" falls into the same continuum as "Children," but occurs about 20 or so years later. Because I wrote it with the "Children" continuity in mind, some elements of the story will be a bit mysterious, if that's the right word for it. This is not because I was lazy, or was too tangential (at least I hope!). Rather, whatever remains unclear will be explained by the time I complete "Children," if you care to know (which I hope you do! :3).

Basically, "Tower" is my take on the first Abhorsen. I'm a big fan of Gabriel from Sanaryelle's "Five Great Charters" (an awesome, epic fic that you should read and love forever!) and it inspired me to unearth my take on the first Abhorsen, who had been floating around in my head since I started planning for "Children." In the beginning, Cormac's name was Macsen, but I thought Macsen was just too cutesy when paired with Abhorsen---the -sen endings killed me, in the not good way. (I still wanted to have 'Mac' as his nickname, though.) I initially intended for him to be a lot more Byronic; now, well, he's just a big doof. I have a vague idea of his journeys (the events in "Tower" occur after a very long, ridiculous chain of events that detail just how Yrael and Cormac got past the point where they wanted to kill each other... At least, past the point where Yrael wanted to kill Cormac...) and I know what I want to do with him in the future. Anyway, on to the next chapter!

Until next time,
Sam ;3