The elevator plummeted for a long time. Being part of the Tower, it was powered by the old technologies, making it fast. I became aware that the descent was taking much longer than the original ascent from the entrance hall. We were going below the ground floor of the Tower.
The doors opened into a cavernous space. Beyond the sliding doors lay an immense room, its walls the same smooth perfection as the rest of the Tower, with lighting that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
My breath caught as I looked upon the space and the object lying at the center of the vast room. This was a hallowed place—a secret place. At first, I felt as though I shouldn’t be here, as though Baltazar was showing me something my eyes were not meant to behold. It took a moment for me to remember: I was the Sword of Boston. I had every right to be here, every bit as much as he did.
This was the home of The Eagle. Boston’s Talisman.
Many Towers possessed one treasure like this. The North Tower of New York held the Behemoth, a titanic tank with an immense gun. Boston had The Eagle, a flying machine.
In a world where Order was limited, flying machines were nearly useless. They existed, but it was perilous to try flying a helicopter through areas designated high Order by a Tower, because any failure in the path—or straying outside of it—would turn the helicopter into an expensive stone.
Talismans were special. They could operate outside of Order fields, just as the Griid-suits could. But they were different from Griid-suits. When a Griidlord died, no matter where it happened, their suit would be reborn in their Tower, waiting for the next wearer. The mystorium in the dead suit could be reclaimed and used by the conqueror, but the suit itself was not captured. When the Griidlord died, the suit became a husk.
Talismans were said to be able to heal themselves, given time. But if captured or destroyed, they did not return to their Tower. Their capture only benefitted the conqueror by depriving the conquered. A Talisman could only be operated by a Griidlord of the same Tower as the Talisman. They were powerful weapons, unique tools, but they were precious and vulnerable, and their use needed to be managed with great care.
A childhood spent wasting away in a bed had afforded me time with books that gave me such snippets of understanding.
Baltazar said, "Do you know what that is?"
I nodded slowly. The Eagle seemed almost too large to fly. It looked to be the length of several wagons, with the width to match. It was sleek yet bulky, smooth but punctuated by angles and protrusions, painted in the same blues, reds, and whites as my Griidsuit. Its engines resembled the pollen pouches of a bee. I saw no weaponry on it.
Baltazar started descending the steps to the deck where the machine rested. The knights who had accompanied us remained by the elevator doors.
As we approached, my chest swelling with awe, there was movement. An armored figure appeared around the side of the machine, and I twitched at the sudden sight.
It was Magneblade.
Baltazar said, "I want to show you some things. Come."
I was speechless. Magneblade moved ahead, touching the vessel's wall. There was no control pad, but his touch seemed to communicate with the machine, and a ramp folded down. Magneblade entered first, radiating a quiet, steady aggression. There was a tension about him that never seemed to ease.
I followed Baltazar into The Eagle. Inside, the space was continuous. Two pilot seats were at the front with no apparent control panels. Behind them, where we stood, was one large room lined with seats, with loops and hooks set all over the ceiling.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Without a word, Magneblade took one of the pilot seats. Baltazar walked to stand behind him, gripping the seat's back. The ramp slid up at an unspoken command, and I felt faint vibrations as the machine came to life.
My heart raced with excitement. The Eagle was legendary, and I had never seen it in the air. I always believed it was real, but now, feeling it move beneath me, I could barely contain my amazement.
Baltazar was casual. Perhaps it was just his usual stoic manner, but he seemed accustomed to being here. The vessel lifted, and I gripped the back of the vacant seat, fear and excitement mingling in me.
In a moment, we were moving forward—far faster than I thought wise in such a contained space. The room revealed itself as a longer corridor than I’d expected. Suddenly, there was movement in front and above us—a widening iris of sunlight. The vessel rose, spearing toward the opening. I clenched my teeth as we neared it. Why wasn’t Magneblade waiting for it to open fully? This seemed reckless. Baltazar, however, remained serene.
As we rose through the still-widening opening, Baltazar said, "You will need to learn to operate her as well. All the Griidlords must be able to fly The Eagle."
I just nodded, teeth still clenched.
We emerged into the sunlight. I couldn’t determine exactly where we exited, but from the view, it felt like we were near the base of the Tower. I gasped as the city spread out below, and we climbed higher and higher. It was a mix of terror and exhilaration as we rose even higher than Baltazar’s office.
Baltazar said, "I want to show you something."
He tapped Magneblade’s shoulder and gestured. I felt The Eagle turning, tilting in a new direction, still accelerating.
As we moved, Baltazar spoke, entirely unconcerned by the way we defied the laws of physics. I remained acutely aware of the potential for gravity to reassert itself.
"Boston has been governed by the same rules since her founding 640 years ago," he said. "Think about it, Tiberius—rules laid out by people who were little more than savages have governed us ever since. Other cities have changed and adapted, but ours has stubbornly clung to old traditions. Everything we do, from our government to our Choosing, is archaic. We’re little better than the wild men of the Pittsburgh hills. We dress our society up, but we’re still a relic."
I was startled. This was not the kind of talk I had expected from the solemn Lord Supreme.
The city disappeared beneath us as we swept out across the fields.
Baltazar said, “And why? Why haven’t we changed as other cities have? Why haven’t we made the small adjustments and the big ones? We flounder, Tiberius. We never have enough Flows; we wallow among the lowest of the powers in the land. I’ll tell you why.”
His voice was taking on an intensity uncharacteristic of him. Below us, the pastures faded into wheat fields.
“The lords of our land enjoy their privilege; they hold themselves apart from the people. They fear change. The very changes that might improve their lives, and the lives of the common people, are mistrusted by the nobles. They fear that one change may lead to another and that their positions of privilege might fade if given the chance.”
I stammered, “But you... You’re a lord.”
Baltazar sniggered lowly. “House Baltazar is nothing. There has never been prestige or respect attached to my house. Not that it matters. You’re a noble now as well, Tiberius. But I think we can hold ourselves apart. I don’t think either of us is overly burdened with the status that enthralls the others so.”
He pointed down to the wheat fields stretching beneath us. “There is the bread that is meant to feed our city. It seems so vast, but we will be buying grain again this year, as we do every year. We will make other cities grow fat as we spend wealth we simply don’t have. There—do you see the difference, the change in color?”
I could see what he meant. The fields ran like liquid gold—to a point. Beyond that point, the gold became patchy and discolored.
Baltazar said, “This is the land of Lord Ironveil. The idiot does the same thing every year: he plants big, hoping, assuming we will win more Flows and that there will be machines to help him tend the fields. And, as with every year, the Falling went poorly. He spent the hours of many men planting these fields, but now he must discard vast acres. Without the Flows he dreamed of, there will be few machines to tend these fields. It’s mostly human muscle that fertilizes and weeds here. Those mottled acres you see spreading out have been abandoned. It’s not the first time he has wasted resources like this. And, if we don’t take action, it won’t be the last.”
I looked down on the seeming eternity of wasted land. The gold here was interspersed with darker, muddy greens where the wheat had been outcompeted by wild plants.
Baltazar turned to me. He looked into my eyes. His expression was as steely and unyielding as ever, but his eyes burned with an intensity that shocked me.