On the Edge of a Dream

By Seth Giolle

Ikals stands on the brink of adventure. One of Millosel’s three moons has exploded, and it looks like the end of times has begun. Spirits watch him from the shadows – spirits from an age long-past unlike any who’ve ghosted his tracks to date, and he’s been having visions, what might very well be prophetic dreams! But what does all this mean? Is the world really ending? Is there really a library out there somewhere he’s supposed to find, or has he finally completely flipped!?
What’s a scribe to do?
In an age long gone, in a time long-forgotten, a magic spell was begun when three enchanted blades came together. Though no one remembers that spell, those swords, the wizard who summoned them into being, or the heroes who defeated him, some curses cannot be cheated.
And now Ikals is called to trek across the known world to find a door through untold dangers, a door that he isn’t even sure exists. A door that leads where? To find her, but who is she? Ikals finds himself caught in the grasp of uncertainty.
At the draw of destiny.
And on the edge of a dream!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781257080489

Seth Giolle

Seth Giolle was born on a small, rural farm in southeast Ontario. After Travelling throughout Canada in all its splendour, he once again makes Ontario his home.

Book preview

On the Edge of a Dream

Seth Giolle

ISBN: 978-1-257-08048-9

Chapter One Q.419

Fireworks

Ikals lifted his quill from the parchment and cocked his head. His squint was becoming way too practiced for this simple a task. It just wasn’t nearly good enough. He checked the notes he’d scribbled on his pad again, marking the inscription he’d found with the tips of his fingers. He inwardly cringed. He’d made two of the loops too small. Damn!

How’s it going?

Not good. Ikals set the quill back in the inkwell with a tired sigh. This is my third copy, and I’ve yet to get it right. Why’d they have to craft their language with so many flourishes? It’s just so hard to copy it.

He rubbed his eyes and hung his head, then, rubbed the back of his neck. His wide-armed brown shirt, open partway, was held shut just after the elbows to keep his sleeves from his work. He wore an emerald green shirt beneath, and comfortable brown pants went down to brown suede shoes. The shoulder-length light blond hair showed a bad need for combing as he wiped stray ends from his face with the back of his wrist.

What makes this text so different? Ikals groaned.

Maybe you’re a little distracted, Plythe suggested, patting him on the back on his way past. I wonder why that would be? the old man joked, smiling wide. As he spoke, three horns sounded and people cheered a good distance off. Ikals tried to avoid it, but he gave in and gazed out the window.

A cool breeze swept in from over the tiled rooftops with their chimneys and weathervanes. Beyond them, behind the brick clock tower and a sea of other roof tops was the white, curved wall.

Trees, green and tall, ringed the stadium, and birds, Etis and Tirf, circled above, swooping down to pick at whatever food the patrons were abandoning inside. They reappeared a moment later each time with food in their beaks, and there were more horns, and there was more cheering. The stadium was a ways off, but Ikals’ heart was already there, and he nodded glumly.

You might be right, he admitted, blushing, leaning forward on his elbows and staring longingly at the page. I might be a little distracted. Why can’t we have the day off again?

Because we’re led by smarter men, Plythe mumbled with a shrug, and he pays our bills, so we work while others play. The old man turned, rubbing his lower back a little, and made his way over to his easel.

The sketch he was illuminating was affixed to its wooden backing by way of thin, padded, metal clasps. What had once been a simple ink print was on its way to being a true marvel. Plythe’s work was painstaking work that never got its due respect!

Thin, faded grey cloak; open-legged, black pants; blue, buttoned shirt; and thin, white hair, coming down around a wrinkled, well-sunned face – Plythe eased himself back onto his wobbly stool.

Don’t you think I have places I’d rather be too? he asked, picking up his pallet and brush.

Ikals smiled. I think you’d be here even if they locked the doors and threw you out. I think you’d break back in just to spend every possible day you could here, likely a few beyond too.

Plythe laughed, stopping to cough a little, holding his chest until it was gone. You might be right, Ikals. I was born here. Did I ever tell you that? Ikals nodded quietly, holding back a response. I did, Plythe continued, breathing in the room.

Shelves and tables were heaped with books, scrolls, pens, and ink. Two roll-top desks were near-buried in the corner under stacks of bills, enquiries, and responses. The only clear space was where they sat around a busy, oval table at the centre of the room, Plythe with his easel and Ikals with his podium. There was an old fan lodged in the ceiling, but the gears that had once run it had failed some years gone.

If it weren’t for the fresh air and breeze from the five windows that made up the wall behind Ikals, and two windows on the other side of the room – if not for them, the heat would be unbearable; but, looking around, Ikals had to smile too. It was comfortable. It was home.

My father worked in the stables down below back then. Plythe slowly shook his head. You know the stairs weren’t even here then? he mused, furrowing his brows scratching his chin.

Again, Ikals nodded silently.

He had to climb up a ladder, and there was nothing here but hay. It was a barn after all. Plythe laughed lightly. "After I was born, they worked hard to get something better, and when the Printing Press moved into town, they talked the owner of the stables to give them a piece of the bottom floor.

They did bit parts for the local post that goes around on old desks and uneven tables; not long after, the machines were moved here. When the stables were relocated, the Press took over both floors, and we haven’t looked back since. It might sound odd, but part of me misses that ladder and the smell of horses. Did I tell you about the time I stole one of those horses? I thought I was old enough to run away and live on my own.

Yes, you did, but tell me again anyway, Ikals replied, detaching his page and fetching a fresh one. The sound of your voice is just what I need right now.

Plythe looked from sketch to sheet and nodded. I didn’t make it ten feet before the horse threw me, he groaned, laughing, returning to his task transferring image to colour.

Ikals smiled while he watched the old man bring a scribble to life with artful strokes, pausing in his speech as he stopped to check on the original, then continuing like he’d never paused.

How many images from the old texts had he watched the man illustrate? How many hours a day did the man sit by the fire downstairs wringing out his hands and claiming they were fine, just a touch a cold. On a hot day.

It wasn’t the story or the art. It wasn’t the place, its smell or look. Ikals knew it all. He’d heard the tale of the horse theft ten times and could tell it himself. Every so often when Plythe fell asleep in the chair by the fire, to amuse himself, Ikals would tell it again, just to have it or a different tale done.

No, for him it wasn’t the building. It was the man whose life and love were tied to that place that gave the walls life and meaning. That kind of love was infectious. Without Plythe, Ikals wondered if the place and those texts would hold any meaning at all. Of course, Ikals had never wondered about it until Plythe had accepted the latest contracts. Before, there’d been only the greatness of the written word.

But now ….

And that was only because my father bought apples from the vendor on a regular basis, Plythe punctuated with a laugh. Despite himself, Ikals laughed as well. There, what do you think?

Ikals took up a position behind his mentor. Nice, but very brown. I thought the trees were in bloom when General Stende was leading the attack.

Plythe made a subconscious glance to the stairs and nodded with a frown. They were, he agreed conspiratorially, but our current, benevolent leader, in all his wisdom, has discovered other truths that say different, so we paint different.

And we write only his truths, Ikals groaned, walking back to his podium and leaning against it. This is wrong. Knowledge should never be allowed to be controlled by whoever’s in charge. He turned and sighed, gesturing around him. It should be free, for everyone.

Again? Plythe asked with a puzzled frown. It is for everyone, lad. We talked on this.

Maybe I don’t get it yet. What Marker Stende wants it to look like, what he wants everyone to know and think, what he doesn’t horde in his private keeping – how is that right!?

Plythe offered a tired, but understanding nod. We have access to all the information and release what we can, he impressed.

Ikals shrugged uneasily.

I know you want every house and building to have its own collection of books and the town to have several public libraries, Ikals. I know all this, Plythe continued gently. This I’ve heard how many times? Yet again, I’ll tell you the best piece of advice I have to offer: don’t worry about what the world doesn’t know. You’re young. You’ll learn that you only ever know what the people in power want to share, and not only could you never understand all that’s really out there, but what would you do with it?

Share it, Ikals replied simply, through those libraries.

Plythe held up a finger. We tried that, he noted evenly. What happened?

They burned them all, Ikals nearly spat, averting his gaze distastefully.

The world wasn’t ready for such access.

The Faith wasn’t willing to give up control! Ikals sputtered, going quiet again and closing his eyes.

Plythe nodded sadly. And they are only agents of our world. Aren’t they, lad? Their fear is the same fear the goes through every man and woman out there. The libraries were rushed into being, and for a while, it seemed good, on the surface, but fear was building. And it all came to an end, nearly for good. The Faith’s grip on Millosel has slipped, to every corner of Millosel, our town only a single point. Things are changing, slowly, too slow for some? Ikals couldn’t argue that much! Now, we have these private collections, Plythe noted, "and in time, when we’re ready, the libraries will return.

Until then, Plythe urged, we keep the written word alive. Why do you think there are men like Marker Stende? One day, we’ll copy and report everything, exactly the way it truly was. The details are all here, stored, he mused with a grin, checking the stairs again. We aren’t stopping the truth, lad, he boasted confidently. We’re just storing it safely away until society is ready to know it. On that day, I expect to see you opening your libraries with all the gusto you can find.

Ikals smiled weakly.

Plythe shrugged. Right now, the old man noted with a resigned nod, the world only wants to know Master Stende’s version of the truth. They need his grandfather to have been a glorious leader, a general among generals. With the soldiers changing their charges and all the political upheavals, the people need an icon to believe in.

General Stende? Ikals asked, crossing his arms. The man left his men. He ran for his life. Any good he did freeing the captives from that fallen house was pure luck. Or accident.

But the world needs stability right now, Ikals. Faith, in its many facets is weak. Politically and religiously, everyone’s vying for power, and the Stardents haven’t won a game in years – something’s bound to break! Ikals couldn’t help but laugh. Plythe rested his hands on his hips. They never should have gotten rid of Dank. That’s all there is to it.

Plythe’s smile was warm. Besides, most of it’s accurate, and if it wasn’t us doing this, well, he’d just find someone else. And what good would that do!? Maybe the written word would die out completely under another quill. That wouldn’t help anyone.

Ikals nodded, but he didn’t like it.

There was no proof the general found any old text or inscription to save those captive people. What if what he was copying was pure invention? Not that Stende had any real imagination, mind you. What did it make Ikals if what he was producing was eighty percent honest, twenty percent … something else?

Plythe was humming happily as he worked. The horses, men, women, children, and scenery were all coming to life on his sheet, and even against the knowledge of the horrible role he was playing in the masking of his world’s real history, Ikals found his calm returning.

Is his conscience acting up again? a head asked from the farthest window. I told him to lose that a long time ago, but he won’t listen to me. Plythe and Ikals turned to look. Ikals rolled his eyes while Plythe returned to work.

What you doing here, Lomnes? Ikals checked. I thought you were working.

I could say the same, came his friend’s jovial retort. Ikals smiled and walked over, peering down the trellis to the alley below. Lomnes was dressed in his own scribe’s outfit, like Ikals; only, his shirt was an off-white, his sleeves weren’t held back, and his hair was near clean-shaven off. Any chance your break is permanent? he asked, eye brows raised. I’ve been given the rest of the day off.

We have a lot more to do here today, Ikals rued. Six pages a day keeps us on schedule.

Lomnes screwed up his face. And how far along are you now?

Two to go. Ikals hung his head.

Lomnes sighed. No chance, Master Plythe, of any reprieve? Plythe grinned, but the old man shook his head. They’ll be starting the main game soon. I’ll let you know what happens, score by score.

Don’t hold anything back, Ikals insisted. Horns blasted in the distance, triples a few seconds later. It sounded like the whole town was cheering. Not missing a beat, there was hard wrap at the door downstairs, and Plythe stood, motioning for silence, making his way down the spiral staircase.

What is it? Lomnes asked in a hush.

Ikals shook his head for an answer and stood straighter.

It’s good to see you, Master Stende, came from below, Ikals’ expression going tight. He was trying to accept Stende as a positive in life’s history, but it wasn’t working.

Whatever Ikals’ objections, the fact remained that Stende was rich and well-connected. He was Sathiol’s Regent after all, and with that position, came power.

I’m here for a report.

We haven’t much to show yet, sir. We only just started really.

A heavy sigh. Then show me what you have already!

Heavy footsteps followed Plythe up. Quick, Ikals urged, motioning for his friend to drop down out of sight. Lomnes nodded and did just that.

Stende, a tall thin man in his forties with thin black hair and curled moustache, climbed up the stairs behind Plythe. He wore a blue silk jacket and pants, black buttoned shirt between, and his expression was quite sour and uninviting. I offered you my contract because your reputation stands for speed. I was hoping for more.

We’ve finished ten pages so far, Plythe was saying as he topped the stairs back into the loft. That’s good for a work of this size, and the illustrations are elaborate, Plythe added, gesturing towards the easel and his work-in-progress. They’re going to add a fair allotment of time to the project I’m afraid.

Stende frowned at the easel. Ikals was almost offended he didn’t even warrant a glance. Of course, it also felt good to feel small.

It isn’t bad, Stende finally admitted. Where’s your finished product so far?

Plythe moved some half-bound books aside and bent to retrieve some thin wooden boxes from beneath the central, oval table. Stende did eye Ikals for a moment, then, frowning heavily, he walked stiffly up beside Plythe where he spread the boxes out and opened them for inspection.

Each page rests here until we’re ready to bind the finished product, Plythe explained, lifting the wax paper from the top of one to show the page beneath.

Wax sheets, wooden containers, parchment, and quills, Stende mused. I thought you were exaggerating when we first spoke. He looked around the room with the beginning of a wry smile. I thought it was for show. Now I see you were serious. Fine, you’ve got your time allotted, but nothing more. I’m under pressure to deliver a new text to the shops in a month, and it had better be done by then! How many copies have you made of these? he asked, pointing to the boxes.

Ten of each, as you requested. Stende nodded grimly, eyed Ikals and the room over once again; then, he left, descending the stairs with haste. Plythe saw him out.

Let me know how it works out, Ikals said as Lomnes’ popped his head back up. His friend nodded and started his descent.

Part way down, bright red and green shot up into the sky above the stadium. The fireworks broke apart into three streams before dying out completely. A whole chorus of horns announced the entrance of the home team! Ikals sighed, and Lomnes nodded sadly.

The trellis shook slightly under his weight, and a woman in a window across the alley scowled, but Lomnes kept to his descent and landed, waving as he skipped across between the parked handcarts and down the next alleyway over.

Chapter Two

Release

Ikals tried to resume his work with Lomnes gone, but he couldn’t get a sentence down before turning to face the windows. The fireworks were spent, but the cheering rose loud. He heard Plythe clear his throat and turned, clearing his own, returning to his work again.

You have to dip your quill to put it to any real use, Plythe advised softly. Ikals nodded half-heartedly and did as he was instructed. Plythe, his small brush poised atop a crouched man’s head, let a thin smile escape. And staring at the parchment doesn’t help any. I hear you need to actually add the ink for it to show.

Sorry. Of course.

Plythe laughed. Go, he urged, sitting back. I’m not getting any good use out of you today. I likely never was, even before Lomnes showed. Eye brows raised, he shook his head. Catch up with your friend. I’m sure he’s stopped to stare at some girl or other along the way. You will be finishing your half when you return, mind you, just so you know, transfers and all!

Ikals only sat there for a second before racing from the room. Will do, he cried as he got to the bottom of the stairs, skirted the long metal binder, avoiding the threaders and weavers, nearly knocking some ink bottles over in the act. Hitting the four steps that led to the heavy front door, he snagged his hat from the coat rack and turned. Just leave the ink out, he called up, and it’ll be done, and don’t bother staying up.

He broke through the door and raced down the street. Plythe’s laughter filtered out and beyond.

Ikals did find Lomnes trying to woo two women on a street corner by a cosy little café. Neither woman was showing much serious interest, but they were smiling and giggling. It was enough to keep Lomnes happy and involved.

Come on, Ikals called, slowing down long enough to pull his friend along after him.

I’ll come back when the game’s done, Lomnes called back. The women just smiled and waved, then laughed and turned, walking off down a side-street. They won’t be there, he grumbled, shaking Ikals’ hands off. I’ll likely never see them again.

You never know, Ikals replied.

Terraced, red clay restaurants, honey-coloured wooden houses, and white stone buildings lined the sidewalk up ahead and across the tree-lined street. There were a few people about in each, but compared to the usual fare, the street and buildings were empty.

So he let you go after all, eh? I figured he’d give in. He usually does. You just don’t push enough. A volley of horns and cheering had them running full out again.

You’ve no idea what pressure we’re under with this new contract, Ikals noted. They stopped to avoid being run over by a team of horses. The wagon those horses were pulling, and their cursing driver, kept rolling.

Lomnes shook his head. He nearly stepped into some fresh fertilizer that had fallen from the wagon, or was it one or two of the horses? He was checking his shoes and pants as he hurried on.

Enough talk of work, he shouted. Let’s get going, so we don’t miss the whole game.

I’ll beat you there.

Not today.

Ikals held the lead for four blocks until a fruit vendor and her wheel barrow of tomatoes popped out from behind a stall to bar his path. He cleared the wheel barrow evenly. It was the landing he missed. While Ikals skidded and rolled, Lomnes cleared the barrow and kept going.

Not today, Lomnes shouted again.

Ikals grinned and ran after his friend. They came out into the town square. Red and white smoothed cobble-stone circled the brick clock tower that rose high above. There were layered gardens around its base, and flowers and trees grew in the boxes around its benches and shade covers.

Lomnes took a route straight through. Ikals kept more to the benches, then, slipped one block to the right onto a side street that ran parallel to the main road. His path dipped and rose with flat doors on either side. A foul smell came from one place in particular: unkempt refuse. Someone needed to take the garbage out!

Red, brown, red, white, white – Ikals kept count of store fronts by colour as he went, noting blocks as well. If he cut back over at the right cross-street, he could escape the business sector which was likely slowing Lomnes down. But if he ran too fast, he’d hit the fish mongers. He could already smell that repulsive odour.

Red, white, white, brown … now.

Ikals skirted left, neatly side-swiped a tree and bench, and hit full stride again. Glancing back, he noted the vendors and few customers who conversed in the street.

Something was wrong. Where was Lomnes?

That short-cut never works, Esha, Lomnes shouted back. Lomnes was at least a block up! Ikals gritted his teeth. He hated that name. More than that though, he hated that Lomnes might best him! You’re just too slow. Accept it.

Never. He wasn’t going to give up until the race was lost!

Ikals managed to catch up, somewhat, but the road was running short. With Lomnes six feet in the lead, they hit the stadium’s surrounding steps and started climbing. Twenty steps opened up onto a wide landing where the fountains, trees, and stadium walls rose. Lomnes finally stopped at the wide, stone arch.

Ikals stopped behind him feeling near thoroughly spent! Though he automatically found a few comebacks to try and save his pride, they were stilled on his tongue. Seeing that arch, he just stammered like a fool.

Can’t take losing? Lomnes jibed happily.

Ikals wiped his forehead, then, shook his head. You only won because of that vendor. I had you!

Lomnes laughed and pulled Ikals through the arch.

Ikals shook his head. It was so much like the one he’d been seeing in his dreams, but it was different too. His arch was taller and thinner, and there were markings around its edge. He felt the fool. He’d seen this arch often enough over the years, any time he’d seen a game at the stadium! Was he going to start quaking at every arch he had to step through anymore!? He briskly shook it off.

How did you get through those people anyway? Ikals demanded as they mounted the inner steps that took them to the highest tiers. On each landing, the sounds of the crowd intruded; then, mounting the next flight of steps, there was only the sounds of their steps on the stairs.

I smiled, and they parted, Lomnes exclaimed as they ran, stopping to pant some more at the next landing. They just like me more. That’s all.

Or they thought you were deranged, Ikals suggested, taking his chance to run ahead. Lomnes followed, skipping steps to keep up.

They finally came out at the top as the crowd jumped to their feet and cheered. Below, the players in reds and yellows passed the ball along, one man heading it and a woman slide-tackling someone from the other team. Ten feet out, a player took a shot on net, and two large horns blew, one on either side of the field to mark the goal!

Damn, Lomnes spat. If the Danstels actually win, it’s because I wasn’t here to cheer them on!

It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that they’re playing the league’s top team?

Lomnes waved the thought off and started pushing his way through the people, both sitting and standing until the friends came to a pair of empty seats that were nearly teetering on the very wall itself. One strong wind might have knocked them off to the courtyard below!

Lomnes glued his eyes to the game.

The Danstels can beat anyone. They destroyed the Cloisters last year. Remember? And they were apparently the best team.

Yes, but they had Polkash playing for them. She’s not on their team anymore.

Lomnes frowned, rising to shout, then, sitting again. Below, the player who’d tripped spat out some dirt and chased after the ball. No difference, Lomnes insisted. We can beat them without her.

Plythe is still rooting for the Stardents.

Lomnes laughed. Good luck on that one.

The Danstels passed the black, leather ball around. One man flipped the ball over his and the other player’s heads, then, kicked it on ahead. It was picked up and kicked on goal. Everyone stood, Lomnes and Ikals included.

The keeper knocked it aside.

Amid a mixture of cheers and boos, Lomnes shouted his own share of challenges, and they sat again. They just need the right heart. That’s all. Oh no, not again.

Minstrels happened by, singing their lot. Some people threw money at them.

I think they play well enough, Ikals joked with a grin. I can get them to come closer for you.

Everyone cheered around them, drowning out the minstrels as they passed. Ikals joined in.

Lomnes just watched the minstrels leave. They can’t keep a tune, he muttered, getting back into the game, yelling along with others as his team stormed down the field. They almost scored, but the defensive line turned them aside. I don’t mind a song, but I mind when it’s played in the wrong key, and they never learn.

They just need practice, Ikals suggested, flagging a vendor down. He dug out a silver coin, and the man passed bone kebobs across. Lomnes’ nose nearly curled into his head.

How can you eat that shit?

Ikals smiled, then, shrugged. It’s not as good as home-made, he replied, picking at a strip of meat, but nothing ever is. Thin, gloppy, yellowish sauce dripped down onto the paper plate. Ikals inhaled the onions, green leaves, and vegetables. Still, you can’t ruin Telcoy.

But you can ruin your taste buds eating it.

A loud roar rose from below, somewhere between a cheer and massive inhale. Both friends leaned forward to watch the teams run back inside.

Quarter’s over, Lomnes rued.

Fireworks were launched from both ends of the stadium, exploding in greens and blues making wide rimmed circles in the sky. Two green fireworks followed, exploding in a broken stream of sizzling lights until each strand died out. A band came out on the field, and talking broke out around them.

Sitting again, Lomnes sighed.

At least they aren’t so bad, still not good. I’ve seen their music. A blind monkey could play it better. Ikals smirked, contentedly chewing on his meat. "What? There’s the institute in town here where children are learning to play, and they’re better. We write for them too, so I should know.

There’re plans in order to mark a birthday. Did you know that? he asked. Ikals shook his head, picking at the last of his first bone. They have us crafting a song for it. I imagine there’ll be a celebration planned as well, some big party of some sort. I think Stende is trying to look good so people will trust him. Noticing Ikals’ frown, Lomnes smiled. He’s not so bad.

I think I could do it better.

Let’s not get into this again. Here they come.

Ikals paused, second kebob snared between two fingers. Just along the horizon, what seemed like mere feet above the rooftops, five flyers came into view with a large, grey balloon following.

The flyers, bright red, white, green, and orange against the blue