Blackveil

by Kristen Britain

  Richmont, of course, had his own agenda for wanting Ard to join the company.

  “I live to serve the clan,” Ard replied.

  He was a humble man, Ard, and Richmont liked that about him. Ard had no family, only his commitment to the clan. He’d been a friendly presence in Estora’s girlhood, showing her the ways of gardens and woods. Estora, who was kind to those who served her, had regarded Ard as a sort of wise and rustic uncle, and when she was little she’d hold his hand as they walked garden paths and he told her the secret tales of roses, ferns, and oaks.

  Ard, Richmont knew, was not only devoted to Estora, but worshipped her.

  “It is a lot we are asking of you,” Richmont said, “to go into that wretched place.”

  “The forest does not scare me, though maybe it should.”

  “You were always a fearless one. But do not forget your other task—to ensure that the threat to Lady Estora’s marriage is eliminated. Do you still feel up to this?”

  “I do. I owe you and the lady much.”

  “Good man, good man. Now then, the lady would like to give you her own personal blessing on the venture. Before we go in, however, I want you to know I’ve set aside fifty acres of my own estate that will be yours upon the successful completion of your mission.”

  “My lord!” Ever the humble servant, Ard bowed. Land of his own would boost his lot in life—if he survived Blackveil. “There is no need of reward. I do this for the honor of the clan.”

  Richmont smiled. Yes, Ard was perfect for this. “Still, it will be something for you to look forward to upon your return.” It was probably best if Ard did not return so there’d be no questions about what happened to the messenger ...

  Richmont knocked on the door and a Weapon admitted them. Estora sat composed beside her parents. Her youngest sister, Cressandra, sat by the fire, engaged in needlework. She was in that delectable stage of just beginning to bloom into young womanhood. Richmont licked his lips and hastily averted his gaze. Once the bodies of females matured fully, his interest in them waned. He’d always controlled himself around Coutre’s daughters. Giving in to his desires was a conflict of interest, since incurring Lord Coutre’s wrath would only prove counterproductive to Richmont’s ambitions.

  He took pride in himself for having resisted the lure of Coutre’s daughters all these years, and found he could slake his thirst at the wells of others; girls who were not nobly born, girls whose families were generally poor and had no recourse to his attentions to their overly young daughters. Usually they were happy enough to receive payment in the end.

  “Ard!” Estora said. She rose and took the forester’s rough hands into hers and brought him into the room. Ard blushed, and it occurred to Richmont how oblivious Estora could be to the power she wielded over people just by her sheer proximity. They loved her, especially the commoners.

  Ard bowed. “My lady.”

  Estora returned to her chair. There was some inane chatter with Lord and Lady Coutre about weather and health, and finally Estora said, “Ard, you have ever been a good servant to Clan Coutre. Your willingness to journey into the dark forest of Blackveil is beyond any call to duty.”

  At Estora’s nod, a servant brought forth a small, ornate box. “Clan Coutre wishes to acknowledge the danger you are placing yourself in on its behalf,” she continued. “You were always good to me when I was little, answering all my silly questions with patience and kindness. Because of you, I have always loved green, growing things and find solace in gardens. It hurts my heart that you are going to face the danger of Blackveil, but knowing how deeply skilled you are in the craft of forestry does comfort me a little. I believe your skills will be tested to the utmost.”

  “I will do my best,” Ard said.

  “I know, my friend. But I want to personally bless your mission, and I wish with all the speed of the gods you will return to us unharmed. We’ve a small token of our thanks.”

  She opened the box and there, perched on blue velvet, was a silver signet ring with the cormorant symbol of Clan Coutre etched into it. This was a rare and high honor they were bestowing upon him.

  Overcome, the forester wilted to his knees, tears shining on his ruddy cheeks. Estora placed the ring on his finger.

  “When all is dark and fraught with peril,” Estora said, “Lord and Lady Coutre, and my sisters and I, hope that this ring will remind you of our high regard for your courage and honor.”

  “With your blessing,” Ard replied, “I shall bring honor to Clan Coutre, and do all that is asked of me.”

  Estora placed her hand on his bowed head. “So be it.”

  Richmont smiled. Estora had no idea she had just given Ard her approval to commit murder. Richmont was pleased. Very pleased.

  DEPARTURE

  The next morning Karigan arose while it was still dark to prepare herself and Condor to leave. After a warm breakfast, she assembled with the other members of the expedition and their escort outside the main castle entrance. The escort comprised half a dozen soldiers of the light cavalry and, to Karigan’s delight, another half dozen Green Riders who would remain at the wall to aid Alton. The small size of their company would allow them to ride swiftly and reach the wall before the equinox.

  She yawned through the benediction of the moon priest, who stood on the castle steps droning on and on. She had not slept well, but at least she didn’t feel as miserable as Yates looked crouched over in his saddle with a greenish tint to his face.

  Condor shifted beneath her and snorted, steam pluming from his nostrils, just as anxious as she to be off, but now that the moon priest had finished, General Harborough started issuing final orders. Captain Mapstone stood next to him, hands clasped behind her back.

  “I know you will conduct yourselves with the utmost professionalism,” the general was saying. “And you will serve your king and country well. Captain, anything you’d like to add?”

  She gazed at each of them in turn, not smiling, but not looking sad either. She appeared every inch the commander she was. “Each of you has my confidence this expedition will succeed. I want you to know how proud I am of you, and I look forward to you all returning home safely.”

  General Harborough grunted. He appeared ready to send them off when the great doors of the castle opened. King Zachary emerged onto the top landing and trotted down the steps, a pair of Hillander terriers running alongside him, and Fastion following behind at a respectful distance.

  Leather creaked and metal jingled as the company bowed to him from their saddles. The king paused first by Lynx, and moved on to each member of the expedition to share some private word. Much to Karigan’s dismay, she got all fluttery inside awaiting her turn. What would he say to her? Something personal, or just wish her well on her way?

  He wore blacks and grays as somber as the moon priest’s gowns, his longcoat flowing behind him as he approached her. Karigan did not feel the morning gloom or the cold or anything when he stopped at Condor’s shoulder, but when he clasped her hand, the warmth of his touch shocked her. She almost missed his words.

  “Do whatever you must, Karigan,” he told her, his voice so quiet it would not carry, “to come back. You must come back. To me.”

  Before she could even open her mouth, he was on to Yates. Karigan sat there at a loss. Had she heard him right? She bit her bottom lip. It had happened too quickly, and now he had already mounted the steps and paused on the landing. “May the blessings of Aeryc and Aeryon be upon you all,” he said.

  General Harborough ordered them to ride out. Karigan reflexively reined Condor around, all of it a blur. However, as she rode away from the castle, she did not see the road ahead of her, but the image of the king standing straight and strong on the castle steps with his two terriers sitting on either side of him, the gleam of dawn on his amber hair, and his longcoat flapping in the wind.

  She would keep that image, she knew, tucked away in her mind forever.

  The sharp clip-clop of hooves on the street below
awakened Galen Miller from a deep slumber. He rose from his pallet in a panic fearing an opportunity missed, and flung himself across the attic room to the window, his body ungainly from the sleep and the shaking disease that afflicted him. Could his long wait finally be over? He swung the window open and leaned out over the sill into the crisp air.

  It was, he discovered, only a small military detachment riding two abreast at a smart trot down the nearly deserted street. The time was just past sunrise and the Winding Way remained darkened by the shadows of buildings, but he could discern the blue uniforms of the light cavalry and the green of messengers. There were a couple of soldiers in black and silver, and a pair of riders in what looked like forester’s garb. An odd assortment to be sure, and something Galen hadn’t seen before during his many hours of surveillance of the Winding Way, but certainly not what he’d been waiting for all this time.

  After the company disappeared around a bend in the street, he sagged down to the floor beside the window and just sat there. The detachment was of no matter to him. He did not care what business hurried them on. No, they’d been a passing curiosity was all. He’d have to continue his vigil until what he wanted came into the view of the attic window.

  He kept his longbow and quiver close by and now he reached out with a trembling hand to caress the inlay work and carvings of the bow, its graceful curves. It was truly the work of a master, both beautiful and deadly. He’d won it in a tournament when he was Clay’s age, a young man still, and an archer in old Lord Mirwell’s militia. He’d been the best. When he retired from duty, he used the bow for hunting and had taught Clay the ways of the woods and how to track quarry. Galen passed his hand over his eyes remembering good days spent in the woods with his son.

  Clay had grown into a fine man and an expert tracker. He followed his father’s path and joined the militia. Everything would have been fine, but Lord Mirwell’s coup attempt failed and Clay went into hiding in the Teligmar Hills with his captain. Captain Immerez. Then there’d been the whole plot to abduct Lady Estora. Why had Clay gotten mixed up in all that?

  The last image he had of his boy, before the undertaker nailed the lid of his coffin shut, was of Clay’s swollen, blackened face, his thickened tongue jutting between his teeth, his neck ravaged by the noose. At least he’d gotten a decent burial. Thanks to the stranger who’d given Galen those silvers, Clay was put to rest with dignity in a cemetery not far away from the inn. He’d even have a marker for his grave: Clay Miller, beloved son of Galen and Rosaline.

  There was enough coin left over from the burial, and from the sale of his old mule and cart, for Galen to keep his attic room at the Cock and Hen with its all important view of the street, as well as to purchase the bitter weed from the herbalist he chewed to calm his shakes.

  Sometimes the weed, however, gave him waking nightmares of seeing his boy dangling from the noose—not the adult man, but the tow-headed boy of about ten—his legs kicking, his body swaying, his struggles answered only by the jeers of the mob assembled to see him die. In these hallucinations, Clay struggled till he moved no more, the rope creaking on the gallows from his dead weight.

  Just the memory of the visions set Galen off into choking sobs. “My boy, my boy ...” Morning bells chimed in the distance, a bright counterpoint to the shroud of darkness that perpetually lay upon him.

  His only comfort was his longbow and arrows, and what he could do with them. Rightfully the bow should have been passed down to his son, but now Galen could only use it to honor him. He would maintain his vigil over the street and soon find peace.

  THE MELODY OF THE WALL

  “He does seem to like looking at walls.”

  “You should have seen him last fall, staring at it all day long.”

  Alton rolled his eyes wondering why he’d invited Dale and Estral along on this excursion if all they were going to do was make fun of him the whole time. Currently he faced the wall of Tower of the Earth, companion to Tower of the Heavens and the eight others that were part of the D’Yer Wall. He’d made contact with all the mages who, like Merdigen, existed in the towers, except for Haurris, who was responsible for Tower of the Earth. Even the other mages could not reach him, and though Alton tried, he could not gain entrance to the tower either. Merdigen said they’d have to assume the worst about Haurris.

  What would be “the worst” for a noncorporeal projection of someone who lived a thousand years ago? Not existing at all, he supposed. He shrugged, for such questions entered a realm of philosophy he was in no mood to pursue at the moment.

  He pressed his hand against the wall, feeling the cold, nubbly texture of the granite beneath his palm. The guardians of the wall sang their normal song and did not show any resistance to him, or any alarm for whatever was wrong with the tower, yet he could not enter. Dale had tried with similar results.

  There weren’t even any cracks from the breach extending this far, although there was no way of knowing how things looked from the Blackveil side. All in all, there were no clues as to what was wrong with Tower of the Earth, or what had befallen Haurris. The only way to know was to somehow get inside.

  “Hopefully he won’t kick the wall,” Dale said.

  “He did that?” Estral asked.

  “Oh, yes, and got broken toes for his trouble. Not to mention smashed knuckles from beating on it.”

  Alton ground his teeth.

  “Karigan never spoke of him having self-destructive tendencies,” Estral commented.

  That’s it! He whirled around. Dale and Estral sat on a blanket several paces off, looking rather languorous with legs stretched out as if they were on nothing more than a picnic. They had, in fact, broken into a loaf of nut bread and were steeping tea in a kettle over a small cookfire they’d started.

  “I’m right here,” he said. “You don’t have to talk about me as if I’m not.”

  Dale stuck her tongue out at him and Estral flashed him a disarming smile.

  “It’s not easy to talk to you when you’ve always got your back turned to us,” Dale said.

  “No matter how picturesque the view,” Estral added.

  Alton’s cheeks warmed.

  “Come have a seat.” Dale patted the blanket beside her. “Take a tea break.”

  Alton flicked a glance over his shoulder at the wall and decided it wasn’t going anywhere. He joined the two women on the blanket, Dale pouring him a cup of tea and Estral carving him a slice of nut bread.

  The tea warmed him up nicely, and it was a fine sunny day, if still on the cold side. Why not a picnic? Even the horses were contentedly cropping at any dormant grasses their agile lips could find, tails swishing at nonexistent flies. And here he was, being served by two attractive ladies. If not for the wall nearby, they could be in some artist’s bucolic scene.

  “Did you really break your toes?” Estral asked him.

  “A toe.” He’d been so angry and frustrated that the wall would not let him pass, that he could not fix it. And he’d been sick with the residue of Blackveil’s poison in his veins. Sick of heart, sick of mind, he’d battered his will and his body against the granite until blood flowed.

  He’d lost all sense of himself during that time, allowing his appearance to go to ruin until Dale set him straight, reminding him he was still a Green Rider and that Captain Mapstone would disapprove of his bedraggled state. He’d once taken pride in his appearance and the sharpness of his uniform, and now the old Alton, in his opinion, was coming back. No one, not even Captain Mapstone, would be able to find fault in the shine of his boots. He kept his hair combed and his face clean-shaven. He’d found himself being even more meticulous of late, since ... since about the time Estral arrived. He choked on his nut bread and spilled scalding tea on his leg.

  “Ow!”

  “Here,” Estral said, dabbing at his thigh with a cloth.

  He jumped at her touch near . . . a sensitive area. “Uh, it’s all right.” He took the cloth from her and dabbed the spill himself. So much for h
is perfect appearance.

  “So what’s next?” Dale asked. “Neither of us can get into the tower. Are we just going to go back?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe if the two of us try at the same time? If that doesn’t work, I guess I’ll have to go back and ask Merdigen if he has any more suggestions.”

  “He didn’t seem very encouraging last time you asked him.”

  “No,” Alton admitted. Merdigen had said the situation of Tower of the Earth was beyond his experience.

  “Maybe the tower is fine,” Dale said. “I mean it looks fine from here. If it’s doing its job of holding back the forest—”

  “It could be a weak point without Haurris in contact with the others. There’s just too much we don’t know.”

  Estral scrunched her nose. “That’s not very interesting song fodder: too much we don’t know.”

  “I’m afraid life here at the wall is no ballad,” Alton said.

  “So you’ve told me. But I am patient.”

  “Well, I say let’s give it another try,” Dale said, hopping to her feet. “And if it doesn’t work, we’ll go back.”

  Alton was forced to stuff the rest of his nut bread into his mouth, chewing and swallowing hastily.

  “I guess I’ll just practice a little while I wait,” Estral said, reaching for the lute that she took everywhere with her.

  Alton nodded, rose to his feet, and followed Dale. Behind him came the sound of strings being tuned. He may have protested Estral’s arrival at the wall at first, but her presence had done much to raise the morale of the personnel at both encampments. She was like a library of stories and music that ranged from centuries long past to pieces she and her fellow minstrels had created. She was also teaching the few musicians among them new songs, and in the process they honed their abilities.

  As for himself, he’d found excuses to often be in her company, whether she was playing music or not.