The soldier outlined the proposal. The man in the corner listened avidly. “Risky” was an understatement. It was much more than simple theft, much more, but the man had to admit he was intrigued by the challenge and by the revival of the old and once-honored custom it represented.
Morry must have been just as flabbergasted, for it took him a long while to respond. Presently he said, “I shall tell my master all you have said. You mentioned he would be rewarded commensurately?”
“Of course.” The soldier named an outrageous sum, then added, “Half up front, half upon successful delivery. We need to know his decision as soon as possible.”
The man in the corner toyed with the silver moon necklace sparkling on the table before him, a thrill of excitement making his heart pound harder. He already knew the answer to the proposal. Yes, he certainly did.
THE WALL SPEAKS
From Ullem Bay to the shores of the dawn, we weave our song through stone and mortar, we sing our will to strengthen and bind. We shield the lands from ancient dark. We are the bulwark of the Ages. We stand sentry day and night, through storm and winter, and freeze and thaw.
From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, we weave our song in harmony for we are one.
We are broken.
From Ullem Bay to—
Losing rhythm.
We shield the lands—
Broken. Lost. Despair.
Hear us! Help us! Heal us!
Do not trust him.
We do not trust. We forbid him passage.
ALTON AND THE WALL
The stone facing of the wall changed aspect with the passing light of the sun. One moment the stone was a bright gray-white, reflecting the sunlight back into the world. In another instant, its rough texture emerged in relief, dimpled by shadows that revealed every contour of its topography; every pit, every crag, every fissure. It looked primal, as if risen from the Earth, formed by the forces that built mountains and divided canyons, or perhaps shaped by the hands of the gods themselves. Yet the simpler truth was that it had been built by mortal men, desperate mortal men, who had deeply feared what lay on the other side. As the sun drifted farther to the west, the wall clad itself in shadow, megalithic, mysterious, and threatening.
Alton D’Yer vowed to uncover the secrets locked in the wall so that which had withstood the assault of time and weathering for over a thousand years would not crumble and unleash the evil it had been built to hold at bay. Yet the wall would not give up its secrets so easily.
“That should do it,” Leese said, tying off the last of the bandage she had wrapped around his hand. Then in a tone that was simultaneously light and pointed, she added, “I trust you won’t start banging your head against the wall next.”
Alton glanced at both hands, now swaddled in linen, and frowned. “Thank you.”
The mender sighed and picked up her pack of supplies. “If you need me again, you know where to find me.”
Alton nodded and watched her as she strode off toward her tent. She had moved down to this secondary encampment by the Tower of the Heavens after he had raged at the wall one too many times. The first time had left him with a broken toe. This time he had banged his hands bloody against it, and though he’d struck with mindless force, he’d managed not to break anything, which, he supposed, was a good thing.
Frustration brought the rages on, rage he never knew he possessed. It had been a couple months since last he stood within the tower, one of ten situated along the vast expanse of the wall. The towers once housed keepers, ancestral members of his own clan, who watched over the wall’s condition and the enemy beyond. All too acutely he remembered the fateful day when he had stepped out of the tower with his fellow Green Riders, never knowing he’d be forbidden access the next time he tried to enter.
He had traveled to Woodhaven to report to his father, the lord-governor of D’Yer Province. Swift orders had come to Woodhaven from the king that Alton should return to the tower and learn what he could about the wall and repairing it by speaking to Merdigen, a magical presence that resided in the tower.
The orders were a formality. Alton had planned to return to the wall with or without them. The wall obsessed him, crowded his dreams and his waking thoughts. Now was the time to fix the breach that weakened it, now was the time to strengthen it. Now, before Mornhavon the Black appeared in Blackveil Forest again.
Only the wall wouldn’t let him pass. No matter how he bent his mind to it, no matter how he pleaded with the guardians who inhabited the wall, they refused him. And it brought on the rage.
The tower had admitted him and the other Riders before. Why would it deny him now?
He knew the soldiers, even those at the main encampment near the breach, gossiped about him, about his obsession. Had he gone mad like his cousin Pendric, who now existed as a guardian within the wall?
The wall’s shadow swallowed his camp and the forest, and soon all would be submerged in darkness. Now that it was autumn, the hours of daylight were shrinking, and it made him feel as if he were running out of time. No one knew how far into the future Karigan had taken Mornhavon the Black. No one knew when their time line would merge with his, and his presence would again threaten the world. This was why Alton had to find the answers now. He had to take advantage of the time Karigan secured for him, and for everyone.
Before thoughts of Karigan could cloud his mind, he pushed them out—forcibly—and traced the contours of the stone wall with his fingertips.
“I will understand,” he promised the wall. “I will enter the tower, and I will understand, and nothing will hold me back.”
Sometimes the fevers came on Alton during the night like a sudden gale as the residue of poisons racked his body. Leese guessed that the poisons would eventually seep out of his blood and he’d return to normal, but he wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t given himself enough time to fully heal after his ordeal in Blackveil, and now he writhed in his bedding, the dark forest haunting his dreams. Sickly black branches snaked out of the shifting, ever present mist and stabbed at his flesh. He heard the calls of creatures that hunted him. And he dreamed of her.
He remembered her in the ivory dress, and how her long brown hair had fallen softly about her shoulders. He recalled the blush upon her cheeks, and the paleness of her neck, of her throat. She had spoken, but he could no longer hear the words, nor could he remember the sound of her voice. She had betrayed him. Karigan had betrayed him into nearly destroying the wall with false promises.
Traitor!
A need came upon him, even as he slept, to send a message to King Zachary and Captain Mapstone to warn them there was a traitor in their midst. Then as morning broke, and so did his fever, he would remember that Karigan was the one who risked herself to move Mornhavon into the future. Maybe it had really been a trick she played, part of some nefarious scheme. Maybe…
Birds squabbled in the trees outside his tent, and the crisp morning air flowing through the entry flap chilled the sweat clinging to his skin. He shivered violently, pulled his blanket over his shoulder, and laid there for some minutes, trying to work things out in his mind. Karigan confused him. He remembered so clearly that she had come to him in the forest, had soothed him and helped him find his way into the tower, yet was it really her? He’d been so very ill. Probably delirious. The power of the forest could have manipulated things, could have made him believe he was seeing and hearing things that were untrue.
He sighed. That had to be it. He could not imagine Karigan…No, she would not betray him, or her country. The forest had given him lies. He closed his eyes, remembering how angry he had been with her when they parted and she had not understood why. He could still see her bewilderment and her hurt. She had wanted to talk to him, but he had refused. What must she think of him?
They had been friends, though Alton had once hoped for more. He had probably ruined even the friendship.
He started to drift back into sleep as the blanket warmed him. His night had not been a restful one
, and now peace lulled him. But just as the morning sunshine beating through the canvas walls of his tent and the bustle of camp faded away, a new clamor jolted Alton awake.
Outside, soldiers raised their voices in cheerful greeting. “Rider!” one exclaimed.
Alton rolled off his cot and, wrapping his blanket about himself, peered through the flap of his tent.
A Rider, indeed. He grinned.
Garth Bowen handed off his mare, Chickadee, to a soldier when Alton stepped out of the tent and called to him. The big man waved and sauntered over. “Alton, well met!” He reached out to shake with Alton, but Alton ruefully held up his bandaged hands. Garth swept an assessing gaze over him. “I would say you are looking well, but I’m afraid I cannot.”
Alton could only imagine how bad he looked. Then a breeze carried to him a whiff of eggs, sausages, and bread frying over a nearby fire. His stomach growled. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“Just some hardtack on the road.”
Alton caught hold of one of his servants and requested food be brought to his tent. One of the benefits of being the lord-governor’s heir was having servants in attendance, even at an encampment. Once inside the tent, Garth’s considerable self took over one of the campaign chairs. He stretched out his legs before him and slumped comfortably in his seat.
Alton, meanwhile, pulled on a rumpled shirt and a pair of trousers that had seen much wear.
“Have you brought news from the king?” Alton asked.
“Not exactly, no. I’m here because the king and Captain Mapstone are anxious to know what progress you’ve made with Merdigen and the wall.”
Alton dropped into the chair opposite Garth’s and frowned. “None.”
“None?”
He shook his head. “I can’t even enter the tower. It’s like…it’s like it’s gone deaf on me.”
Garth stroked his upper lip and looked like he was about to say something when Alton’s servant entered with heaping platters of sausage rolls, sweet bread, and scrambled eggs. Another servant followed bearing mugs and a pot of tea. Garth rubbed his hands together in glee before tucking in. Between mouthfuls, he caught Alton up on some of the news in Sacor City.
“Several new Riders have come on,” he said. “I’ve never seen the captain so happy—she’s practically bouncing.”
Alton smiled at the improbable image. “Why so many new Riders now?” For years beyond count, the call had brought in so very few.
“She thinks the First Rider’s horn has somehow awakened them to the call.”
“Ah.” When Tegan came to Woodhaven with the king’s orders, she had told him of the Rider artifacts Karigan had found. He wished he could see them, but for now he had more important business to attend to at the wall. “New Riders—that’s good to hear.”
“Ty is in his glory, taking the new ones on, while the rest of us are left to sweep and scrub more rooms in the Rider wing.” Garth rolled his eyes. “Happy I am to get away from the dust, cobwebs, and mouse turds. Oh, and all the wedding euphoria.”
“Wedding euphoria?”
“That’s right,” Garth said. “You can’t have heard yet. King Zachary announced he is marrying Lady Estora Coutre.”
Alton dropped his slab of sweet bread in shock. “What? Really?”
Garth nodded. “King Zachary saw the necessity of appeasing Lord Coutre, what with the uncertainty of the wall and all.”
Alton laughed as he fumbled after the sweet bread. So Lord Coutre had turned down the D’Yer proposal that Alton wed Lady Estora. He found it amusing, and enormously freeing. So all along, crafty Lord Coutre had turned down every other lord in this land and others, taking a chance he’d win the ultimate prize for his daughter: the high king of Sacoridia himself.
No longer was the prospect of marriage being held over Alton’s head, at least for the moment.
“All of court is atwitter in anticipation,” Garth continued. “Heralds and some Riders have been sent to spread the news among the populace. Noblewomen are buzzing about it and all they can talk about are wedding gowns and flowers, and even the elder ones among them giggle and blush like girls.”
“Has a date been set?”
“The king has the moon priests working on a forecast for an auspicious date. Won’t be before spring, I don’t expect.”
Alton leaned back in his chair considering the suitability of the match, a mug of tea warming his hands through the bandages. “I wonder what took so long for the king to agree, for surely Coutre put his bid in some time ago.”
“Gossip has it there was some other woman he had his eye on—a commoner of all things. Fortunately he’s come to his senses and is marrying a proper lady as he ought.”
“And strengthening his ties with the eastern lords.” Secretly, Alton sympathized with the king if the gossip was true. Hadn’t he himself desired Karigan, a commoner? Expressing that desire, however, would have displeased his clan. It was bad enough, they thought, that he served as a Green Rider and not, say, as an officer in the elite light cavalry. He had since explained to them about the Rider call, and because his clan had been founded on an alchemy of stonework and magic, they were more accepting of Rider magic than others would be. Especially if it meant his own special ability would help him mend the D’Yer Wall.
As the mound of sausage rolls and eggs disappeared, mostly into Garth’s mouth, their conversation came back to the purpose of the Rider’s visit.
“So what’s the problem?” Garth asked. “Why can’t you enter the tower?”
“I wish I knew. The wall—it won’t talk to me.”
“That’s odd,” Garth said, scratching his head. “I thought you had it all figured out—talking to it.”
“I do. I mean, I did, but it’s ignoring me now. It’s just like dead, cold…stone.” Alton knew how bizarre it sounded, but for a brief time, he had lived within the wall, within the stone, and had learned its stories, had heard and felt the pulse of the song that bound it together, aware of the presences of the guardians who also resided within. To him, the stone was anything but dead.
Garth sipped his tea with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I wonder…”
“What?”
Garth cleared his throat and straightened in his chair. “I assume if the wall doesn’t allow you into the tower, that it won’t let me in either, but it might be worth trying.”
Alton had long ago come to the same conclusion as Garth that the tower had closed access to all but, as the Rider suggested, it was certainly worth seeing if it were in fact true.
The two men polished off breakfast and left the tent for the outdoors. The morning sun was quickly warming the air and burning off dew. It cast a bronze glow onto the face of the wall. When they reached the tower, Garth craned his neck looking up and up and up…And he could keep looking up till he snapped his neck. The magic of the wall made it seem to stretch all the way to the heavens, when in fact the actual stone base of it stood only ten feet high. Yet the magic portion of the wall was as durable as stone, and looked just like it. There was no distinction between the two.
The Tower of the Heavens possessed no windows, not even any arrow loops, to break up its impassive facade. And there was no door.
“Let’s try it,” Garth said in a hushed tone.
He grasped his gold winged horse brooch, emblem of the Green Riders and the device that enhanced their magical abilities, and reached with his other hand through stone into the tower.
Alton’s heart thudded. The stone molded around Garth’s wrist as though he reached into nothing more innocuous than water.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” Garth said, and he plunged all the way into the tower leaving nary a ripple to indicate he had ever existed.
Alton was flummoxed. How in five hells had the wall admitted Garth so easily when it wouldn’t even respond to his touch? Maybe something had changed overnight—maybe the wall would let him pass now.
He fumbled for his brooch, the gold warm and oily smoot
h beneath his fingers, and pressed his other hand against the rough unyielding stone. He willed the wall to open for him, to allow him to enter the tower. He called upon his Rider magic, but to no avail. The tower remained impassible.
He found himself with fist clenched to hammer against the wall and stopped, recalling himself and the soreness of his bandaged hands. It wouldn’t do any good to injure himself again.
It was not easy waiting for Garth to return, and Alton paced madly. More than a moment had passed, much more, before the Rider poked his head out of the stone wall of the tower looking absurdly like a hunter’s mounted trophy. All Garth needed was a pair of antlers.
“Well?” Alton demanded.
“I’ve been speaking with Merdigen.” Garth rolled his eyes. “He’s been wondering why we abandoned him again—he’s been waiting for us to return and didn’t we know that the wall is growing more unstable as each day passes. When I told him you were trying, he checked with the guardians himself.” A strange expression fell over Garth’s face. “After he did so, he told me that the wall doesn’t like you very much. It doesn’t trust you.”
Alton stumbled backward, realizing how much sense it made. While under the influence of Mornhavon the Black, he had almost destroyed the wall, though at the time he believed he was strengthening it. And his cousin Pendric, his cousin who hated him, had merged with the wall and became a guardian. Could Pendric have influenced the other guardians against him?
“Damnation,” Alton muttered. How was he supposed to mend the wall if it wouldn’t trust him?
PATCHWORK PRIDE
Lady Estora Coutre slipped quietly into the corridor and eased her chamber door shut behind her, overcome by a sudden giddy sense of freedom. The morning was early yet, and none of her attendants had risen, nor had her mother or any of her numerous cousins, aunts, or siblings who had traveled over sea and land to be present during this momentous time in her life. The other unrelated noble ladies who clung to her like limpets to a rock would be abed for hours yet. They had not been born and raised on the sunrise coast as she had, where the days started much earlier.
The High King's Tomb Page 6