She wrestled with whomever knocked her down, biting, kicking, clawing. She grabbed at her hair, drawing out a pin and impaled her assailant’s arm. He fell away screaming.
She tried to stand, but someone kicked her feet out from under her. Several hands held her down, yanked strands of her hair out while removing pins, kicked her in the sides and hips if she struggled, clouted her in the head.
Sarge glared at her. “I know you,” he said. “I remember you.”
She started to speak, but Sarge ordered her bound and a cloak thrown over her head, and secured to her so she could not see. Rough hands settled her on a horse to which she was also bound.
“Let’s take her up the hill,” Sarge said.
Blinded and immobile, Karigan could only close her eyes. All around her were the sounds of the men and horses moving out. Her horse turned around and lurched forward, and Falan screamed somewhere behind her.
At least the brutes put the mare out of her misery, Amberhill thought. The road absorbed the blood pooled beneath the mare’s slashed throat. He knelt in the road and picked up Lady Estora’s hat. It was trampled, coated in dust, and a couple of the feathers were broken. He’d arrived toward the end of the melee, as they subdued her and trussed her to the horse—he hadn’t dared approach with anything but stealth, and once again he was too late.
But here was a puzzle. This was Lady Estora’s hat, and the dead mare was hers, too, but if that was the lady being carried off, there was a dimension to her he had not even imagined existed. She killed a few of the men, and injured others—he’d watched them ride back down the road with their dead. Definitely not fighting skill he expected from a noble lady.
Whoever it was, then, had done Lady Estora a great service, must have helped her escape when he’d been incapable of catching up with her captors.
He was of two minds. One was to go in search of the real Lady Estora, the other was to follow the band of cutthroats and try to help the brave soul who had taken her place. She—or possibly he?—would at least know what became of the lady, and he owed this person any aid he could render.
He walked over to Goss, who had scented the dead mare and wanted to bolt. He made the stallion stand still long enough for him to mount.
He cantered back to the crossroads and reined Goss west, on the road that led into the Teligmar Hills. A little way along, he hung Lady Estora’s hat on a branch as a clue to any force King Zachary might have sent out behind him.
JAMETARI’S DESIRE
Laren could see Zachary’s reluctance, but she knew the pressure Lord Coutre exerted on him to recover Lady Estora. The pressure, coupled with his own guilty feelings finally overrode his pride. He sat his horse unmoving before the blue tent of the Eletians’ encampment, waiting, just waiting for any indication Prince Jametari would deign to see him.
Zachary asked her along, but relegated his honor guard to a few Weapons. There were no banners this time, no soldiers in shining mail riding in columns. No pageantry. The guards at the city gates ensured no one approached or disturbed him, but curious onlookers gazed down from the wall wondering what their king wanted with the Eletians.
Little was ever seen of them, though a few Eletian “scouts” had ventured into the city. They always traveled in threes, spoke to no one but select shopkeepers, and did not linger. Laren couldn’t blame them, for everywhere they went, crowds gathered and gawked, congesting the street and forcing constables to intervene to keep traffic flowing.
And what could possibly interest Eletians in Sacor City? Reportedly they’d visited the museums and arts district, but much of their interest focused on Master Gruntler’s Sugary, and it was said the master himself was working all day and night to fill orders for chocolate treats. The Eletians had also ordered sacks of roasted kauv beans from a Gryphon Street tea house.
No one knew what the Eletians did in their tents all day, but Laren amused herself by imagining them sitting around popping Dragon Droppings into their mouths, sipping kauv, and reading esoteric poetry to one another—a heady combination. She smiled and wondered if the Eletians truly inhabited the tents at all, or if the tents were really passages to elsewhere. Were the Eletians even here, in Sacoridia? Were the tent interiors in an altogether different location than the exteriors?
It was such mysteries that made the Eletians so intriguing, but the longer she and the others sat waiting for one to appear, the more her curiosity waned.
As their wait became more protracted, the clouds in the leaden sky roiled eastward. Laren sniffed the chill air and thought it smelled of snow. They’d had a dusting already, but it melted quickly in the sun. The cold worked its way into her back, which ached from sitting so long. Bluebird’s head dipped as he dozed. Still, Zachary’s expression was set. He was not moving.
Laren was about to suggest they return to the castle, attempt to convince him to return tomorrow for another try, when the flap of the blue tent folded back, and there stood the Eletian they had dealt with before, Prince Jametari’s sister.
“Welcome, Firebrand,” she said. “My brother will see you.”
Zachary dismounted and his small company followed suit. After he handed off his reins to one of the Weapons, he chose another to accompany him and Laren into the tent. Neither General Harborough, nor Colin, would be happy with just one guard, but they had not been consulted about—or even told of—this little adventure. No, they would not be happy at all when they learned of it.
Their Weapon was Sergeant Brienne Quinn, lately up from the tombs, as were all the Weapons who now guarded Zachary, leaving but a few to watch over the avenues of the dead.
The three of them entered the tent, and it was as before, the birches lining the path, their golden leaves rustling, white limbs holding up the sky. Laren smiled when she saw Brienne’s look of wonder mixed with a healthy dose of suspicion.
The tomb guards were having to make many adjustments with their new duty of guarding the living, such as working above ground and in daylight. They were pale, these Weapons, and seemed always to squint, even on a dim day such as this, as though even the hint of sunlight were too much for them.
All Weapons were quiescent and showed deference to the king, but with the tomb guards it was more; they were almost sepulchral in demeanor, accustomed to hushed and hallowed places, the silent gardens of the dead. How did they view their living king? As a future ward of the tombs?
Laren shook her head. Such thoughts!
They followed the Eletian down the path and across the stream to where Prince Jametari awaited them, this time attired in silvery blue. His attendants set out chairs and refreshments again, but Zachary remained standing, prince and king assessing one another in silence.
Presently Jametari said, “I welcome your return, Firebrand. What is it the Eletians may do for you?”
“You don’t know?” Zachary asked. “I thought you were gifted with prescience.”
Jametari nodded. “And so I am, but such gifts are fickle in nature and do not reveal themselves on command, and usually tend to illuminate events of significance, not the mind of a king.”
Zachary hesitated before speaking again. “Your sister said you had a way of knowing things, that the woods and stream tell you the news of the land.”
“They do,” Jametari said.
“We’ve no word from those who pursue Lady Estora’s captors and no ransom demands.”
Jametari gazed off to the side as if caught in a daydream. “There is not much I can tell you, and certainly not the specifics you wish, for the story the land tells fades the farther west it goes.” He then turned his light blue eyes to Zachary. “The land speaks of the passing of a great host on paths otherwise little traveled. Toward the setting sun they’ve ridden, hunters clad all in black like this guard of the dead who accompanies you. They pause rarely, the hooves of their steeds like thunder on the earth, shaking the very roots of trees. The forest around them senses fury and urgency, and the creatures flee before them.”
; “That’s all?” Zachary asked.
“Their passage obliterates all else.”
Zachary’s expression was downcast. He was hungry for news, ready to ride west himself. Only Laren’s coaxing, and that of his other advisors, prevented him from joining the pursuit. She did not know if he was driven more by fondness for Lady Estora and a fear of what may happen to her, or by concern of the ramifications to the kingdom if she was not recovered healthy and whole. He did not confide in Laren his personal feelings for Lady Estora, so she assumed it was some mixture of the two. Zachary had a good heart and he didn’t like to see anyone harmed, especially one as gentle as Lady Estora.
“Truthfully,” Jametari said, “my mind has been bent toward the problem to the south, not toward your lady’s plight.”
“Blackveil?” Zachary asked sharply.
Jametari nodded. “Would you and your captain sit with me for a while?”
Zachary glanced at Laren, and said, “Of course.”
All but Brienne and a few of Jametari’s attendants sat, and at first there was silence, except for the chiming of the stream and the flutter of blue jay wings among the branches of a birch.
“The story I feel from the south,” Jametari finally said, “has not changed since the Galadheon moved Mornhavon the Black into the future. The forest rests with no consciousness driving it into deeper shadow. It stagnates, remains evil and dark, yet much taint was removed with Mornhavon. Given the passage of an age, the forest might heal.”
“I do not think,” Zachary said, “we have that kind of time.”
“So you’ve expressed before. And I agree. The threat will reappear before then.”
“Is there something, then, you propose to do about it? You know my feelings on the subject.”
Jametari folded his hands on his lap. He had long fingers. “I am not sure it is so much a proposal as much as a long-held desire.” The prince paused, looked to his sister who did not appear pleased by the turn in conversation.
“What is that desire?” Zachary asked.
“To look beyond the D’Yer Wall,” he replied. “To enter the forest and look upon it.”
“Two of my Riders entered the forest and found it deadly,” Laren said. She did not add, out of respect, that suggesting to do so was madness.
Jametari smiled at her, but it was not a friendly smile. “Yes, it is deadly, and no Eletian has dared enter it since the breach, except…” He halted. His son Shawdell had entered Blackveil, for he was the maker of the breach. “The peninsula upon which the forest exists was once a fair land, but is a legend now even for Eletians. In your tongue it was called Silvermind, and in ours, Argenthyne.”
The name sparked magic in the hearts of Sacoridians, for all children were told tales of Laurelyn the great Eletian queen and her castle of moonbeams. Until this summer, Argenthyne existed only as legend, but now they knew there was a basis in reality for the story.
“It was the jewel of Avareth on Earth until Mornhavon broke it.” It was Jametari’s sister who now spoke. With a pleading look to her brother, she added, “It is gone. A sad corpse that is corrupted and decayed. You will find nothing there remaining of the Argenthyne of memory.”
“Perhaps not,” he said. “But it may be that some vestige of good yet sleeps there, some remnant of what was once fair, and now is the time to see, while Mornhavon is absent.”
“He could return in the middle of any exploration,” the sister said.
“That is possible.”
Zachary and Laren exchanged glances at what seemed to be an ongoing argument between siblings. She wondered if Jametari thought an excursion into Blackveil would help him decide which side to support among his people: the side that wanted the forest closed off forever or the side that suggested the D’Yer Wall should be allowed to fall in the hope that it would strengthen the Eletian people. Maybe the prince had already made his decision, but wanted his people to see for themselves.
As if confirming her thoughts, Jametari said, “It is in the interest of the Eletian people for us to enter the forest, to explore what remains there to see what kind of threat truly exists and what might be restored to the light.”
“You seem resolved to do this,” Zachary said.
“I am, though I fear I will not be permitted to go myself.”
“Who will go in your stead?”
“My tiendan,” Jametari replied, “led by my sister, Graelalea.”
His sister looked away, plainly unhappy. Laren couldn’t blame her.
“When will they go?” Zachary asked.
“It has not yet been decided. The season grows late, and winter is not the best time for a journey for anyone, not even an Eletian.”
“But you do not know when Mornhavon will appear.”
“That is the dilemma.”
Zachary stroked his beard. “I am struck you would tell me of your intentions, Prince Jametari. Do you seek my leave?”
The two gazed at each other for some moments, again assessing the other, until Jametari’s lips curved into a smile.
“It is you, Firebrand, who reminded us of cooperation and old alliances. I would not have it appear we were trespassing upon your lands and entering Blackveil for secret reasons. As for what we may find on the other side? It may be that Sacoridia has some interest in it.”
The audience concluded in a congenial manner, though Zachary did not comment on the prince’s plan. Jametari promised to come forward with any news of Lady Estora if he learned anything via the land or prescience.
On the ride back up the Winding Way, Zachary remained in thoughtful silence, and it was not until they passed beneath the portcullis and stood before the castle itself that he halted his horse and folded his hands upon the pommel of his saddle. Laren halted Bluebird beside him and waited for him to speak.
“Did you find it as curious as I,” he said, “that the prince should mention his plans to us?”
“I suppose,” Laren said. “The Eletians seem to come and go as they will, seeking leave from no one. Maybe he truly is interested in cooperation.”
A raven spiraled above the battlements and another squawked from the tip of a nearby tree.
“You may be right,” Zachary replied, his gaze following the flight of the raven. “I do not know what to believe from these Eletians or how to gauge their intentions. One thing is for certain—they will not enter Blackveil without Sacoridians accompanying them.”
Laren shuddered. Whoever he sent would have little chance of returning.
THE WALL LAMENTS
From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, our song unravels, erodes stone and mortar. Once we shielded against great evil. We stood strong as the bulwark of the Ages.
But we were breached. Our song weeps in a clash of notes out of time. Lost is the harmony, erratic is the rhythm.
No one hears us. No one helps us. No one heals us.
Betrayed.
Yes! You must hate him.
Betrayed and dying.
Cracking and bleeding.
From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, our shield shall fail and great evil will shadow the world.
No!
We are broken.
Unweaving.
Dying.
THE BLEEDING OF STONE
Alton awoke with the dawn—not that he’d slept much through the night. As usual. He ate a cold breakfast and readied himself for an inspection ride of the wall. Night Hawk was happy to bear him along no matter the hour, and so Alton rode from the sleepy encampment, following the clearing along the wall, urging Hawk into a canter once the gelding warmed up. He’d probably be back by the time Dale was up and eating breakfast. He ground his teeth, again resenting the fact he must rely on someone else to enter Tower of the Heavens because he couldn’t.
The miles flowed swiftly by and when he reached the portion of the wall where he’d first seen the eyes, he reined Hawk to a halt. The cracks had multiplied since then, fine lines spreading like spiderwebs. He saw no pattern in t
hem this time, and with a sigh of relief he clucked Hawk along.
When he reached the breach and the main encampment, he did find something that disturbed him, and those on duty there, greatly. The wall, where it abutted the breach, was showing the most signs of deterioration, with cracks that left few ashlars unlined. Another sign of wear was efflorescence—moisture seeping through joints between ashlars and leaching lime from the mortar drop by drop while redepositing minerals on the facing wall, like the flowstone of a cave. Alton had seen the process at work beneath old stone bridges where drainage failed causing stalactites to form like fangs beneath the arches.
In and of itself, the efflorescence would have been disturbing enough, for the wall had been constructed to weather the elements for all time, but there were even more troubling signs. The erosion was occurring at an abnormal rate. A process that might ordinarily take years appeared to be taking just weeks. Even worse, instead of flowing white, or yellowish white, the efflorescence shone with red, as if the wall bled.
“Aye,” the watch sergeant told Alton, “we only began to notice the color yesterday. It has the guard unnerved. Making the sign of the crescent moon, every last one of ’em.”
Alton stood in his stirrups next to the wall and reached up, touching the moisture. When he withdrew his hand, a bead of crimson rolled down his finger. He sniffed it, and dabbed it with his tongue. Salty, faintly metallic. Like blood.
He shuddered and wiped his hand on a handkerchief. He would not tell the soldiers here what he thought—there was already enough fear and superstition around the wall—but the watch sergeant who stood at his stirrup had probably guessed.
“Tastes like stone,” Alton lied, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. “Different minerals in the mortar can affect the color.”
The sergeant nodded, relief plain on his face at this explanation.
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