Alton found more oozing on either side of the breach, and more cracks forming. The repair work in the breach itself stood solid and unaffected, the cut stone still looked fresh and new.
“If you notice further changes,” Alton told the watch sergeant, “anything that doesn’t look right, let me know at once.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
With that, Alton reined Night Hawk back east along the wall, looking at it more closely. He found some efflorescence he’d missed on his way to the breach. In a couple of spots, crimson dribbled down the granite facade in long runnels.
And this time, he saw images of faces formed by the cracks. More deranged, more tortured than those he’d seen before, with eyes scratched out and features twisted.
Sweat glided down Alton’s face. He passed his hand over his eyes and the images were gone. Just cracks remained. He wondered if the wall was going insane, or himself. If only he could enter the tower and merge with the wall; if only he could try to make things right.
He patted Night Hawk’s neck, taking comfort in the texture of a soft winter coat growing over solid muscle.
Alton’s cousin Pendric had sacrificed himself to the wall, claiming he would mend it, that he would be the one to accomplish it, but all he succeeded in doing was turning the guardians against Alton and spreading his madness.
Alton moved on and did not pause till he reached the spot he and Dale had visited. This time he thought he saw the cracks form a pair of giant eyes that peered at him. They were malignant and crazed and they followed him no matter where he moved. He imagined it was Pendric peering out at him, full of hatred.
Alton dug his heels into Night Hawk’s sides and left behind whatever it was he thought he saw as fast as he could.
Dale paced in front of the tower, kicking a stone, while the encampment went about its business around her. Where was Alton? She knew he used his mornings to inspect the wall, but usually he was back well before now, dragging her out of bed and rushing her through breakfast to get her in the tower as soon as possible.
Maybe it was just a continuation of his avoidance of her. Ever since he’d woken her up from her wonderful dream and had nearly frozen himself to death sleeping by the wall, he’d been more distant, gloomier, and he no longer came to her to clarify his notes. She thought she had made progress with him, but apparently not as much as she’d hoped.
“Men,” she grumbled. “Crazy and moody.”
She was about to return to her tent to pass the time when Alton came riding up on Night Hawk from alongside the wall. His face was hard to read as he dismounted and led his horse over to her, but as he approached, she sensed something disturbed him deeply. He looked pale.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning. Thinking about going to see your mages?”
My mages? She thought about giving Alton a good, swift kick in the shin, but didn’t think it would improve their strained friendship.
He must have realized how it sounded for he said, “Sorry. It’s not been a good morning. When you go into the tower, would you ask the mages about why the wall is bleeding?”
She gaped. “The wall is bleeding?”
“And I saw the eyes again,” Alton said, and he told her of his inspection ride.
“That can’t be good,” Dale murmured. “Yes, I shall certainly see what Itharos and the others have to say about it.”
He nodded. That was it. No “be careful” as was once usual. Maybe it was just that he was preoccupied by what he’d seen this morning. She hoped so.
She plunged through the wall, and when she emerged into the tower chamber, the scene was typical, more or less. Itharos was standing between Boreemadhe and Cleodheris, moderating an argument. Dorleon sat at the table carving a fish lure while Fresk and Winthorpe were deep in discussion over mugs of ale. Dale frowned, thinking the hour too early for ale. Their voices, except Dorleon’s, echoed about the chamber.
“Ahem,” Dale said. When no one heard her, she said more loudly, “Ahem.”
“Hello, Dale,” Itharos said, and the others stopped what they were doing to greet her.
“Now I know why,” she said, “they put you in separate towers. How did you ever get any work done at your lodge?”
They all started to speak at once and Dale held her hand up to stop them. “Never mind. Any sign of Merdigen?”
“No,” Itharos said, “he has not appeared. Fear not, he is a most able pathfinder and will soon return.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sure you understand the urgency of the situation.”
“Better than most, child,” Boreemadhe said, “but there’s not much we can do about it. We can only await the others and find out what Merdigen intended by calling us together.”
“I suppose that means more parties and games.” Dale loved a good party as much as anyone, but she knew time was running out, especially after what Alton reported this morning.
“Of course we must have a party when the others arrive,” Itharos said. “We have not seen them in ages.”
Dale folded her arms. “So, while the wall cracks and bleeds, you’re planning the next party.”
All six of the tower guardians gazed at her, stunned. “Say again,” Itharos requested.
“The wall,” Dale said, “cracks and bleeds.”
All the mages scrambled to their feet and hurried across the chamber and beneath the west arch. Their voices reverberated as they conversed among themselves. They reemerged, looking unhappy.
“We knew the cracks were progressing,” Winthorpe said, his hands tucked into opposite sleeves of his robe.
“The regions nearest the breach are weakening,” Itharos added, “to the point of death. Unstopped, the weakening will spread to each end of the wall.”
“I know,” Dale said. She would have shaken them if only they were corporeal.
“The wall bleeds,” Itharos continued, “because those guardians are no more. They have succumbed.”
“Isn’t that why you’re here?” Dale demanded. “To keep that sort of thing from happening?”
The mages looked uneasily from one to another.
“Not precisely,” Itharos said. “Our function is to inform the wallkeepers of trouble, and they in turn are supposed to inform the Deyers. It was up to the Deyers to fix any problems, for it is the Deyers who have an affinity for stone in their blood; the ability to work with the guardians.
“You must understand that we’ve little influence over the wall guardians. We can communicate with them enough to know when all is well, or not. We can even negotiate with them on a limited basis, as Merdigen did to rescue you from being imprisoned in the wall, but that’s about it. Before our powers faded with the departure of our corporeal forms, we might have been able to do more, but all our magic is gone from us, except for giving us the power to be.”
She looked hard at each one of them. “Then what’s the point of your being here?”
Itharos shrugged. “We don’t know the entirety of Merdigen’s intent in drawing us together.”
“So you’re just going to wait,” she said. “Wait and have a party when and if Merdigen returns, and in the meantime the wall will continue to die. Because that’s what’s happening, right? The wall is dying.”
“It is unfortunate,” Boreemadhe said, “but we cannot prevent it from happening.”
“Unfortunate?” Dale was incredulous. “Is there anything you can do?” Her question was met with silence and the shuffling of feet.
“Believe us, child,” Boreemadhe said, “if there was something we could do to repair the wall ourselves, it would have been done as soon as we were awakened.”
Dale practically quivered with anger, comprehending something of Alton’s frustration. “Nothing you can do,” she spat. “Do any of you even remember what it was like to be flesh and blood? Living under the open sky and breathing the fresh air?”
“Well, it’s been a while—” Itharos began, but Dale silenced him with a curt gesture.
/> “You may not have seen each other in a very long time, but you also haven’t seen your homeland in even longer. Each of you spoke to me about your shock over the devastation of the land, the people, following the Long War. Famine, child warriors with missing limbs, disease, a people and country moved back centuries to a more primitive age.” It was odd, when she thought about it, that she should find herself lecturing thousand-year-old great mages. Or, rather, projections of thousand-year-old great mages.
“It took centuries,” she continued, “for the people to make recovery. You’d probably not recognize Sacoridia today as the same place you left. Commerce is stronger than it’s ever been, with ships sailing to far off ports in search of trade, the land producing for the people, whether it’s the timber that builds the ships or the crops carried in their holds. Sacoridia’s arts and culture also flourish. The school at Selium spreads it across the land, and there are museums, theater, and music. Some painters and poets are almost as famous as the king! Why, you wouldn’t believe the number of bookshops in Sacor City alone.”
That caught their attention.
“Books,” Dorleon murmured.
“Books, bookshops, binders, printers—”
“Printers?” Winthorpe demanded. “What is this?”
They were in awe when she told them so many more books could be produced with a single printing press.
“You must bring us books,” Winthorpe said.
“Yes,” the others murmured. “Bring us books.”
Dale gazed at them in surprise. Their faces were hopeful, pleading, almost childlike with desire. Then she narrowed her eyebrows. She had them now.
“Sacoridia has arisen from the ruins through hardship and wars, and now it shines. You’d be proud of your people. But if we don’t solve the problem of the wall, there will be no more books. There will be nothing. Look, you’re all learned, scholarly people. It seems to me your ability to look at problems and solve them should not have been affected by the fading of your old powers. I’ve seen you working out those equations! And I assume you have no wish to see Sacoridia come to ruins after all your sacrifices. If you apply yourselves to the problem of the wall in this manner, who is to say you won’t find a solution to fixing it?”
“She’s right,” Fresk said, and the others nodded and murmured in agreement.
Dale decided to clinch her argument with an incentive. “If you get to work, I’ll see about finding you some books.”
She thought Alton would be proud of her little speech. It had the desired effect, for the group set aside their usual preoccupations and conjured chairs for themselves to sit around the table and work. Probably nothing would come of it, but at least she’d gotten them to try.
Alton appeared to relax when she sat down with him later in his tent to tell him of her visit with the tower guardians.
“I think they need Merdigen in order to focus,” she said. “He’s their leader, and they’ve just been waiting for him, not taking any initiative themselves.”
“That means you must keep them focused till he returns,” Alton said. Then he added, “I can’t believe it’s taking him so long.”
Dale shrugged. “There’s a lot I don’t understand about these tower guardians, except they love a good party.”
Alton smiled, though it was a worried smile. “Look, Dale, I’m sorry if I’ve been distant. I just feel helpless.”
“I know. But you have to realize that I have a good idea about the danger Blackveil presents.” She grimaced at the memory of black wings and rubbed her old wound.
“Of…of course you do,” Alton said. “I’m sorry if I acted as if—”
“Apologies accepted. By the way, I asked Itharos about the eyes and faces you’ve seen. He had no explanation, except that the wall guardians were, well, acting out.”
“I guessed as much,” Alton said.
They sat there in gloomy silence until Dale couldn’t take it any longer. “I’m thinking Plover needs some exercise and Leese has cleared me for riding. And I do not intend to go anywhere near the wall, but away from it. North into the woods. Would you and Night Hawk care to join us?”
Alton looked like he was about to say no, but hesitated, and with a smile, replied, “Yes.”
More progress, Dale thought with a surge of pleasure. It had been a productive day after all.
HEAVEN’S EYE
Grandmother stirred the coals of the fire with a stick, dreaming of warmer climes and missing her old hearthside in Sacor City. She thought Arcosia must have been a warm place, for the chronicles of her people spoke of lemon and olive trees, orchids and an azure sea, but never of snow and ice and the cutting wind. She wore two cloaks and a pair of mittens she knitted herself, and still she was not warm enough. Soon she and her people must descend Hawk Hill and go back to hiding in plain sight.
Most of her people had decided where to go and news would pass among them along the usual network of Second Empire and its institutions. Some of their best meeting places were the abandoned shrines of Sacoridia’s forgotten, marginalized gods found in almost every village, and there they could exchange news, distribute messages, worship the one true God, and congregate for whatever purpose may be required.
Grandmother had not yet decided where she and Lala would spend the winter. Once she had the book of Theanduris Silverwood in hand, she thought she should be near the D’Yer Wall so she could work on solving the riddle of its construction, and therefore its destruction. Her other option was to stay with a cousin in Wayman Province. Her cousin had a large house with servants and she knew she’d be warm and comfortable there. After all, she did not think there was much she could do at the wall itself during the harsh winter. There was no suitable village near it, and camping beside it was no more appealing than spending the winter on Hawk Hill. Spring would be soon enough to destroy the wall, wouldn’t it?
She just wasn’t sure, and every day she prayed for guidance. All the time she preached to her people that God would take care of them, that He would see to it the empire rose again to its glory of old. She’d heard His whispers over the summer and that’s when her ability to work the art had improved. She’d learned that a presence in Blackveil Forest had awakened, which the elders of Second Empire believed to be Mornhavon the Great, a sign that the time was at hand for the descendents of Arcosia to come into their own.
Alas, she’d had few portents since the end of summer. God had stopped whispering to her and the presence in Blackveil had faded or gone back to sleep. Everything had been silenced. Everything except her ability to work the art. Though she knew the silence was temporary, she felt abandoned.
She sighed as she gazed into the fire, oblivious to the activities of the encampment. The soldiers had been coming and going. Today was the day Sarge was supposed to bring Lady Estora to them. It would be interesting, she supposed, to meet the noblewoman, but her real intent behind the abduction was simply to distract the king and his protectors, to draw out his Black Shields, and leave the castle and tombs vulnerable.
She’d let Immerez decide whether or not to kill the noblewoman or to use her for some other, better purpose later, for he knew the workings of the minds and hearts of the nobles better than she, and what action would derive the greatest benefit overall.
She tossed some more sticks onto the fire. It sputtered and blazed and she wiggled her log closer to absorb the heat. Lala was off somewhere playing with her string and no one seemed to have need of her just now, so she sat alone with her thoughts, depressed by the cold and a lack of direction when so many counted on her.
One thought did give her pleasure: Thursgad must surely have the book by now, and be on his way to Sacor City. She smiled, thinking of the havoc her little surprise, in the form of the silver sphere, would cause the inhabitants of the castle. She almost wished she could be there to see it. Almost.
A hawk screeched overhead. Their numbers had diminished greatly over the weeks, as most had already left for their wintering grounds.
Another indication she and her folk must move. It would snow soon, and then they’d be stuck.
As she gazed at the sky and the gliding hawk, it occurred to her she could seek some guidance on where and how she should spend her winter by using the art. She ruminated over her mental list of spells and knots for something appropriate. She could not invoke God Himself, certainly, but maybe she could enhance her prayers and invite inspiration.
The series of knots she came up with was called Heaven’s Eye. It wasn’t so much a spell as an offering and focal point to open oneself to the divine. Her mother, and her mothers before her, used it when in need of guidance or when they wanted their prayers to be heard more clearly by God.
Grandmother picked through her skeins of yarn. Recently she and Lala and some of the other women had journeyed down to Mirwellton for supplies and there she visited the spinner who made a fine quality of yarn and also had a good head for dyes. Grandmother spent precious silver to replenish her supply.
She decided to use sky blue yarn. The eternal meadow, the heaven of her people, was always perceived to be “somewhere up there” above the clouds and beyond the stars, so using the color of the air seemed appropriate.
She removed her mittens and cut a length of yarn. She tied knots into it, murmuring in prayer, “Dear God, our shepherd, keeper of the eternal meadow, I seek guidance for those who are Your faithful on Earth.” And on she went, focusing only on the prayer and the formation of knots, opening herself to any sign from God.
When she finished, she held in her hand a round, knotted wad of yarn, and she threw it into the fire. The smoke would carry her words to the sky and beyond, and she waited, gazing into the flames, hoping, wishing, praying for at least some inkling of inspiration.
The flames flickered in the wind, spat sparks, separated, merged, and separated again in their elemental dance, and nothing came to her. Grandmother did not know how long she sat there, but she’d had enough. It was time to move her old bones and stretch.
But then a glowing ember caught her eye. The ember grew and grew in her vision, a depthless golden flame, and in its midst was a hot, white light with columns of flame twisting and branching within it like a forest. She wanted to avert her eyes, but did not dare.
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