Alton thought it a ludicrous question. He nodded.
“Good,” Merdigen said, and he walked into the wall, merging with it, leaving Alton in the dark.
Alton licked his lips, tasted salty sweat and the grit of stone dust, and groped forward to press his hands flat against the wall. With his mind he announced who he was and his consciousness flowed into stone, leaving his body behind.
L eave, Pendric’s voice thunders, the force of his will almost dislodging Alton’s contact.
Alton braces himself as if facing into a windstorm and with his own strong resolve impelling him forward, he drives his mind past his cousin and deeper into the wall.
The song is in complete disarray. Crackling fills Alton’s awareness and he almost retreats, for it feels like it’s his own mind that is breaking. It hurts.
The guardians do not welcome him or deny him, nor does the stone tell him stories of its birth and weathering, its quarrying and shaping as once it did. He is surrounded by a forest of crystals—symmetrical trees of feldspar and quartz and blades of black hornblende. The limbs of the trees vibrate with violence and one by one they explode into fragments, the granite a sandpaper scream in his head. The very constitution of the wall is breaking down.
We are breached. She passes, she passes, she passes. We are breached…
The wailing shreds his mind and the once unified beat of the stonecutters’ hammers is out of time.
Broken. Lost. Dying.
Alton does not know what to do now that he is here. He joined with the wall once before and sang with the guardians, but it was a song of unmaking, a deception given to him by Mornhavon the Black. He realizes he does not know the true song. He cannot discern its refrain from the chaos.
Betrayed. Broken. Unweaving.
Then Merdigen is with him, and the other mages, too.
“You must sing,” Merdigen says. “Try to get them to sing with you.”
Another tree explodes nearby and Alton feels it as if the fragments cut and puncture his flesh.
“I do not know the words.”
“Then listen.”
The mages begin to sing. Alton strains to hear them amid the clamor. They are not harmonious singers, but they have the words and melody.
From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn,
we weave our song through stone and mortar…
Alton listens hard, trying to block out the cries of the wall guardians. Note by note he joins the mages, stumbling over words, trying to capture the tune and rhythm.
A surge from the wall guardians counters him with their lament: Our song unravels, erodes stone and mortar. We are breached. Our song weeps.
Alton wants to shout, No! but Merdigen says, “Sing. It is the only way. Sing so they hear you.”
So Alton does, forcefully, allowing his voice to gather volume. He sings with surety, for now it feels instinctual, as if he’s always known the song, as if it has always flowed through his veins. His birthright.
We shield the lands from ancient dark.
We are the bulwark of ages.
He perceives a nearby cluster of crystals vibrating and prismatic colors flaring from geometric planes. The cluster does not tremble with the turmoil of the guardians, but resonates his song, enlarges it. Encouraged, he sings with more confidence and more crystals resonate. It is as if there is more than one of him singing. He is singing in harmony with himself. His voice spreads calm outward in ripples, like rings on a lake.
We stand sentry day and night,
through storm and winter,
and freeze and thaw.
Merdigen and the mages buoy him, hold him steady, ground him. They are his bedrock.
He opens fully to the wall. Feels the emptiness of the breach, the pain and destruction around it, the suffering and deaths of guardians. But he feels also, away from the breach, a tide of unity and strength, and if those guardians once felt uncertainty and despair, now they hear him and add their voices to his, the blows of stonecutter hammers in sync with his heart. Slowly they reweave the song, preserving crystals that have not broken. Those that have been destroyed, however, cannot be remade.
From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn,
we weave our song through stone and mortar,
we sing our will to strengthen and bind.
Alton stretches his consciousness as far as he can, trying to flood each fracture with song, like filling a dry river bed with water. More guardians take up the song and echo him. The forest flares with red pulsing light, like blood flowing through veins.
The song grows and builds until he hits a barrier of seething hate. Pendric.
Leave. Pendric’s voice is like the tolling of a ponderous bell. Crystal trees shudder with the tone. Alton’s song falters.
Betrayer.
“No,” Alton says, his voice small by comparison. “You are the betrayer. You are killing the wall.”
Do not trust. Hate him.
Hate, hate, hate…pounds through the wall.
Alton senses uncertainty in the guardians, the song weakening. The underlying chaos surges while the order he restored ebbs.
We are breached.
We are broken.
We do not trust.
Pressure crushes Alton, entraps him so he cannot move forward or backward. Crystals vibrate with so much anger they slice into his mind.
“You are killing the wall!” Alton cries. Then he remembers who and what he is, and from deep within he calls upon his special ability. Though he has never used it before from within stone, it rises from him, builds a wall around his mind that shields him from harm and thwarts his cousin’s attack.
Pendric screams his rage, battering Alton’s shield, but it holds.
“Sing!” Merdigen urges him.
The mages help Alton find the song again, and he sings it as powerfully as he can, once again bringing confidence to the guardians. They drown out Pendric, coax unsure voices to join them. In a rising crescendo, he calms the voices, homogenizes them, and they become one. Pendric can no longer be heard. Now he is no longer an individual, but part of the wall’s chorus.
There are empty broken spaces in the wall, and try as Alton might, he cannot make them resound with song. The guardians in those places are dead. At least he has helped halt the cascade of destruction, and the guardians that remain sing together.
From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn,
we weave our song in harmony
for we are one.
Sense of self flees Alton as he soars in the joy of the song. This is where he should be, singing among the guardians, rejoicing among the beauty of crystals, becoming a guardian himself and helping the wall remain strong.
Then, like someone grabbing his collar, Alton is hauled out of his contact with the wall and his consciousness thrown back into his body.
Alton flailed backward, tripping over rubble, and fell halfway beneath the arch. He stared at dust funneling up a shaft of daylight that pierced through a hole somewhere high above in the tower’s height.
“I should think that’s the end of the observation platform,” Merdigen said, following Alton’s gaze and stroking his beard.
“Observation platform?”
Merdigen looked down at him and crooked an eyebrow. “You don’t think the tower contains only this chamber, do you? That would be a terrible misuse of space.”
Someone coughed and Alton sat up. “Dale?”
“I’m fine,” she said, coughing again. Through the haze he saw her picking her way across the chamber, stepping over the fallen column, and patting dust off her sleeve. Her hair was gray with it. “I see you finally found a way in.”
“Yes, I—”
“Good. Then I don’t have to relay your messages all the time and worry about you pulling out your hair.”
“Pulling out my hair?” He stared incredulously at Dale, then at Merdigen. The wall may have just fallen and they worried about observation platforms and hair? “The wall!”
“What
about it?” Merdigen asked.
“Is it…is it still standing?”
“Heavens, my boy. If it collapsed, so would this tower. It was shaken for sure, and the breach may be wider than it was, but with your aid I think we stemmed the tide. Remember, this wall was made of great magic, and a little jostle isn’t going to throw it down.”
“A little jostle…” Alton swiped hair out of his face. “What happened? What set it off?”
“A very good question,” Merdigen said. “The guardians were already in disarray, as you know, helped along in no small measure by the other Deyer, the Pendric fellow.”
“My cousin.”
“Well I know that. Off key, he was, and that’s putting it mildly, but I think he’s a tad more attuned to the wall now.”
“He trapped me,” Alton said.
“Yes, yes, but you defended yourself well, though in the end we almost lost you. If we had not pulled you out, you would have become like him, absorbed as a presence in the wall without corporeal form. And while that’s all fine and good, you’ll probably be more useful to us as you are now that the guardians are ready to deal with you again. But you must learn restraint so you do not lose yourself in the wall.”
Dale overturned a chunk of granite with her foot and it clacked on the stone floor. “Probably a good idea,” she said. “It wouldn’t make Captain Mapstone very happy if you up and sacrificed yourself.”
As light as Dale’s words were, they gave Alton a jolt. An image came to him of his red-haired captain working diligently at some task in her quarters. That ordinary sight led to memories of the Rider call drawing him from his life in D’Yer Province all the way to Sacor City and right to the captain’s door. He remembered little of the moment in which he became a Green Rider, except for the warm murmur in his mind, Welcome, Rider, and the sense of belonging that overcame him as he held the winged horse brooch in his hand for the first time.
What would he be doing now had he not been called? Attending socials, courting girls of noble blood, hunting, learning how to run a province…He’d be the picture of the perfect lordling with too much time on his hands, a young dandy whose greatest crisis was choosing what to wear to the next party. It certainly would not have prepared him for what he now faced.
He was grateful for the call and to be in a position to help mend the wall. It gave him purpose, something meaningful to do with his life. Thinking of the captain, thinking of himself as a Rider in green, brought him home, so to speak. It centered him. Even there in the damaged tower, even after striving within the wall with the guardians.
He touched his brooch and felt a comforting pulse of warmth and knew that what he was doing, and who he was, was as it should be. The anger and frustration that strangled him for so long evaporated and was replaced by a sense of peace. Now he could work.
“In any case,” Merdigen said, interrupting Alton’s reflections, “it is impossible to say what set off the guardians, though whatever it was, it was unfortunate the wall was in such a fragile state. Did you hear some of them? ‘She passes,’ they said. What it means?” He shrugged. “Perhaps we’ll never know, for we’ll not get useful answers from the guardians.”
Merdigen might shrug it off, but Alton thought anything with the power to upset the guardians more than ominous.
One by one other figures emerged from beneath the arch and joined them. They all looked at Alton who sat on the floor.
“So this is the Deyer,” said a fellow with pale, pale eyes, who could only be Itharos.
“Handsome,” said a lovely, ethereal beauty who floated more than walked. Cleodheris?
“Bit young for my taste,” said a short woman with elfin features. Definitely Boreemadhe.
Alton felt rather at a disadvantage sitting on the floor, and so stood with Dale helping him up, and greeted the tower guardians at eye level.
Another fellow emerged from the opposite arch and announced, “I’ve checked on your cat, Merdigen. He’s nervous, but fine.”
“Good, good,” Merdigen replied. “As soon as we assess the damage to the wall and the towers, we’ll see what we can fix with the help of the Deyer.”
At that point, Dale introduced the remaining tower guardians. Alton felt like he already knew them from all of her descriptions, though the giggling Mad Leaf and solemn Radiscar were new.
Dale peered upward. “It’s snowing,” she said.
Alton followed her gaze, and sure enough, flurries eddied through the hole above and drifted all the long way down into the chamber. Individual flakes alighted on Alton’s face and melted.
“I haven’t seen snow in about a thousand years,” Boreemadhe said, her expression one of awe.
Observing something as ordinary as snow impressing one who was herself a wonder made Alton grateful he had not been lost in the wall or obsession. Every moment of life mattered. Even the perfect snowflake that alighted on his palm and melted in seconds.
MENDING
Mara looked good, Karigan thought as she sipped her tea. The two Riders sat with Captain Mapstone in Mara’s chamber in the mending wing. Mara was out of bed and sitting in a chair where sunlight filtering through the frosty window fell brightly upon her white nightgown. In fact, she looked better than ever, the difference noticeable after Karigan’s time away.
Ben’s special mending ability had brought Mara through infection and illness, and reduced the scarring, though some vestige of the burn scars would always remain. Soon Mara would move into her room in the Rider wing, which she’d yet to see, and meet the new Riders who’d arrived since summer. She’d also resume her duties as Chief Rider.
Ben had helped Karigan heal, too. Mostly he used ordinary mending techniques and though she could not remember clearly, she thought he’d used his special ability to heal the festering scalp wound. She recalled lightness and coolness at his touch, a peaceful glow…Then again, it could have been a dream.
Now the stitches on her head and forearm were about ready to be removed. She was glad because the shorn bit of her head looked ghastly. She scowled at the memory of Lord Amberhill suggesting she’d want to wear a hat or hood. Unfortunately he’d been right.
She hardly recognized herself when she looked in a mirror these days, and it wasn’t just the Karigan on the outside who looked different. No, something had changed on the inside, too. It was hard to pinpoint what was different. Maybe she was finally growing up? She did feel older. She sighed. It was hard not to change a little after all she’d been through.
“That was some sigh,” Captain Mapstone said.
Karigan looked up, blinking in surprise. She’d forgotten where she was.
“And you were scowling,” Mara said.
“Did you hear anything we were saying?” the captain asked.
“I…” Karigan thought hard. “Garth. You’ve sent Garth on an errand.”
Captain Mapstone and Mara exchanged smiles. “Not just an errand,” the captain said, “but down to the wall to tell Alton the book has been found and that it’s being translated.”
How could Karigan miss mention of the wall? She resolved to pay attention to the present conversation and to stop dwelling on her own thoughts. “I take it Agemon is in charge of the translation?”
“Makes sense, as the book can’t be read anywhere but on the king’s tomb and Agemon will not permit outside scholars down below, especially after the mess you made.”
“The mess I made?” Karigan said.
“I heard something about you dressing up in garb belonging to, er, residents of the tombs,” the captain replied. “Agemon thought it very un-Weaponlike.”
Karigan had related her journey at length to the captain, except the part about Fergal jumping into the Grandgent—it did not seem appropriate to do so until he returned with Estora safe and sound. Apparently she had left out a few other details, as well. Mara stifled a snicker.
“In any case,” the captain said, “Agemon reportedly feels very put upon that he must oversee both the cleanu
p and the translation. He feels the cleanup is more important, but of course the king believes differently and has Brienne exerting pressure on him.”
Karigan did not envy Brienne the task, but she sensed the Weapon was well-accustomed to obtaining results from the recalcitrant caretaker.
“Agemon will be receiving new help,” the captain said. “None of the intruders of the tombs are permitted above ever again, so they’re being detained down below and interrogated by the Weapons, of course, especially about this Grandmother character. Some of the prisoners will be trained in the art of caretaking and absorbed into caretaker society. The others, the more dangerous ones, will probably be executed, but that is up to the king.”
“Thursgad?” Karigan asked.
“Hard to say, since he was in on old Mirwell’s original plot to replace the king with Prince Amilton. My guess, however, is that he’s not as culpable as, say, Immerez. We’ll see.”
Karigan nodded. Even though Thursgad, under Immerez’s orders, had hounded her halfway across Sacoridia a couple years ago in pursuit of the message she bore, she did not see him as evil.
“Word is,” the captain said, “he confessed freely about how he obtained the book, and undoubtedly that will aid his cause.”
Both Karigan and Mara awaited an explanation, but the captain gazed thoughtfully into space.
“Well?” Mara demanded.
The captain smiled. “Sorry. I’ve only heard pieces thus far, but it seems he stole the book from a pair of elderly ladies—sisters, he said—who lived somewhere deep in the Green Cloak. He described their manor house as very fine and full of wonders.”
A chill prickled up Karigan’s spine. Could it be? By the look on Captain Mapstone’s face, she had made the same guess at the identities of the two elderly sisters.
“You will—you will tell me when you hear more?” Karigan asked.
The captain nodded.
Thought of the Berry sisters brought to mind the portrait of Professor Berry back in Selium, and a ghostly moan of Liiibraaary. She dismissed it as her imagination at the time, but had the professor been trying to pass on a message? Then it occurred to her that if this were the case, he’d not been speaking of the Selium library despite the location of his portrait there, but of his own at Seven Chimneys.
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