Blackveil (30 page)

Authors: Kristen Britain

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #fantasy, #Epic

BOOK: Blackveil

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T
he next morning after a private breakfast in his tent, Alton stepped outside, stretching his back and shoulders. The weather was fine, and if it kept up, there would soon be no snow left at all. The late winter chill freshened the air and he breathed deeply. Most inhabitants of the encampment were up and about attending to their various duties which brought to Alton the sound of an ax splitting wood for cook fires and the
clink-clink-clink
of a farrier working a horse shoe over by the pickets. He caught snatches of conversation from guards on duty by the wall and heard the sloshing of a bucket being emptied somewhere behind the row of tents.

He decided the plan for this morning would be to enter Tower of the Heavens and comb once again through the book of Theanduris Silverwood. He feared missing something vital, some clue that could help him repair the wall.

On the edge of his vision he caught someone strolling toward him. He’d almost forgotten about Estral Andovian.

“Good morning,” she said in her pleasant voice.

“Morning,” Alton replied. When she halted before him, he noted daylight deepened the green of her eyes.

“It’s very impressive,” she said, gazing toward the wall. “You hear about the wall, but it really takes seeing it to get the full effect. Words just don’t do it justice.”

It was true. It dominated all else, soaring skyward and vanishing into the clouds as though raised from the Earth by the gods, stark, monumental, forbidding. The Tower of the Heavens shot upward like a spear shaft to infinite heights. The wall and tower, however, were not a creation of the gods, but the handiwork of Alton’s own very human ancestors. He wondered how many of them were among the sacrificed whose souls still inhabited stone. He would never know, for those souls were no longer individuals. They had become one, united in song to keep the wall strong.

“I chose right to come here,” Estral murmured.

That may be, Alton thought, but she must shortly be on her way. This was no tourist spot like the hot springs in her home city of Selium. He thought back to how several of his fellow citizens had treated the wall as just that, like a holiday in the country, until an avian creature out of nightmare had flown over the breach and killed one of them. An innocent. A young lady. After that, the holiday revelers had dispersed and the rule forbidding civilians at the wall came into existence. Alton was relieved by the ruling, for it did not take much to remember the tortured screams of that young woman. He closed his eyes, hearing them now, until he felt Estral Andovian’s gaze upon him. He frowned when he realized she must have been gazing at him for some time.

“I don’t recall Karigan describing you as the brooding, silent type,” she said.

Just what had Karigan told her? And what could he say in response that didn’t sound defensive? He decided the safest course was to ignore her comment.

“I trust you had a satisfactory breakfast?” he asked instead.

“Very nice. And Dale was the perfect hostess.”

“Good. Well, it was very nice to meet you, but I’m sure you are ready to be on your way to make the best use of daylight.”

She stared blankly at him, as if surprised by the suggestion she leave, despite his adamance of the previous night.

“I’d like to stay,” she said.

“That is impossible, as we discussed. You saw the danger. This is no place for a civilian.”

“But I’m not exactly a civilian.”

“Are you a member of the D’Yer militia?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are you a Sacoridian regular?”

“Well, no.” Then she smiled. Alton was suspicious of that smile—it looked like trouble. “The Golden Guardian supports the king’s forces with trained musicians who entertain, parade, and play drum and pipe during battle. So technically we are attached to the military.”

She was creative, he had to give her that much. “There are no musicians assigned to either encampment. I am sorry, my lady, but I am in command here on behalf of my father and I must insist you leave.”

“Very well,” she said, but before Alton could be surprised by her quick acquiescence, she asked, “Have you any messages for your father?”

“My father?”

“Yes. I believe I’ll go to Woodhaven to visit him. I should think he’d listen to reason and permit me to stay here. After all, I’ve official greetings to present to him from my own father. My father tells me that Lord D’Yer appreciates the importance of well-recorded histories.”

They all did, since so much about the wall and magic in general had fallen into obscurity following the Long War, leaving them in their current fix of trying to relearn what to their ancestors was common knowledge.

“My father,” Alton said, “also appreciates the dangers of this wall. It wasn’t that long ago he lost his brother and nephew to it.”

Estral shrugged. “All the more reason he may wish to have everything recorded for the future. I’m sure I’ll be back soon.” She spun on her heel and started walking away while Alton could only watch after her in astonishment. But then she paused and turned back to him. “You know, Karigan never mentioned how inflexible you were.”

“Inflexible?”

Estral nodded slowly. “Yes, I’d definitely say inflexible.” Without further ado, she was off again, striding away, leaving a fuming Alton behind her.

“Inflexible?” he muttered. “
I’m
not the inflexible one.”

He faced the wall, arms crossed. In regard to Estral Andovian, the term i
nsufferable
came to mind. He’d never gotten the impression from Karigan that her friend was such a pain in the—in the rear.

He grumbled and headed for the tower. Let Estral travel to Woodhaven to see his father. If Lord D’Yer approved of Estral’s presence at the wall, then
he
could be responsible for her well-being. Problem was, Alton reflected, if something happened to Estral, Karigan would not blame his father, but him. He sighed.

He paused before the tower and tried to clear his mind of Estral Andovian and whatever Karigan would think or say. It was not easy to do, but once he pressed his palm against the granite of the wall, the throb of music pulsing through it, the song of the guardians, helped him focus.

The tower possessed no door, not even any windows or arrow loops on its impassive facade, but it allowed certain persons to permeate its wall. So far those persons had been primarily Green Riders. He brushed his hand against his brooch and sank into the wall. He was absorbed through stone, the passage no more difficult than a brief submersion in water and taking no longer than half a breath. When he emerged into the chamber within, the wall he had just passed through rippled and then hardened into solid granite behind him.

The tower chamber had seen better days. Columns in the center of the chamber had fallen over and broken, and stone had crashed to the floor from above. The damage occurred when the wall guardians had been on the verge of insanity, driven there by both the breach and the influence of Alton’s late cousin, Pendric. They’d lost their rhythm, the thread of song that unified the magic of the wall began to unravel, almost causing all to fall into ruin.

There was still a hole far above where snow and rain had seeped through all winter and Alton did not know how he might fix it, for no ladder reached it. Apparently there had also been an observation platform that was now a pile of rubble on the floor, but how the wallkeepers of old reached it, he had no idea for there were no stairs he could find.

Living wallkeepers had once been stationed in the towers to keep watch on Blackveil and the wall itself, but with the passage of the ages and various wars, their duty diminished until it was entirely forgotten and the wall taken for granted. The towers, however, were not left completely uninhabited. Magical presences remained. They’d once been great mages, fully corporeal beings, but once their physical selves passed on, they continued to reside in the towers in their current ghostly manifestations.

Merdigen, the resident of Tower of the Heavens, constantly nattered at Alton about the poor state of his tower, as if Alton could fix the mess with a snap of his fingers. If only it were so easy! He’d done his best through the winter to sweep up debris and move rubble, but it would require more strength and craftsmanship than he possessed to remake columns and return the chamber to its former condition.

There was a table in the chamber that miraculously survived the destruction, and Alton did much of his work there. Books were piled on one end. Dale had promised the tower mages books if they’d work on solving the riddles of the wall, and since then, Alton’s father had shipped them a large quantity of books. The mages did not seem to care what they were about, just that they were
books.

“There you are!”

Merdigen’s voice made Alton jump. As often as he entered the tower and expected Merdigen to be there, the mage always managed to surprise him with his sudden appearances. Alton turned to face him.

“It’s about time,” Merdigen said, tugging on his long flowing beard. It was the color of old ivory.

Alton braced himself, wondering what the mage would complain about this time.

“This is not the most convenient method to read a book.”

“What’s not?”

“One page at a time,” Merdigen replied. “You left me on page ten of Chettley’s
Theories of Light
and then never came back to turn the page.”

Merdigen was right: it was not the most convenient way to read a book, or to have it be read. Merdigen was not a corporeal being, and therefore could not affect physical objects. It was wonderful that the mages now had access to all these books, but it was not wonderful that Alton and Dale had to flip the pages for them.

“Sorry,” Alton said, though he was not sorry at all. “We had a busy night.” He went on to describe the incursion of the creature from Blackveil and the arrival of Estral Andovian.

“I am sorry about your soldiers,” Merdigen said. “I am very sorry. We must remain ever vigilant.”

“Tell me something new,” Alton mumbled.

“Eh?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Alton moved over to the table and started sorting through papers.

“So where is she?” Merdigen asked.

“Hmm? Who?”

“The minstrel.”

“Oh, I sent her away.”

“Why would you do that?”

“It’s not safe here.”

“A pity, though I suppose you’re right to send her off.” Merdigen conjured himself a chair and slumped into it. “It’s been many a long year since I heard true music. Oh, Dorleon plays his reed pipe, but it does not compare to a Selium minstrel. Not at all.”

Alton hardly listened as Merdigen prattled on about minstrels he once knew and the songs they sang. He supposed it was better than getting nagged about the condition of the chamber.

When finally he had sorted his papers and cleared a space for himself to work, Alton pulled up a chair and started flipping through his copy of the book of Theanduris Silverwood. He could not believe the king wanted him to destroy it when he was finished with it. He understood, but still couldn’t believe it. So Alton took as much time as he could to absorb the words of the great mage who had worked the magic of the wall. Theanduris Silverwood had been pompous, and callous to all the sacrifices he insisted be made to accomplish his goals.

These people are no more than cattle,
he had written of those who died.
Their sacrifice will elevate them to a new existence, and they will serve their land more usefully as rock and mortar than as individuals.

Theanduris Silverwood saw himself as a savior, since the wall had been his grand plan, though it was the D’Yers who built it, and thousands were sacrificed to create it. The true saviors, Alton thought, were those whose blood made the wall possible. Theanduris Silverwood had not seen fit to sacrifice himself.

Alton wondered if the great mage had truly been any better than Mornhavon the Black.

“Oh, you’re looking through that thing again,” Merdigen said, gazing over Alton’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to miss anything.”

“Can’t miss Theanduris’ overly inflated estimation of himself.”

“No,” Alton agreed.

“Wasn’t there something the king wanted you to look at particularly?”

Alton raised his eyebrow at the pointed tone of Merdigen’s question, but he reached for the king’s letter and briefly scanned it. “That measure of music,” he mumbled. He turned the pages of the manuscript until he came to the one that contained it.

“Do you know how to read musical notation?” Merdigen asked.

“No,” Alton admitted.

“Can Dale?”

Alton shook his head.

“Can you think of anyone else who can?”

There were a few others in the encampment who played instruments, but none were formally trained. They had learned to play by ear.

“No,” Alton said in growing consternation.