Authors: Kristen Britain

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

Blackveil (31 page)

BOOK: Blackveil

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“Then why, my boy,” Merdigen said with exaggerated patience, “did you send away the one person who
can?
”

Alton stood so fast he knocked over his chair.
“Idiot!”
he cried.

“Why there’s no reason to call me—”

“Not you,
me!
”

Alton dashed from the chamber, through the wall, and out into the encampment.

“What is it, my lord?” an alarmed guard called.

“My horse! I need my horse!”

Estral Andovian could not have gotten far, but Alton was not about to waste another moment. Once he tacked up Night Hawk and mounted, he gave his horse the bare minimum of time to warm up at a walk and then galloped from the tower camp to the main encampment and down the rudimentary road that broke northward through the forest.

She’d only gotten about a mile down the road when he caught up with her.

He reined Night Hawk up in front of her to block her way. Estral’s mare spooked, and while it was clear she was no expert horsewoman, she maintained her seat well.

“What—” she began.

“I need you to come back,” he said. Then realizing how abrupt his behavior and words were, he said, “I mean, could you come back? Please?”

She sat there glowering at him. “I see Karigan was not exaggerating when she said you were capable of being rude.”

Alton groaned. They were back to this, were they?

“In fact,” Estral said, “I’d say you’d been
mean
to her.”

“I apologized to her for that. She’s forgiven me.”

“Apologized, eh?” Estral tapped her riding crop against her boot, waiting.

“Apologized, yeah,” Alton said. “I mean yes, apologies. I apologize if I came across as rude.”

“Hmm.”

“Or mean,” he added.

She squinted at him as if assessing the sincerity of his words and character. Finally she asked, “What is it that made you change your mind?”

“It may be,” he said, “that you can help us save the wall.”

“Then what are we doing sitting here?”

Alton smiled. “My thought exactly.”

RESONANCE

A
s they rode back toward the encampment, Alton explained about the book of Theanduris Silverwood, but Estral was already well aware of it. Then he remembered Karigan had gone to Selium looking for it. This Estral confirmed.

“After Karigan left,” she said, “we pretty much tore apart the archives looking for the book even though we were sure it wasn’t there. Word came later from the king that it had been found elsewhere.” She sighed heavily. “Then we had to put the archives back in order.”

Alton gathered from her expression and tone of voice it had not been the most pleasurable of experiences. As he gazed at her, he couldn’t help noticing how the morning sun falling through the branches of trees dappled her hair making golden strands shine among the more subdued, sandy ones.

He cleared his throat and went on to explain how Theandris documented the making of the wall and all the sacrifices required. Estral nodded as if it only confirmed her suspicions.

“A lot of blood was shed in those days,” she said, “even when the war was over. But the way in which the wall was built was kept secret, even from the first Golden Guardian, or
especially
from him.” She lapsed into deep thought as their horses plodded along, eventually saying, “It’s not exactly the sort of thing you want the minstrels to sing about. I imagine back then King Jonaeus found ways to keep Gerlrand—he was the first Golden Guardian—busy and out of the way. He had the school at Selium to establish and all.”

“Perhaps he was in on it,” Alton suggested, “but kept it quiet.” When Estral glared at him, he added, “My ancestors were certainly in on it whether they wanted to be or not, and managed to keep the methods used for building the wall a secret. I do not think they wished such necromancy to be repeated, and perhaps it was the same with Gerlrand.”

As quickly as it came, the anger vanished from Estral’s face. “I do not think Gerlrand could keep a secret like that. It’s not our way.”

They rode on in silence and Alton could tell his words had disturbed her and she was now less certain.

“So how is it you think I can help save the wall?” she asked. “You’re not planning to sacrifice me to it, are you?”

“I’d need more than just you for that,” Alton replied.

“I don’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.”

Though she was smiling when she said it, Alton decided it was better not to attempt a direct response and get into deeper trouble with Karigan’s friend, but he couldn’t help a small smile of his own. “It’s a measure of music,” he said. “In the middle of Theanduris’ ramblings about how clever he was, he put down a measure of music. There is no explanation as to why or what it is.”

“And you think this measure of music will help the wall?”

Alton shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe Theanduris had the notion of composing some great piece of music in his own honor. But I think it’s more. It is song, after all, that keeps the wall guardians unified.”

Estral played with her horse’s mane as she rode along, flipping it from one side to the other. “It’s an interesting combination,” she said. “Blood and song to make the wall strong.”

“And good craftsmanship,” Alton could not help adding. “In any case, I thought maybe you could look at that measure of music, see what you make of it.”

It was almost all Alton could do to keep from leading them back at a gallop. He refrained because Estral appeared content to amble along at a thoughtful walk. He fell into his own ruminations, which though they started out about the wall, veered to his wondering how much he could pry out of Estral about Karigan. Oddly enough, there were some basic things he did not know about her. What, for instance, was her favorite color? It was hard to tell when all they ever wore was green. It seemed there was always something else crowding out the small details—message errands, battles, walls. Alton’s own very bad behavior ...

He’d have to proceed with caution when broaching the subject of Karigan with Estral. The journeyman minstrel, he could tell, was shrewd and would protect her friend no matter how innocent his questions.

Eventually they arrived at the main encampment at the breach. Alton reined Night Hawk east to head toward the tower encampment, but someone called out to him. It was Leese, the chief mender. As she approached he noted her haggard condition, the rings beneath her eyes, the slump to her shoulders. With a sense of foreboding, he knew this was not going to be good news.

“My lord,” she said, halting before them, “I thought you should know that Private Tomsen did not make it.”

Tomsen. The man injured in last night’s attack. Alton bowed his head.

“He lost too much blood,” Leese continued. “And what was left was poisoned by the creature’s bite. We worked through the night to save him but to no avail.”

“You did all you could,” Alton said.

The mender nodded. “I fear our skills are inadequate for the dangers the forest presents.”

Before Alton could respond, Leese turned and walked slowly back into the encampment, the very picture of defeat. He gazed at Estral Andovian wondering if he’d made the right decision in bringing her back.

“Don’t you dare change your mind,” she told him as though able to read his thoughts. “I take on this risk myself.”

Alton wondered if her father and Karigan would see it that way should something bad happen. He shook his head and nudged Night Hawk forward, Estral falling in behind.

Alton emerged from the tower with the one page of manuscript that held the music. When he handed it to Estral, she gazed hard at it for some moments.

“The script is very old-fashioned,” she said, “but that’s no surprise considering when Theanduris lived. The copyist seems to have made a very faithful representation of the original. And if that is the case ...” She fell into silence.

“If that is the case what?” Alton pressed.

“If that is the case, then the original measure of music was written in Gerlrand’s hand. I’d recognize it anywhere.” She frowned.

Alton did not think an “I told you so” would be appreciated, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Five simple notes,” she murmured. Then almost inaudibly she hummed.

There was nothing extraordinary about the brief tune that Alton could perceive, but it was almost as if Estral’s voice were enfolded in a current of air and carried off to the heavens.

She hummed the tune again, louder, and this time there was a slight resonance—not an audible resonance, but Alton could feel a tingling on the back of his neck. Maybe it was just the sweetness of her voice.

“Doesn’t sound like much,” Estral said. “I can’t see how this has anything to do with the wall. Can you?”

“I don’t know.”

“It feels incomplete,” Estral mused, “as if that last note is wanting an answer.”

Answers,
Alton thought.
All we ever want is answers, but all we ever have are questions.

“If you don’t mind,” Estral continued, “I’d like to hold onto this and play with it. It might not do anything for the wall, but as an artifact of Gerlrand’s, it’s of interest.”

“I’d prefer you make a copy and return this one to me.”

“Of course.” Estral hurried off, presumably to Dale’s tent to do just that.

Alton faced the wall wondering if he should have mentioned the resonance he had felt. It had been so subtle he almost couldn’t credit it. He’d keep it to himself for now and see if Estral came up with anything more as she studied the piece of music. He wanted to keep his expectations low since he’d already been disappointed time and again. He could not help but wonder, however, why Theanduris would include the music if it weren’t important. The great mage had thought much of his own cleverness and Alton did not doubt he’d delight in confounding anyone who tried to solve his riddle.

Did Theanduris and Alton’s ancestors have any idea that one day their great wall would be broken? Did they know the menace of Mornhavon could survive for so many centuries?

It seemed to Alton they must have known and prepared as best as they could by provisioning the wall with keepers, making sure it was patrolled. What they did not count on was the frailty of human memory, of human needs and priorities. A time had come when those other priorities overrode the importance of maintaining the wall. The keepers disappeared, the tower mages slept, and the wall was left to itself, unguarded and unmaintained.

What was needed was a permanent solution. The wall, for all its impressive craftsmanship and magic, had proved itself impermanent. It almost felt like a betrayal to Alton’s ancestors to think it, but the realization was dawning on him that the wall was not the final answer. Like Karigan carrying Mornhavon into the future, the wall only bought them time. He guessed King Zachary had come to this very conclusion himself a while ago and that was why he was sending Sacoridians into Blackveil with the Eletians.

When Alton first read the king’s letter informing him of the expedition, he believed lives were being needlessly thrown away. He had barely survived Blackveil himself and it had taken him a long time to recover from his experiences in the forest. However, with this new understanding, he recognized the importance of the expedition in seeking a permanent solution to the problem of Mornhavon the Black.

Even knowing this, Alton’s drive to fix the wall remained undiminished. If he could fix it, keep it intact for another thousand years, maybe it would give his people the protection and time they needed to find a way of finally defeating Mornhavon forever.

Alton could only do his part.

He sighed. He supposed he need not worry about keeping busy, what with the mysteries of the wall to solve and a journeyman minstrel to keep his eye on.

STATIONERY AND GOLD INK