The High King's Tomb (13 page)

It was much too late in the season for fireflies.

She waited, tense, forcing herself to breathe. It wasn’t the light that came upon her again, but voices in song, achingly beautiful voices singing in a language she did not understand, though enchanting enough that she could guess who sang it: Eletians. Eletians were passing through the woods.

She drew her saber.

Light—many lights—came to life among the trees, flaring between tree trunks across the cove from where Karigan and Fergal camped, glancing on the still surface of the lake. Dewdrops clinging to the tips of pine needles glistened. Figures, some on horseback, some afoot, shone in the silvery glow of moonstones, moonstones held like lanterns on the ends of poles and shrouded by colorful shades. Some Eletians held moonstones on their palms before them, like acolytes bearing candles down the aisle of a chapel of the moon.

The moonstone lights were reflected in the black surface of the lake like stars. Karigan, unable to move from her knees, watched in wonder, a supplicant before these godly beings.

The Eletians’ passage was silent but for their song. If they knew of Karigan’s presence, none changed course to approach her.

She thought their procession solemn, but discerned laughter amid their singing. Then, with a surge that went through her heart and nearly made her lose hold of her saber, she recognized her name in the song. As she listened more closely, she gleaned some understanding of the words, an understanding in her heart, though the language was foreign.

Karigan drew her eyebrows together. The singing grew more distant and here and there lights extinguished.

Karigan awoke with a start to the golden light of dawn breaking through the mist that had settled over the lake during the night. Eletians. She had dreamed of Eletians passing through the woods. No, it had not been a dream. Or maybe…? She was unsure. Until her eyes focused on the arrow protruding from her chest, an arrow with a white shaft and fletching. She screamed at the sight of crimson blooming across her chest.

Fergal jumped up from a dead sleep, looking wildly around. “What is it? What is it?”

Karigan opened her mouth to speak, but the arrow turned to smoke and drifted away. The blood vanished, too. She pawed at her chest finding no evidence of arrow or wound.

“What is it?” Fergal repeated, blinking blearily.

“I–I…dreams,” she said, more than a little rattled. Had she merely imagined the arrow, or had one of the Eletians left her a message? Gods, if it had all been real, the Eletians, the faction that wanted her dead, already knew she yet lived.

“Dreams.” Fergal yawned. “I dreamed of people laughing at me, and singing ‘knacker’s boy, knacker’s boy…’” He shook his head. “I can’t remember it too well.”

When he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, Karigan noticed it glittered like gold dust as it drifted to the ground. She shuddered.

D
ale Littlepage’s stomach clenched as the wagon bumped along the “road” into the encampment. She closed her eyes not against the sunshine suddenly unfiltered by the forest canopy, but against memory, against black wings.

They had ridden to the wall this summer past, Captain Mapstone and all the Riders she could muster, to gather information for the king. A blast of wild magic from Blackveil Forest had turned life upside down in Sacor City and elsewhere—whole villages had vanished, people had turned to stone in the streets…When they arrived, they’d been astonished to discover a swath of forest toppled by the force of the wind and magic that had funneled through the breach. Branches had been hurled with such power they’d impaled tree trunks. Other trees had been uprooted and huge boulders rolled over. They also found a fresh row of graves dug for those who had not survived the maelstrom.

At the breach itself, there had been confusion when a wraith that had assumed Alton’s appearance tricked them all except Karigan, who attempted to attack him. And it was here that Dale’s memory faltered, became shadowed by the wings, and only afterward had she heard about the illusion of Alton melting away to reveal the wraith, and of Karigan racing through the breach into Blackveil. A battle ensued when groundmites poured out of the forest and attacked the Riders, but for Dale, there were only the wings.

Black wings that had shot through the breach and hovered over her like death’s shadow. She had been certain she was going to die; she’d heard the hunger in the avian’s screech. The wings had closed down on her, their fetid wind roaring in her ears. Talons had hooked into her flesh, and that was all she could remember. The Riders had to fill in the rest for her. Though she did not die that day, others among her comrades had, and she did not understand why.
Why had she been spared when others died?
A whimper escaped her lips.

“Are you well, Rider?”

Clyde’s voice drew her back to herself and she opened her eyes to the sunshine again, realizing with a start that the wagon had come to a halt. Voices of men at work and the sound of hammering echoed across the encampment. The soldiers had scavenged in the forest for the fallen trees and used them to build log structures to replace their tents for the oncoming winter. Now they framed out the roof of a cabin.

The rest of the wagon train rumbled by and into the encampment. There were many glad greetings from the guards on duty here, for the wagon train brought not only supplies, but letters from home and relief troops.

“Rider?” Clyde asked again.

Dale turned to the grizzled drover. A gruff fellow, he had taken her into his care during the journey from Woodhaven, ensuring their travel did not harm her mending wounds.

“I’m all right,” she told him. The truth was the journey had taken its toll and she was exhausted, but she had only herself to blame, insisting to Garth that she be the one to return to the wall to help Alton. She had tired of “quiet” recuperation and wanted to feel useful again, fully healed or not.

“Let’s find Alton.” Then, for Clyde’s benefit, she amended, “
Lord
Alton.” Clyde was a devout clansman and frowned on her casual use of Alton’s name, no matter that the nobleman in question was also a Green Rider and her friend.

Clyde nodded and slapped the reins against the rumps of his mules, and the wagon lurched forward. Dale’s horse, Plover, trailed behind on a lead rope. She twisted round to watch the mare, who had become frisky at the prospect of a journey, despite the kindness and good care that had been lavished upon her at Woodhaven.

Just as happy to leave as me,
Dale thought. But when she glanced at the breach in the wall, she wasn’t so sure of her decision. The breach had been repaired again with ordinary stonework, but above the new stonework where the wall was pure magic, there was a cleft that looked as though an angry god had torn out an entire section of the wall.

Clyde asked after Lord Alton and was directed to a secondary encampment a bit of a distance along a path heading east. Here they found no log cabins being built, but crisp rows of tents set up between the woods and the wall, and a tower. Dale’s gaze followed it up to the clouds.
Tower of the Heavens.
This was the tower Alton needed her to enter, if her Rider magic was working properly.

“This is the place,” Clyde said, hauling back on the reins and setting the brake.

As he had so many times before, he jumped from the wagon and hurried round to lift her down despite her protestations she could manage on her own. She had to admit she felt about a hundred years old when she rose from the bench, all aches and exhaustion, all her joints creaking in protest. Her arm bound to her body did nothing to enhance her balance. Clyde was at least twice her age, but he was strong and possessed boundless energy. Before she knew it, her feet were firmly planted on the ground.

That’s better.
She stretched and rubbed her back end, glaring at the wagon’s bare wooden bench, polished smooth over the years by the buttocks of so many other tortured passengers.

“You wait here,” Clyde said. “I’ll see to getting you situated.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

He grunted and nodded in his usual taciturn way, then went in search of someone in authority.

Dale stamped out her legs and stretched again, grimacing as her healing flesh was pulled taut. She walked in circles to further loosen up, and soon found herself wandering away from the wagon toward the tower.

Soldiers on guard duty warily watched her approach, but her own attention fell upon a figure in green, his back to her, and his hands on his hips. He stared at the tower, unaware of her approach.

“Alton?” she said.

He turned, and at first she thought she was mistaken, that this scarecrow of a man couldn’t be Alton after all, but beneath the shaggy brown hair and stubble on his chin, she recognized him. Garth’s description of him had hardly prepared her. He was so thin, and while she felt as though she had aged, he
looked
it.

It took a few moments for him to register who she was. After her own injuries and sickness, and the past several days of travel, she shouldn’t be surprised if she looked changed as well.

“Dale!” he said finally, and in three strides he was over to her and hugging her gently so as not to cause her healing injuries pain. Then he put her at arm’s length, his eyes searching. “How are you? We didn’t think you…not at first.”

They hadn’t thought she would live, she knew he meant to say. “I guess we’ve both been better. Seems like few of us survived the summer unscathed.” Not wishing to sink into dark thoughts again, she continued, “Lord and Lady D’Yer send you their love as well as some packages.”

Alton nodded. “And your care, was it satisfactory?”

“With Woodhaven’s best menders attending me? And your little brother to keep me company? I couldn’t have asked for better.”

“Marc? I hope he didn’t pester you too much.”

Dale laughed. “He tired me out at times, bringing me kittens and games, but he was a welcome sight between all those grim-faced menders.”

Alton smiled. “I’m glad.” Then he faced the wall. “Welcome to Tower of the Heavens, or
Haethen Toundrel,
as our ancestors called it. It’s been the object of my frustration these last two and a half months.”

Dale trailed him as he approached the stone wall of the tower. Empty of embellishment, even of windows or arrow loops, it evoked an inhuman countenance.

“No, uh, progress,” she said, “with your trying to enter it?”

He shook his head. “No one’s been inside since Garth was here.” He then glanced eagerly at her, almost hungrily. “Would you like to give it a try, to go inside?”

Dale gazed at the wall of ashlars before her with trepidation. Unlike Garth or Alton, or several of the other Riders, she had never had the chance to enter the tower. Garth had tried to describe what it was like to pass through the wall and emerge within it, like walking through a veil of water, he’d said, but looking upon this bulwark of stone, she was filled with doubt. She raised a trembling hand toward it.

“Don’t you dare!”

Dale snatched her hand back and stepped away, wondering what she had done wrong. A woman in D’Yerian blue and gold strode toward them, Clyde at her side. She clutched a letter in her hand, and while Dale thought the sharp words had been directed at her, the woman’s gaze settled on Alton, who looked sheepish in return.

When the woman and Clyde halted before them, she waved the letter in Alton’s face. “Your father’s personal mender has told me the nature and extent of Rider Littlepage’s injuries, my lord, and I cannot approve of you putting her straight to work when she’s barely arrived after an arduous journey.”

“I—” Alton said.

“Yes, I know how terribly frustrating it has been for you to wait, Lord Alton, but really, you must take others into consideration.”

“But—”

“I’ve the right to override your decisions when they relate to health and welfare, and this is one of those occasions.”

Alton held up his hands, hands with their own pink, healing injuries on them, and said, “Of course, of course. I wouldn’t—I would never—”

“Good then.” The woman then turned to Dale. “Welcome,” she said, a smile warming her face and her voice softening. “I am Leese, the encampment’s chief mender. Tomorrow will be soon enough to begin work, yes?”

Dale
was
tired. She nodded and Leese began to lead her away.

“We’ve some soldiers setting up a tent for you, and Clyde here has agreed to help you with your things.”

Dale glanced over her shoulder only to discover Alton as she found him: hands on hips and his back to her as he stared at the wall. This thin, intense man was not the Alton she remembered.

Once Dale’s tent was set up and Leese had examined her, she dropped onto her cot and remembered nothing of the intervening hours until she awoke sometime late the next morning. She had been exhausted, but the rest did her wonders. Not even black wings intruded on her dreams.

Leese came to check on her while she breakfasted, the sunshine on the tent warming the air within to the point it became stuffy. Dale was glad of the inrush of fresh air with Leese’s entrance.

“Lord Alton has been pacing a trench between the tower and your tent, waiting for you to wake up,” the mender said. “Do you feel up to working with him? If not, I can put him off…”

“No, no. I feel good,” Dale said.

A little later she slipped through the tent flaps and blinked at the sun in her eyes, and found herself face to face with Alton. He
had
been waiting.

“Uh…” he began.

Dale looked him over. He was as disheveled as the day before, and she decided she would have to do something about it. “Good morning.”

“Morning. You can come to the tower?”

“Yes, of course, that’s what I’m here for.” He turned and started walking toward the tower as if expecting her to follow. “But first I want to look in on Plover.”

Alton halted and turned about. Was that guilt on his face? She soon saw why, for when they reached the pickets, Alton’s gelding, Night Hawk, was so overjoyed to see his Rider that he nearly yanked his picket stake right out of the ground. Not only had Alton neglected himself, but his horse as well. She watched as he patted the gelding, looking abashed, then she moved on to her own Plover. She checked that the mare was rubbed down, comfortable, and had enough water, and joined Alton where he awaited her on the other side of the picket.

He said nothing, but strode off again, expecting her to follow. She did so, shaking her head. The Alton of old would have asked how she was, joked with her. However, this was not the Alton of old, but a haunted specter of him. She had no idea of what had befallen him while he was trapped in Blackveil. Perhaps with more time, he would come around; if not unchanged, at least more like his old self.

When they reached the wall, Alton took up the stance that was becoming all too familiar—his hands on his hips, and his gaze hard, as if he could break through the stone facade by pure will alone.

“You know about Merdigen?” he asked her.

“Garth filled me in. He’s a magical something-or-other.”

For the first time, humor lit Alton’s eyes. “I wouldn’t say that to his face.”

“And you’re sure he’ll be there?”

Alton shrugged. “It’s where he exists. Did Garth describe the tower to you?”

Dale paused a moment before replying. Garth described the tower as ‘’impossible,” that there were vast plains of grass within, an image she found difficult to conceptualize. “He tried,” she said.

“Yes.” Alton rubbed the bristles on his chin. “It takes seeing it to understand. Are you ready?”

“Yep. If the tower lets me in, what do you want me to do?”

“Get any information about the wall’s condition you can from Merdigen. Ask him if there is a way to circumvent the guardians so I can enter.”

“All right.” With some trepidation, she approached the tower, the windowless, doorless tower that nonetheless admitted Green Riders. She half listened to Alton’s instructions about how to enter, trying to hold her skepticism about walking through walls at bay.