The High King's Tomb (41 page)

“I choose to believe that I hear more than the wind,” Lady said. “I think Damian does, too, but he will not speak of it readily, for the cries are full of despair. We both have faith in our perception of things, you understand. Damian’s gift of perception, and his trust in himself, makes him the horseman he is.”

The bench squeaked as Lady shifted her position. Starlight gleamed in her eyes. “Maybe we are crazy old coots, Damian and I. Maybe we’ve lived on the plains too long. Some say the plains can play tricks on you, like the desert lands where you see mirages shimmering in the sun. Maybe it’s just the wind on the grass making you see a horse running there, or storm clouds building castles on the horizon. Wind dreams, I call them, those things you think you see.”

Yes, wind dreams,
Karigan thought. She preferred to believe her vision of the black stallion had been nothing more. Maybe they were all mad, sharing in the same delusions. It was easier to accept than to believe she came face-to-face with a god-being.

“There are wind dreams,” Lady continued, “but I choose to believe that not all you see out there can be discounted as such. Much happened on the plains and the land does not forget. And there are many layers of the world. It makes sense to me that in some places those layers are thin, or even intersect. Maybe that great battle of ancient times changed the natural order of things, thinning the layers, making them merge.”

Karigan shuddered, and it was not from the cold. She did not think she’d like to live anywhere near the plains. Too many shadows, too many ghosts. Yet her beloved Condor came from the plains.

She turned her thoughts to Lady’s words about choosing to believe her perceptions. Karigan wondered if she chose
not
to believe her vision of Salvistar, the experience would cease to exist. Somehow, she didn’t think it would work.

“Does your perception,” Karigan asked, “aid your skill in herb lore?”

Lady chuckled. “You are right to call it skill, for it has been taught down a long line of the women in my family. Well, some of the men, but mostly the women. I have no daughters to pass it on to, but Gus has taken a little interest, though both boys are more apt to chase after their father in pursuit of wild horses. Perhaps I’ll take on an apprentice one day, or one of my sons will give me a granddaughter.”

“Then it
is
skill,” Karigan said, feeling awkward. “I mean, after my fall, you helped me heal.”

“Skill, knowledge, and
knowing,
” Lady said. “My grand-mum started teaching me when I was just a bitty thing. Born in the lake country of Rhovanny, I was.”

Karigan heard no Rhovan accent in her speaking, and so was surprised.

“My father was Sacoridian and a farmer, and when I was young, we moved here to the western edge of Sacoridia. My mum continued to teach me all through my growing up.” Lady paused. “Are you worried I have more than mere skill?”

“Not worried, precisely,” Karigan said. “Wondering. We’ve a Rider…well, he doesn’t ride—”

“He
what?”

“He’s afraid of horses.”

“Oh, my!” Lady said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Damian will be most interested.”

“Yes, well, when he became a Rider, his special ability was to enhance the mending skill he already possessed.” Karigan didn’t feel she was betraying anything by discussing Rider magic since Damian already showed himself well aware of it. She assumed Lady must know as well. “I was wondering if maybe…if maybe you had that kind of ability.”

Lady did not respond immediately and Karigan thought she’d offended her hostess, but when Lady at last spoke she did not sound upset, just thoughtful.

“There are the seen and unseen. Skill and that which goes beyond skill. And that is all I can tell you.”

Lady suddenly declared herself chilled and rose to enter the house. Before she did so, however, she added, “Not all is certainty in our world, Karigan. If it were, there’d be no opportunity for faith, and then it would be a very dull existence.”

Lady left her confounded in the darkness. She had not received a definitive answer. The seen, the unseen, perceptions…She groaned. Maybe she was better off not mulling over such things and should just accept each day for what it was.

Problem was, if she really saw Salvistar, it could only mean trouble. Like Karigan, the death god’s steed was a messenger, but he brought only one message: strife, battle, death.

F
rom Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, we weave our song in—

Disharmony.

From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, we—

Discord.

He
is there. We feel it.

From Ullem Bay—

Can he hear us?

Do not seek his help. Do not trust.

Hear us. Help us. Heal us.

He does not hear.

See him. He betrayed us.

We see.

Look well. He is evil.

We watch.

Do not trust.

We see.

We watch.

We are blind.

E
ver since his experiences in Blackveil, Alton had slept poorly, if he was able to sleep at all. There were the fevers and nightmares, and those were augmented by the anxiety that glutted his mind with what-ifs and visions of everything ending in catastrophe. If he tried to sleep, the entire wall failed and Mornhavon rose above the rubble like a vengeful god who would bring all of Sacoridia to heel.

Often Alton was up before dawn pacing in his tent, the platform boards creaking beneath his feet, or he’d try to devise possible solutions in his journal, but the entries always ended in more frustration. He’d broken dozens of pen nibs by stabbing the pages.

Sometimes he went to the tower, the encampment as quiet as a sickroom, the third watch the only souls up and about. However, battering his will at the wall had proved just as futile as scheming in his journal had, so he decided to try something more productive. Sometimes he split wood for the cook fires; mindless repetitive work that allowed him to use his feelings of aggression productively. Grateful cooks made sure he received an extra hearty breakfast for his efforts.

Other times he saddled up Night Hawk to inspect the wall in either direction. He wrote his observations in his beat-up journal, and all of this before Dale had even rolled out of her cot.

The early morning sojourns did make him feel as if he were contributing something. The soldiers regularly patrolled along the wall but they were watching for more obvious signs of encroachment from Blackveil, such as monstrous creatures finding their way through the breach.

Alton focused more on the wall itself, particularly the cracks on either side of the breach. He measured and recorded their growth, which was often minute, and while he could not ascertain how deep into the stone these cracks bore, he had to assume they went all the way through the thickness of the wall. He was not reassured by his observations, for the cracks did progress, but at least he was doing
something,
something that was potentially useful.

As a side benefit, he knew Night Hawk enjoyed the excursions, and the gelding eagerly greeted Alton on the mornings he went on inspection rides. Riding Night Hawk, the companionship and the movement of his steed’s strides, soothed him.

One morning Alton stood at the site where tendrils of the cracks terminated, somewhere midway between the breach and Tower of the Heavens. The rising sun dimpled the granite facade with gold as he finished up his measurements and recorded them in his journal, the sound of Night Hawk pulling at grass somewhere behind him.

When he looked up from his writing, he almost dropped the journal. Maybe it was the change of light, but it looked like…it looked like the cracks had formed a pattern.

He stepped back a few paces and changed the angle of his gaze, thinking it would either clarify or erase the pattern, but there it remained: a pair of large eyes, formed by the cracks, staring back at him. No matter which way he moved, the eyes seemed to follow him.

He strode rapidly along the wall, gazing at the cracks along the way, and more eyes watched him. The more he looked, the more eyes he saw, and he began to make out whole faces etched into stone. Sad faces, angry faces, tormented faces. All faces of despair.

He halted, trembling, then backed away from the wall ready to bolt, but Night Hawk had followed him and Alton had only to reach out to touch the gelding. It grounded him.

What do they want?
he wondered.

He could not tolerate their stares for they seemed to accuse him of something, of everything, stripped him naked, their gazes abrading his soul. He mounted Night Hawk and urged the gelding toward camp at a canter.

E
ach day Dale checked the tower as she had promised Merdigen she would, despite the tremors that assailed her whenever she passed through the wall. Every heartbeat she believed her last and that she’d be sealed in granite for all time, only to emerge breathless in the tower chamber and find it empty, its silence and stone walls oppressive. She did not linger, and the wall guardians did not hinder her passage, but she felt them observing her.

When she returned through the wall to the encampment, Alton awaited her as always. There he stood, watching her intently, hands clenched at his sides. He was looking better. It wasn’t just the polished boots, but his hair no longer stuck out at angles, and he took pains to neaten his uniform, shining the buttons and cleaning stains, mending tears and frays, and attempting to press out wrinkles.

Dale smiled, pleased by Alton’s overall appearance. It was an improvement, though he still fell into gloomy silences and remained intense about the wall. Some things, she reckoned, she could not influence. The place, with its forbidding wall and nightmarish forest beyond, had the tendency to suck the life out of one. What they needed was a party. A party would lift everyone’s mood, maybe even Alton’s.

“Merdigen?” he asked.

“Not back yet.”

“What was he thinking?” Alton demanded. “He can be of no help to us if he’s haring off to wherever—wherever illusions go!”

“He said he’d return,” Dale reminded him.

“How do we know?”

Dale sighed. “How do we know anything? Sometimes you have to accept a thing on faith.”

Alton opened his mouth as if to retort, but then closed it. “There’s something I’d like you to see,” he said.

He took her into the encampment where a servant stood waiting with a mule hitched up to a wagon.

“I know you can’t ride yet,” Alton began.

“Not
allowed
to ride,” Dale corrected.

Alton smiled. “Not allowed, so we’re using the wagon.”

He helped her up onto the bench, then climbed up himself and collected the reins. To her surprise, instead of heading toward the makeshift road that led to the main encampment at the breach, he slapped the mule with the reins and whistled it toward the wall, then turned so they headed west, in the direction of the breach. Alton’s uncle, who had been in charge of the encampment before his death, initiated clearing along the wall, the soldiers and laborers under his command chopping down trees and burning brush to a distance of several yards. When Alton came to the encampment, he ensured his uncle’s work continued.

It was in this clearing between wall and forest that Alton guided the wagon. It was bumpy and hard going over stumps, rocks, and uneven ground, and it jostled every single bone in Dale’s body. She would have had an easier time on horseback, but Leese wouldn’t allow her to ride. Alton remained silent throughout, not explaining what this little excursion was about. His hands seemed to shake, though it was hard to tell with the jarring ride. Something was eating at him, that was for sure.

The wagon pitched and swayed as roughly as any boat in an unrelenting sea storm, the wall always oppressive and cold at their left. Dale was never so relieved when, miles later, Alton reined the mule to a halt and set the brake. He came around to her side of the wagon and helped her down. Her old drover friend Clyde would approve.

She followed Alton to the wall. “What do you see?” he asked.

Dale withheld a sarcastic reply and examined the granite expanse before her. She did not know exactly how far they had come in the wagon, but there were cracks feathering the surface. She knew they were spreading all the time, no matter how minutely, evidence of the weakening of the wall.

“I see cracks,” she said.

Alton nodded. “Yes, cracks. Anything…odd about them?”

“No,” Dale replied.

Alton narrowed his brows and stared hard at the wall. “You sure?”

Dale glanced at the cracks again, seeing nothing different about them from others she’d observed closer to the breach. “I am sure. Why?”

“It’s just that—” Alton scratched his head. “It’s just that I think I see some sort of pattern in the cracks. Or at least this morning I thought I did.”

Dale glanced uneasily at him, and back at the wall. Sure, she could see patterns, like watching puffy clouds passing overhead that looked like birds, faces, ships, and any number of things, but she did not say this to him. She wondered just how deeply his obsession was affecting him.

He shrugged. “My imagination.” He helped her up into the wagon for another torturous ride back to their encampment, during which he fell back to brooding.

Dale scarcely touched ground in the encampment when the mender Leese approached with a wave.

“Rider Littlepage,” she said, “just the one I wanted to see.”

“Uh oh,” Dale said under her breath, but she smiled. Leese no doubt wanted to check the progress of her healing wound, which meant painful prodding of still tender flesh and having to demonstrate the flexibility of her arm and shoulder. She’d lost so much strength that her visits with Leese often left her exhausted and in tears. Leese was most sympathetic and patient, but in equal measures thorough.

“Time to check on my wound?” Dale asked, hoping maybe the mender had something else on her mind for once, like an invitation to tea or the recommendation of a book for Dale to read.

“The usual,” Leese replied. “Today, though, I want to take special care and time. If you could join me in my tent in a couple minutes?”

“Of course,” Dale replied, then groaned as Leese walked off.

Alton glanced at her in surprise. “Is Leese not treating you well?”

“Too well. I must be her only patient. Why can’t anyone else around here get sick or break a leg or something?”

A
lton sat before his tent doodling in his journal. He mulled over what he’d seen in the cracks in the wall, the patterns.
Eyes.
And faces. Some of these he drew with their tormented expressions, but he was no artist and he scribbled them out. When he’d taken Dale to see the cracks and she saw nothing unusual, he became unsure of his perceptions. He couldn’t make out the faces either. Maybe he hadn’t been looking at them at the right angle, or the sunlight was different, or…He just didn’t know anymore. Perhaps he obsessed over the wall so much it was influencing him in odd ways. Maybe he really was cracking like his cousin Pendric. Those rumors were still being whispered around camp.

A commotion distracted him from his scribbles and thoughts of patterns and cracks. Dale emerged from Leese’s tent and declared she was
free,
followed out by the grinning mender. It took several moments for Alton to realize the sling and bindings had been removed from Dale’s arm.

“Look,” she said, flexing her arm for him and others who gathered around her.

“She’s not to overuse it,” Leese cautioned, “and she’s still to wear the sling for a portion of the day.”

Dale rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I’m going to start flinging a sword around or hauling granite.”

Leese looked mortified by the mere suggestion. “I should hope not! It would undo all the good work.”

The next thing Alton knew, Dale was announcing it was time they had a little party to celebrate. An “arm liberation party,” she called it. The cooks of both encampments began pooling supplies, and some off-duty soldiers went hunting and actually returned with a stag, several hares, and some grouse. Alton donated his aunt’s gift of whiskey and his own supply of wine, but it did not take long before Dale had him peeling potatoes. The cooks who had taken a shine to him after all his wood chopping joked with him, teaching him a bawdy song, and teasing him when he blushed.

Both encampments perked up as anticipation of the event spread. Life at the wall was a serious affair, with danger never far and the fear of the wall’s demise hanging over everyone, but this respite was welcomed by all.

Dale was here and there, supervising the fire pit over which the stag would be roasted, directing the collection of wood for a bonfire, and the making of benches to sit on around it. She rounded up various personnel with musical ability and instruments and got them practicing, which picked up the spirits of all who heard them even more. She dashed by Alton’s work station and grabbed a potato.

“Look!” she cried, and she threw it into the air and deftly caught it. “I can do this now!” Then she tossed the potato to him and sprinted off to the next thing.

She was a dervish if Alton had ever seen one.

It was dark by the time preparations were ready. Wonderful aromas wafted through the encampment, making mouths water, and torches and lamps encircled the party area giving off festive light. Dale even coaxed some idle soldiers into cleaning out pumpkins and gourds and carving faces into them. Everyone donated candles and soon faces both humorous and grotesque glowed at them from the shadows. The faces reminded Alton of the cracks in the wall and he shuddered.

The soldiers on guard duty worked out their shifts so all could have a turn enjoying the festivities, and Alton was astonished but pleased by the high spirits exhibited by all as they feasted, sang, and danced, all in celebration of the liberation of Dale’s arm. He knew it was just an excuse she made to raise morale. She was always up to such things at Rider barracks, keeping everyone laughing and coming closer together as family. The seriousness of this place, and her own frightening experience of being trapped in the wall, must have been too much and she deemed the time ripe to break the spell.

Even as Alton was gladdened by the sight of such frivolity, he found himself edging away from the light and gazing toward the heavens. One half of the sky was cut off from view by the looming silhouette of the wall, but the other half was filled with stars. The music and laughter of the party faded away as he became lost in thoughts of his purpose in life and how he seemed to be failing at it. He couldn’t fix the wall. The cracks kept spreading. And was he mad because he thought he saw eyes in the wall?

He was even a failure as a friend. In an inner pocket, he kept Karigan’s letter, still sealed and unread. He feared what he might find in it: words of anger, words of spite. He’d treated her terribly when they last parted; at the time he remained under the trickery of Blackveil. Those dreams still plagued him, still painted her as the traitor who almost made him destroy the wall, but as time passed, he knew those dreams to be lies, poison, and slowly the dreams held less and less power over him. He feared, however, what he had done to his friendship with Karigan—maybe because he wanted it to be more than friendship.

That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? This trying to defend the lands from Blackveil. It was about preserving friends and family, all those things he valued and loved, and he’d practically thrown it all away.

“Here you are.”

Alton started. He hadn’t heard Dale’s approach.

“The party’s back there,” she said. “We’ve lit the bonfire.”

“Just needed some quiet,” he said.

“I think you’ve had a little more than enough quiet if I do say so myself. It’s fine and good to brood about the future and what’s on the other side of the wall, but sometimes you have to let it go for a little while to remember why it’s so important to worry in the first place.”

Alton glanced at her in surprise, though all he could see of her was her outline sketched by the light of the bonfire. Hadn’t she said aloud what he had just been thinking?

“How about it?” she said. “There’s still some apple pie left.”

And she grabbed his arm and led him back into the light.