The High King's Tomb (51 page)

F
rom Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, our song unravels, erodes stone and mortar. Once we shielded against great evil. We stood strong as the bulwark of the Ages.

But we were breached. Our song weeps in a clash of notes out of time. Lost is the harmony, erratic is the rhythm.

No one hears us. No one helps us. No one heals us.

Betrayed.

Yes! You must hate him.

Betrayed and dying.

Cracking and bleeding.

From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, our shield shall fail and great evil will shadow the world.

No!

We are broken.

Unweaving.

Dying.

A
lton awoke with the dawn—not that he’d slept much through the night. As usual. He ate a cold breakfast and readied himself for an inspection ride of the wall. Night Hawk was happy to bear him along no matter the hour, and so Alton rode from the sleepy encampment, following the clearing along the wall, urging Hawk into a canter once the gelding warmed up. He’d probably be back by the time Dale was up and eating breakfast. He ground his teeth, again resenting the fact he must rely on someone else to enter Tower of the Heavens because he couldn’t.

The miles flowed swiftly by and when he reached the portion of the wall where he’d first seen the eyes, he reined Hawk to a halt. The cracks had multiplied since then, fine lines spreading like spiderwebs. He saw no pattern in them this time, and with a sigh of relief he clucked Hawk along.

When he reached the breach and the main encampment, he did find something that disturbed him, and those on duty there, greatly. The wall, where it abutted the breach, was showing the most signs of deterioration, with cracks that left few ashlars unlined. Another sign of wear was efflorescence—moisture seeping through joints between ashlars and leaching lime from the mortar drop by drop while redepositing minerals on the facing wall, like the flowstone of a cave. Alton had seen the process at work beneath old stone bridges where drainage failed causing stalactites to form like fangs beneath the arches.

In and of itself, the efflorescence would have been disturbing enough, for the wall had been constructed to weather the elements for all time, but there were even more troubling signs. The erosion was occurring at an abnormal rate. A process that might ordinarily take years appeared to be taking just weeks. Even worse, instead of flowing white, or yellowish white, the efflorescence shone with red, as if the wall bled.

“Aye,” the watch sergeant told Alton, “we only began to notice the color yesterday. It has the guard unnerved. Making the sign of the crescent moon, every last one of ’em.”

Alton stood in his stirrups next to the wall and reached up, touching the moisture. When he withdrew his hand, a bead of crimson rolled down his finger. He sniffed it, and dabbed it with his tongue. Salty, faintly metallic. Like blood.

He shuddered and wiped his hand on a handkerchief. He would not tell the soldiers here what he thought—there was already enough fear and superstition around the wall—but the watch sergeant who stood at his stirrup had probably guessed.

“Tastes like stone,” Alton lied, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. “Different minerals in the mortar can affect the color.”

The sergeant nodded, relief plain on his face at this explanation.

Alton found more oozing on either side of the breach, and more cracks forming. The repair work in the breach itself stood solid and unaffected, the cut stone still looked fresh and new.

“If you notice further changes,” Alton told the watch sergeant, “
anything
that doesn’t look right, let me know at once.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

With that, Alton reined Night Hawk back east along the wall, looking at it more closely. He found some efflorescence he’d missed on his way to the breach. In a couple of spots, crimson dribbled down the granite facade in long runnels.

And this time, he saw images of faces formed by the cracks. More deranged, more tortured than those he’d seen before, with eyes scratched out and features twisted.

Sweat glided down Alton’s face. He passed his hand over his eyes and the images were gone. Just cracks remained. He wondered if the wall was going insane, or himself. If only he could enter the tower and merge with the wall; if only he could try to make things right.

He patted Night Hawk’s neck, taking comfort in the texture of a soft winter coat growing over solid muscle.

Alton’s cousin Pendric had sacrificed himself to the wall, claiming he would mend it, that he would be the one to accomplish it, but all he succeeded in doing was turning the guardians against Alton and spreading his madness.

Alton moved on and did not pause till he reached the spot he and Dale had visited. This time he thought he saw the cracks form a pair of giant eyes that peered at him. They were malignant and crazed and they followed him no matter where he moved. He imagined it was Pendric peering out at him, full of hatred.

Alton dug his heels into Night Hawk’s sides and left behind whatever it was he thought he saw as fast as he could.

D
ale paced in front of the tower, kicking a stone, while the encampment went about its business around her. Where was Alton? She knew he used his mornings to inspect the wall, but usually he was back well before now, dragging her out of bed and rushing her through breakfast to get her in the tower as soon as possible.

Maybe it was just a continuation of his avoidance of her. Ever since he’d woken her up from her wonderful dream and had nearly frozen himself to death sleeping by the wall, he’d been more distant, gloomier, and he no longer came to her to clarify his notes. She thought she had made progress with him, but apparently not as much as she’d hoped.

“Men,” she grumbled. “Crazy and moody.”

She was about to return to her tent to pass the time when Alton came riding up on Night Hawk from alongside the wall. His face was hard to read as he dismounted and led his horse over to her, but as he approached, she sensed something disturbed him deeply. He looked pale.

“Morning,” she said.

“Morning. Thinking about going to see your mages?”

My
mages? She thought about giving Alton a good, swift kick in the shin, but didn’t think it would improve their strained friendship.

He must have realized how it sounded for he said, “Sorry. It’s not been a good morning. When you go into the tower, would you ask the mages about why the wall is bleeding?”

She gaped. “The wall is bleeding?”

“And I saw the eyes again,” Alton said, and he told her of his inspection ride.

“That can’t be good,” Dale murmured. “Yes, I shall certainly see what Itharos and the others have to say about it.”

He nodded. That was it. No “be careful” as was once usual. Maybe it was just that he was preoccupied by what he’d seen this morning. She hoped so.

She plunged through the wall, and when she emerged into the tower chamber, the scene was typical, more or less. Itharos was standing between Boreemadhe and Cleodheris, moderating an argument. Dorleon sat at the table carving a fish lure while Fresk and Winthorpe were deep in discussion over mugs of ale. Dale frowned, thinking the hour too early for ale. Their voices, except Dorleon’s, echoed about the chamber.

“Ahem,” Dale said. When no one heard her, she said more loudly,
“Ahem.”

“Hello, Dale,” Itharos said, and the others stopped what they were doing to greet her.

“Now I know why,” she said, “they put you in separate towers. How did you ever get any work done at your lodge?”

They all started to speak at once and Dale held her hand up to stop them. “Never mind. Any sign of Merdigen?”

“No,” Itharos said, “he has not appeared. Fear not, he is a most able pathfinder and will soon return.”

“Yes, well, I’m not sure you understand the urgency of the situation.”

“Better than most, child,” Boreemadhe said, “but there’s not much we can do about it. We can only await the others and find out what Merdigen intended by calling us together.”

“I suppose that means more parties and games.” Dale loved a good party as much as anyone, but she knew time was running out, especially after what Alton reported this morning.

“Of course we must have a party when the others arrive,” Itharos said. “We have not seen them in ages.”

Dale folded her arms. “So, while the wall cracks and bleeds, you’re planning the next party.”

All six of the tower guardians gazed at her, stunned. “Say again,” Itharos requested.

“The wall,” Dale said, “cracks and bleeds.”

All the mages scrambled to their feet and hurried across the chamber and beneath the west arch. Their voices reverberated as they conversed among themselves. They reemerged, looking unhappy.

“We knew the cracks were progressing,” Winthorpe said, his hands tucked into opposite sleeves of his robe.

“The regions nearest the breach are weakening,” Itharos added, “to the point of death. Unstopped, the weakening will spread to each end of the wall.”

“I know,”
Dale said. She would have shaken them if only they were corporeal.

“The wall bleeds,” Itharos continued, “because those guardians are no more. They have succumbed.”

“Isn’t that why you’re here?” Dale demanded. “To keep that sort of thing from happening?”

The mages looked uneasily from one to another.

“Not precisely,” Itharos said. “Our function is to inform the wallkeepers of trouble, and they in turn are supposed to inform the Deyers. It was up to the Deyers to fix any problems, for it is the Deyers who have an affinity for stone in their blood; the ability to work with the guardians.

“You must understand that we’ve little influence over the wall guardians. We can communicate with them enough to know when all is well, or not. We can even negotiate with them on a limited basis, as Merdigen did to rescue you from being imprisoned in the wall, but that’s about it. Before our powers faded with the departure of our corporeal forms, we might have been able to do more, but all our magic is gone from us, except for giving us the power to be.”

She looked hard at each one of them. “Then what’s the point of your being here?”

Itharos shrugged. “We don’t know the entirety of Merdigen’s intent in drawing us together.”

“So you’re just going to wait,” she said. “Wait and have a party when and if Merdigen returns, and in the meantime the wall will continue to die. Because that’s what’s happening, right? The wall is dying.”

“It is unfortunate,” Boreemadhe said, “but we cannot prevent it from happening.”

“Unfortunate?” Dale was incredulous. “Is there anything you
can
do?” Her question was met with silence and the shuffling of feet.

“Believe us, child,” Boreemadhe said, “if there was something we could do to repair the wall ourselves, it would have been done as soon as we were awakened.”

Dale practically quivered with anger, comprehending something of Alton’s frustration. “Nothing you can do,” she spat. “Do any of you even remember what it was like to be flesh and blood? Living under the open sky and breathing the fresh air?”

“Well, it’s been a while—” Itharos began, but Dale silenced him with a curt gesture.

“You may not have seen each other in a very long time, but you also haven’t seen your homeland in even longer. Each of you spoke to me about your shock over the devastation of the land, the people, following the Long War. Famine, child warriors with missing limbs, disease, a people and country moved back centuries to a more primitive age.” It was odd, when she thought about it, that she should find herself lecturing thousand-year-old great mages. Or, rather,
projections
of thousand-year-old great mages.

“It took centuries,” she continued, “for the people to make recovery. You’d probably not recognize Sacoridia today as the same place you left. Commerce is stronger than it’s ever been, with ships sailing to far off ports in search of trade, the land producing for the people, whether it’s the timber that builds the ships or the crops carried in their holds. Sacoridia’s arts and culture also flourish. The school at Selium spreads it across the land, and there are museums, theater, and music. Some painters and poets are almost as famous as the king! Why, you wouldn’t believe the number of bookshops in Sacor City alone.”

That
caught their attention.

“Books,” Dorleon murmured.

“Books, bookshops, binders, printers—”

“
Printers?”
Winthorpe demanded. “What is this?”

They were in awe when she told them so many more books could be produced with a single printing press.

“You must bring us books,” Winthorpe said.

“Yes,” the others murmured. “Bring us books.”

Dale gazed at them in surprise. Their faces were hopeful, pleading, almost childlike with desire. Then she narrowed her eyebrows. She had them now.

“Sacoridia has arisen from the ruins through hardship and wars, and now it shines. You’d be proud of your people. But if we don’t solve the problem of the wall, there will be no more books. There will be nothing. Look, you’re all learned, scholarly people. It seems to me your ability to look at problems and solve them should not have been affected by the fading of your old powers. I’ve seen you working out those equations! And I assume you have no wish to see Sacoridia come to ruins after all your sacrifices. If you apply yourselves to the problem of the wall in this manner, who is to say you won’t find a solution to fixing it?”

“She’s right,” Fresk said, and the others nodded and murmured in agreement.

Dale decided to clinch her argument with an incentive. “If you get to work, I’ll see about finding you some books.”