Blackveil

by Kristen Britain

  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 insufferable 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 b
ack 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.

  “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

  As 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.