“You will have Jayna and father to answer to when you get back,” Pendric said.
“Then we’ll tell Da you were kissing Lady Valia,” Teral said.
Pendric glowered, and a pretty pink blush colored Valia’s cheeks. “You will not.” He whirled his mount around to ride away.
“What?” Alton called out after him. “No greeting for your cousin?”
Pendric halted and turned in his saddle. “Hello.” The word came out cold and gruff.
Valia, in contrast, smiled warmly and bowed her head. “Hello, Lord Alton.”
Alton inclined his head in return. “My lady.”
This pleasant exchange set Pendric off. His pock-marked cheeks flared crimson. He grabbed the bridle of Valia’s mare and swerved her about, almost dislodging her from her saddle. He slapped his own mount with the crop and sped off at a canter. Teral and Marc made smooching noises after them. Alton smiled, doubting Pendric heard, and thinking it was probably a good thing.
“Your brother is in a hot temper,” he told Teral.
The boy shrugged. “Sometimes he’s like that.”
“Sometimes?”
Teral nodded. “Sometimes he’s not angry at all but fun. He helped us build a tree fort, and gave me a practice sword.”
Alton supposed it was possible. Maybe it was just that he brought out the worst in Pendric, though he couldn’t imagine why.
Eventually the forest gave way to a tent village. Alton let out a low whistle—things had changed considerably since his last visit, when there had been but a solitary company of Sacoridian soldiers to keep watch. Now there were precise rows of tan tents belonging to the ranks of D’Yerian provincial militia. Their standards, bright with unit and company insignia, rippled and snapped in the gusty wind.
King Zachary had withdrawn all but a small detachment of Sacoridian soldiers, and they were set off by standards of black and silver bearing the country’s emblem of the crescent moon and firebrand. They took up but a small space in the tent village.
The inevitable camp followers, in their own patched and colorful tents, made their place on the outskirts of the military perimeter. No doubt a goodly number of wives had followed with their children, to “do” for their husbands.
Where there were soldiers and camp followers, there was commerce. Peddlers had set up stalls, and hawked wares from atop well stocked wagons.
“Master Wiggins’ cure-all for gout, foot itch, and other more, ahem, personal ailments, gentlemen.” A group had assembled around one such peddler’s wagon and listened as he extolled the virtues of his “magic” elixir.
There were more than just soldiers, camp followers, and merchants, however. Rising above all other tents were those bearing the colors of D’Yer Province’s noble houses, and even a few from out-province. Disconcerted, Alton walked right into a rope supporting the tent of House Lyle. In front of the tent, a minstrel strummed his lute for some elegant ladies.
The aroma from a food vendor’s stall made Alton’s stomach rumble. The boys were digging in their pockets to assess whether or not they had enough currency between them for a meat pie.
What was going on here? What had once been a stark outpost in the wilderness had become a—a festival. What insanity had lured these folk to come within throwing distance of the wall?
Alton’s gaze was drawn above the tents. The great wall loomed over the gaiety, above the tallest trees, to the roof of the world, it seemed. Amid the noise and festival atmosphere, Alton stood there awed, as awed as the first time he had looked upon the magnificent working of his ancestors.
Suddenly he understood why all these people had come; they had come to see this wall of legend. The breach had brought it to the forefront of their minds. Impenetrable it stood there, this great ancient working, impenetrable to the mightiest of armies, impenetrable to all but the gods. And this was the great fallacy, for this wall had been breached. Breached by one Eletian.
He took a deep breath, trying to break the hold it had on him. It wasn’t easy—the thing was overpowering. The crystalline quartz of the granite ashlars sparkled in the sunlight, and he was beguiled by it. His hand lifted from his side as though to reach for it, even beyond the many yards separating him from its granite facade.
“Ow!” Teral cried. “Alton, he punched me.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
Alton tore his gaze from the wall and sighed, grateful for the respite. Uncle Landrew’s tent was not difficult to find. It was the largest one, and centrally located. The blue, red, and gold standard of D’Yer Province with Landrew’s sigil of an owl in the center field flapped above it.
Alton passed the boys a stern look and headed for Uncle Landrew’s tent. Once there, he handed the reins of the ponies to a servant, and helped Teral and Marc slide off Night Hawk. The two tore off into the tent village before their nanny, Jayna, could even open her mouth for a scolding. With a determined expression, she hoisted her skirts and rushed after them.
Alton chuckled, silently wishing her luck, and passed Night Hawk’s reins to another servant. “Make sure he gets the best grain. He’s had a long ride today.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Alton pulled aside the tent flap and entered. His uncle, seated in a campaign chair before a pile of drawings, rose to greet him.
“Be welcome, nephew,” he said.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Landrew clasped Alton’s hand. Like his own, his uncle’s hands were large and callused, the wrists thick from working stone. From a young age the D’Yers were trained to wield hammer and drill. Marc and Teral had begun training about the same time they learned to walk. Building blocks, not of wood, but of stone were their first toys.
They were stoneworkers without compare, Clan D’Yer, the builders of Sacoridia. Among their great works were the academic buildings in Selium and the castle of the high king in Sacor City.
Landrew sent servants scurrying after food and refreshment, and uncle and nephew sat in chairs opposite one another.
“Do you bear me a message from the king,” Landrew asked, “or have you come to provide help to your clan?”
“A little of both. King Zachary wishes me to look over the wall with the eyes of one of his messengers, and to encourage you in your work. I am also to provide help as needed.”
Landrew nodded, appraising him, perhaps wondering if he were more a king’s man than the clan’s man. To Alton, the roles were one and the same.
“Seeing you in that green uniform, it is difficult to know, sometimes, who you serve.”
“I serve Sacoridia and her people,” Alton said evenly, “whether I wear the uniform of a king’s messenger, or stand as the heir of Clan D’Yer.” There, let that little reminder of his status quiet his uncle who would, one day, take an oath of loyalty to Alton when he became the Lord D’Yer and clan chief.
The words seemed to have worked, and Landrew relaxed. The two men exchanged pleasantries about Alton’s journey and the weather as servants brought in cool barley water and sweet bread, cold meats, and pickled fiddleheads.
Alton eyed the papers on the table before him. They appeared to be structural drawings of the wall, and maps depicting its length, though showing only the Sacoridian side. Blackveil was a vast, blank space. There was also a broader scale map showing the locations and names of the wall’s watch towers.
Tower of the Summits, Tower of the Rain, Tower of the Trees, Tower of the Sea . . .
There were only ten towers to cover the extent of the wall, which stretched from Ullem Bay in the west to the Eastern Sea, and each was named as though to invoke the powers and strengths of the elements and nature. The Tower of the Heavens was closest to the encampment, within a day’s ride. Haethen Toundrel, it would have been called in the old Sacoridian tongue.
Alton sipped at his barley water and said, “I see you’ve been studying plans.”
“Recent drawings, I’m afraid. I’ve archivists going into the mustiest, dark
est corners of records rooms throughout the province to see if they can find a mere mention of the wall. So far, nothing useful has turned up. I wouldn’t put it past our ancestors to have burned their records, blast them. If they intended to keep secrets, they’ve done it well.”
It was rather odd, Alton thought, that the clan wouldn’t have preserved such records, but then again, if they feared some enemy, they certainly would not have wanted the records to fall into the hands of one who might desire to unmake the wall. Unfortunately, it also meant their descendants had no idea of how to maintain the wall’s magical aspects.
“I suppose you’ve heard it isn’t going well with the repair work?” Landrew said.
“Yes.”
“Want to take a look?”
“Yes, Uncle.” Alton grabbed a hunk of sweet bread and followed his uncle out of the tent. Once again he was struck by the festive activity about the encampment that seemed so incongruous with the wall and all it represented. He noted beneath a pavilion his Aunt Milda chatting with some other ladies intent on fancy work.
“This way, my boy.” Landrew put a hand on his shoulder and steered him away. “If Milda sees you, it will be hours before we can get to the business at hand.”
It was the first glint of humor Alton had seen in his uncle’s eyes, and he smiled. “What is it with—with all these people here? I came expecting to find only soldiers and some of your laborers.”
Landrew sighed as they passed a billowing tent. “I couldn’t stop them from coming. All of a sudden there’s all this interest in the wall, as if it hasn’t been around for a thousand years or so.” He rolled his eyes. “I can’t deny them if they want to see a piece of their heritage. It is a fantastic thing, after all, this wall.”
Alton was thankful to find the soldiers had established a substantial perimeter line in front of the wall beyond which no one could pitch a tent. Of course, there was nothing stopping them from doing just that if they wanted to ride down the wall just a couple miles or so away from the encampment.
“You’ve been doing some clearing,” Alton commented. Vegetation had been burned back in both directions along the wall.
“I am certain it was done so historically,” Landrew said. “And there’s been a bit of blight.”
“Blight?”
“Yes. It was affecting the trees near the breach. Turning the leaves black, then the branches and trunks, so we’ve been burning to keep it from spreading. Just as soon as this wind dies down, we’ll resume burning tonight.”
Blight does not bode well, Alton thought, especially if it originates from across the breach in Blackveil.
The magnetism of the wall drew hard on him now. His gaze roved up its lofty heights. Some said it reached the heavens where the gods dwelled. Some said it touched the clouds as a mountain summit would.
It was illusion, and it wasn’t. The actual stone wall reached about ten feet high, serving as the foundation for the magic, which surged above and beyond, seamlessly mimicking the texture, appearance, and durability of the real thing. It could repel whatever lurked in Blackveil as assuredly as the stone wall.
As the sun traveled on its course, shadow crept across the face of the wall and into the perimeter held by the soldiers.
A soldier uniformed in Sacoridian silver and black, with sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves, approached. He was heavily armed with long sword, dagger, and a cocked crossbow, a quiver of bolts swinging at his hip.
He passed a dismissive glance over Alton, but bowed to Landrew. “How may I serve you, my lord?”
“My nephew here would like a closer look at the wall, Sergeant Uxton. He will have the same authority as I do to approach it.”
The sergeant’s gaze flicked back to Alton, reassessing. “I had heard there was a nobleman among the Greenies.”
“Green Riders,” Alton corrected, bridling his annoyance.
“Of course, my lord. Many pardons. We of the Mountain Unit so rarely step near court, that we are lacking of its graces.”
Another dig. Alton could not make out whether the sergeant chose to be impudent on purpose, or was simply naturally abrasive. Whatever the case, Uncle Landrew was either used to it, or chose not to notice.
“I will escort you to the wall if you wish,” the sergeant announced.
“I don’t need—”
Landrew raised his hand to quell Alton’s protests. “Things have changed since you were last here. We’ve procedures to follow. It’s just a precautionary measure that we’re accompanied by an armed guard when we approach the wall.”
Alton was not pleased. He’d be unable to move about the wall without eyes constantly following him, but it appeared he had little choice.
“If you will follow me.” Uxton turned to lead them into the wall’s shadow.
ALTON AT THE BREACH
The cold of the wall’s shadow penetrated Alton’s shortcoat, causing an unexpected shiver to course through his body. He stood before the breach, and instantly the presence of his uncle and Sergeant Uxton were shunted to the back of his mind. There was nothing else but him and the wall.
The breach was as wide as his arms outstretched. It had been filled in with granite cut from ancient quarries once used in the making of the original wall they had uncovered nearby. The stonecutters, Alton among them, had sized blocks of granite to match exactly those of the wall. Craft-masters examined the original mortar and came up with their best binding material ever, and the repairwork was put in place, painstakingly and precisely matched with the original wall and its materials.
It was some of Clan D’Yer’s best work in a hundred years, maybe more; painstakingly crafted to the minutest detail. Yet it was not enough. One essential ingredient was missing: magic.
The illusory magic of the wall did not extend above the repairwork of the breach. As though a slice of stonework had been cut right out of the wall, Alton saw only sky.
Then the wind picked up again and sulfurous mist from Blackveil roiled and drifted over the repairwork. Alton remembered the mist well. As he had worked to repair the wall, it had clung to him, to his skin and clothes. He’d felt soiled by it, and though he washed vigorously every night, he was never quite able to cleanse himself of it.
He remembered glancing into Blackveil, as if to catch someone or something watching him, but observed nothing—just the shifting mist animating the black branches of trees into snakes or tentacles.
There were creatures that lived in Blackveil, one of the reasons the wall was so important a bulwark, and Alton fancied it was these twisted monstrosities that had watched him and the other laborers. And if they could not see the creatures, they were certainly able to hear their hoots and screams.
Then there was the night a big laborer named Egan slipped away from the campfire to relieve himself. He was never seen alive again. The only trace they found of him the next morning was blood staining some of the stonework he’d helped place in the breach the day before. No one dared venture into the forest to search for more evidence of Egan’s demise. From then on, the night watch was augmented by additional troops sent by Landrew.
Alton frowned as he drew his gaze along the repairwork. The granite ashlars he helped cut, shape, and set a couple years ago looked duller, older, than the rock around them, which had been cut and set a thousand years ago. The old rockwork retained its pink hue as though freshly cut. Black lichen splotched the repairwork, but none marred the original wall—not even a fleck of lichen, as though it were impervious to the weathering of nature and time.
It was very strange, he thought, how the same granite, drawn from the same quarry, could look so different.
Yet the wall was not impervious to all damage. Cracks radiated outward from the breach. Alton trailed his fingers across the rough texture of the wall, tracing one of the spidery cracks. He walked for several yards, following it. From one crack was born dozens of others, and no amount of re-pointing fixed the problem. The mortar merely cracked, too.
His frown de
epened as he saw the extent of the damage. It had nearly doubled since his last visit.
How were they ever going to fix it?
“What do you think, nephew?” Landrew asked.
Alton had forgotten about the presence of his uncle and Sergeant Uxton. To his dismay, he saw that Pendric had joined them.
Rubbing his chin, he said, “Doesn’t look good.”
Pendric snorted. “We knew that. I told you, father, that he’d be of no help.”
“Perhaps if I had some time and less of an audience,” Alton said, glowering at his cousin.
“Of course,” Landrew said. “There will be time enough for you to examine the wall in detail during the days to come. We will leave you for now, though Sergeant Uxton must remain. Don’t linger too long, however, for your aunt will wish to see you.”
Alton waited until his uncle and cousin were well away before he turned to the sergeant. “Would you move off some paces, please, so I can think in peace?”
“A few paces, my lord, aye.”
Alton wasn’t sure why he was so self-conscious about having anyone witness him work. Maybe it was just more difficult to think and act when someone’s eyes were trained on him. Or maybe, because the Riders were so careful to conceal their special abilities, he did not want to expose himself before others should any magic come into play.
Somehow, he sensed the exposure of magic wasn’t going to be a problem just now. Despite the pull he had felt for so long, the wall remained as immutable as, well, stone, as though to mock him. No voices called to him, and the pull was inexplicably absent.
He laid his palms flat against the cold stone, his nose but inches from the wall. What did he expect? The wall to whisper its eternal secrets to him?
Nothing.
First Rider's Call Page 13
