First Rider's Call

by Kristen Britain

  Zachary stood, hands clenched.

  “They marched us.” The man’s voice had ground into a painful whisper. “They marched us hard to the border. Those too weak or sickly were killed outright so as not to slow the march. At night we were bunched together so there was hardly room to lay down. We were not given much food or water, just enough to keep us marching. Whatever girls or women Nester hadn’t chosen, the soldiers made use of. My wife . . .” He pointed at the king. “You brought this upon us! They were your soldiers, your words!”

  He sprang up the dais steps to attack Zachary, but in a blur of motion, two Weapons were on him and dragged him away. They pinned his arms behind him, his chest heaving. He spat at Zachary’s feet.

  How could this be? Laren wondered. Her ability had indicated D’Ivary spoke truth when he promised the refugees would come to no harm.

  False, her ability said, without her request.

  What?

  Her attention was then drawn to Zachary slowly descending the dais to stand before Atkins. His expression had turned from fury to sadness.

  “Those were not my soldiers,” he said softly, “nor did I issue a proclamation to have your people marched to the border. Regardless, I am very, very sorry.”

  Atkins was unconvinced. “Apologies won’t bring back the dead, will they? Apologies won’t bring back my daughter.”

  “Ellen,” the king said, suddenly addressing one of the Weapons, “will you see to it that Master Atkins is made comfortable in one of the guest suites? Ask the steward to accommodate his wishes, and perhaps have a mender look in on him.”

  “I don’t want your hospitality,” Atkins growled.

  Zachary simply said, “We will talk more later.”

  With that, the two Weapons escorted him from the throne room.

  “It’s true what he says,” Lynx said in his harsh voice. “I’ve seen those soldiers, but I figured they were mercs dressed to look like ours. I tried to convince Durgan of it, but he wouldn’t hear me. I’ve seen the trail of bodies left behind from the march, and talked to other borderers, so I guess I can’t blame Durgan for his anger. He was the only one willing to come, and I think it’s because he wanted to see the face of the king that brought so much misery upon his people.”

  Disbelief warred with anger in Zachary’s face. He tore off his royal mantle of heather, tossed it on the throne chair, and started pacing. “I had thought D’Ivary understood my wishes in this matter.”

  He hadn’t directed the comment at Laren, but she felt the thrust of it into her gut.

  “I will need to speak with you further, Rider,” Zachary said, “but go eat and rest. When Atkins is ready to talk again, we shall resume.”

  Clearly dismissed, Lynx hesitated.

  “Is there something else, Rider?”

  “Yes, sire. Not having to do with the refugees, but I thought I should mention it. The forest, it’s restless. The wild creatures—well, they’re spooked. They know of some darkness passing through the woods, but are vague on exactly what it is.”

  Zachary sighed. Lynx’s ability was to communicate with animals—not so much as speak with them directly, but to feel the currents of mood and emotion, and understand their meaning.

  Lynx departed and Zachary said, “First a stone deer, and now spooked wildlife.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid that’ll have to wait. Our refugee situation is more urgent.” He called a runner of the Green Foot to him. “Find General Harborough and tell him to attend me immediately.”

  “What are you going to do?” Colin asked.

  “What needs to be done.” He didn’t pause before turning to Laren. “Captain, do you care to explain to me why you felt D’Ivary could be trusted?”

  She grasped her brooch. False, her ability offered. Why was it doing this?

  “I—”

  True.

  “Were you using your ability that day, or not?”

  “Of course. I knew how important the truth was.”

  False.

  Laren’s fingers quavered at her neck scar. “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Well, I do.” Zachary pivoted away from her and resumed his pacing. Then he halted and turned back to her. “Lord D’Ivary lied to us that day. He hired mercenaries to harass and hurt refugees, but he had them impersonate our Sacoridian troops. Not only has D’Ivary given those border people more reason to hate me, but they were beaten and raped. A nine-year-old, Captain. A nine-year-old taken by Lord Nester. How could you have read D’Ivary as honest?”

  Laren backed away, hurt and astonished, and fighting for control, unable to explain herself. The reading she had taken of D’Ivary couldn’t have been more clear.

  True.

  She slammed her barriers down around the inner voice of her ability, but her control eluded her; slipped out of her hands like a wriggly fish.

  Zachary walked away from her to speak with Sperren and Colin Dovekey, his body posture stiff as though he tried to contain intense rage.

  Laren closed her eyes. She would never forget how he looked at her, and his words: A nine-year-old, Captain. How could you have read D’Ivary as honest?

  It was her fault, the rapes, the beatings, the deaths. All of it on her shoulders.

  True.

  INNER VOICES

  Alton surveyed the empty field that had once been a thriving, busy encampment. There were no longer colorful striped tents pitched here, no wandering minstrels plucking a tune, no merchants shouting out the virtues of their wares. Nor were there fine ladies gossiping beneath pavilions with servants scurrying about with refreshments.

  The field was barren of life. Only the refuse that littered the ground, and the beaten paths made by feet and hooves, indicated there had once been tremendous activity here.

  Beyond the field, precise rows of military tents remained, and among them, Landrew D’Yer’s. He had shifted his base of operations as far from the wall as possible.

  After the avian’s attack on Lady Valia, all the nobles and common folk had hastily packed up and left—some that very day. Much to Alton’s relief, his little brother and cousin had been immediately sent home, too.

  The avian’s attack had been a swift and brutal reminder of why it was dangerous to take the D’Yer Wall and Black-veil Forest lightly. This was no place for a summer holiday. It would be a long time before those who witnessed the attack would forget the image of that huge winged monster digging its talons into Valia’s back. It would be even longer before they got over the sound of her screams, which through the night had weakened until they faded to nothing.

  Valia’s parents had brought a vibrant young woman to the wall for a summer holiday, and they had left with a corpse.

  Alton sighed, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He let the sun beat down on his shoulders as if it could burn away the darkness of his thoughts. But he would never forget Valia’s screams. They were etched into his soul.

  Nothing had ventured over the wall since, but Alton couldn’t help but think it was only a matter of time. He sensed something about Blackveil, an alertness or some kind of intelligence.

  He shook his head. He couldn’t explain it. Nor was he able to explain why he couldn’t call upon the magic of the wall. It had responded to him only that once—if in fact it hadn’t been his imagination. Why should he expect it to awaken again?

  Because it has to, he thought. Because if it doesn’t, we may never learn the secret of repairing the wall, and more monsters will come from Blackveil to terrorize Sacoridia.

  If the wall completely failed, there would not be enough soldiers in the world to hold Blackveil back.

  He could only keep trying, even if it meant he kept failing.

  With new resolve, he turned toward the wall, but found Pendric standing in his path. Pendric had not spoken to him since the attack on Valia. In fact, he had hardly spoken to anyone. He ate little, and looked unkempt as if he had given up combing his hair and bathing. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes from to
o little sleep. Alton had begun to pity him.

  “What is it, cousin?” Alton asked.

  Pendric looked about for a moment as though confused, then a familiar contempt crept into his eyes.

  “It’s all your fault.”

  “What are you talking about? What’s my fault?”

  “Look at me.” Pendric jammed his thumb into his chest. “Look at me. I have nothing—it’s always you that has gotten everything.”

  Alton drew his eyebrows together, a little warning going off in his head. He knew he should just walk away, but maybe if Pendric unleashed whatever it was that gnawed at him, he’d feel better and stop being so nasty-tempered.

  “What do you mean?” Alton asked quietly.

  Pendric shook from whatever emotion had seized him.

  “You are heir to the province, I’m not. You don’t deserve it—you’re never home to take care of the clan or our people. I am. I’m always there—I’m the one always there doing all the work, the things you should be doing. And what will my reward be? Scraping the ground before Lord-Governor Alton D’Yer.”

  So this was the basis of the matter. Pendric was jealous.

  “I’d be home,” Alton said, “but I’ve been called to the king’s service.”

  Pendric clenched his hands into fists. “You could leave.”

  “No, I couldn’t.” There was no use in trying to explain the Rider call with his cousin in such a state.

  Pendric laughed harshly. “No, you couldn’t. You like being close to the king, don’t you? You can win his favor. And you like being near Lady Estora, don’t you?”

  Alton shifted his stance. There was a wildness in his cousin’s eyes he had not seen before. “Is there a point to this, Pendric?”

  “You turned Lady Estora away from me. You told her, ‘Don’t marry Pendric, he’s ugly, and he has nothing to show for himself.’ Isn’t that right?”

  “No. That’s an outright lie.”

  But Pendric ignored him. “All Valia could say was how handsome Lord Alton is, how kind Lord Alton is. You even turned her against me.”

  “Look, I—”

  “Handsome Lord Alton, the heir, the honored son. He gets everything. He’s the one who will save us from Blackveil. He’s the one the king looks to, the one Lady Estora listens to.” Saliva foamed at the edge of his mouth. “The only thing I ever got that you didn’t was the fever.” He dragged his fingers across his pock-marked cheeks. “Even my own mother can’t stand the sight of me.”

  Alton had had no idea of the depth of Pendric’s anger and self-loathing. For whatever reason, he had twisted the truth to feed his pain. He wasn’t thinking rationally, and nothing Alton could say or do would sway him to the truth.

  “You bastard,” Pendric whispered. “You killed the one thing I loved.”

  Alton’s mouth dropped open.

  “It wasn’t enough to turn her against me, was it. Your magic, your evil magic lured that monster over the wall and you let it kill her.”

  Before Alton could overcome his shock at this accusation, Pendric landed his fist across his jaw. One moment Alton had been standing, the next he was on his back staring at the sky, wondering if his jaw was still attached to his face.

  Pendric dove on him, pummeling him with his fists. Alton protected his face with his forearms, but was clouted in the ear. Pendric was as strong as any stoneworker.

  Slam! A fist against his temple.

  A knee in his gut.

  Alton hazed out with pain, pretty sure he’d lose his dinner.

  He rocked back and forth trying to dislodge Pendric, kicking, and blindly struck out. Once he thought he clipped Pendric’s chin, another time he thought he hit his nose.

  And then suddenly Pendric was off him. Some soldiers restrained Pendric, and there was shouting and running feet. Sergeant Uxton gazed down at him.

  “You all right?”

  Alton felt his jaw. It was intact, but he tasted blood. He probed his teeth with his tongue, but none were missing and he concluded he had bitten the inside of his mouth. He rolled to his side and spat blood, then took Sergeant Uxton’s proffered hand and rose carefully to his feet. Despite the violence of Pendric’s attack, it looked like Alton would escape with only some sore muscles and bruises.

  Two soldiers restrained Pendric who gritted his teeth and issued a growl. Blood flowed from his nose. Landrew had come to see what the ruckus was about, and slipped his gaze from Alton to Pendric.

  “Who started this?” he demanded.

  “I did,” Pendric said, “to purge ourselves of his evil.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Landrew glanced at Alton, who could only shrug.

  “His magic brought that monster upon us,” Pendric continued, “the monster that killed Valia.”

  “Son,” Landrew said, his voice gruff, “you dishonor me and our clan with such hateful talk. I know you’re grieving, but you’ve no call to make such accusations. Alton is your cousin, your blood.”

  Despite Landrew’s words, Alton sensed doubt and suspicion emanating from the soldiers that surrounded them. The special abilities of Riders were not widely known, but the soldiers were aware of why Alton was here. Considering the distrust most Sacoridians held toward magic, Pendric was not helping the situation.

  People cannot trust what they do not understand, Captain Mapstone had once told him. When he replied that no one would ever learn to understand magic when it was concealed, she told him that the tide was too strongly against magic, and it was too soon to expose their abilities. Too dangerous. Maybe, she said, one day magic would be accepted in everyone’s hearts as part of the world’s fabric of life.

  Now Alton stood face to face with that distrust and fear. Except for Sergeant Uxton who looked unruffled by Pendric’s accusations.

  “My ability with magic is negligible,” Alton said. “There is no way I could have called that creature.”

  “Evil calls to evil,” Pendric said.

  Landrew slapped him. “You forget, son, what our clan is founded on. You forget what your bloodline represents. Our craft is in stone, yes, but it was also based in the arcane. Now get out of my sight.”

  Pendric’s gaze speared Alton with hatred. He shook loose of the soldiers and stomped off toward the woods without looking back.

  “I have never known what to do with that lad,” Landrew said, watching after him. “I could never please him, and he could never please himself.” He walked away shaking his head.

  That left Alton, Sergeant Uxton, and some uneasy soldiers staring awkwardly at one another. The latter returned to their posts. Sergeant Uxton remained, gazing at Alton as if waiting for something.

  Alton sighed. “I’m going to the wall.”

  Sergeant Uxton grunted as if this was what he expected.

  At the wall, Alton placed his palms against the stonework as he customarily did. This time, however, he let himself feel the stone—really feel it; the cool, individual grains that made up the wall’s rough facade. He visualized the crystalline quartz, the feldspar that lent the rock its pink hue, and the black flecks of hornblende. And as he did so, he began to hear the voices within the wall, threads of song in harmony—and discord.

  Beneath his hands, silver writing swirled, shimmering for a bright moment, then fading, and the song with it.

  Alton tried to hold onto it, but it was of no use. His connection with the wall was gone, and would not come back.

  “Damn it to all the hells.” He kicked the wall, which did nothing but hurt his toes.

  “Something wrong, my lord?” the sergeant asked beside him.

  Alton faced him. “Are you going to tell me you didn’t see it this time?”

  “See what, my lord? You kicking the wall? Aye, I saw that.”

  “Forget it,” Alton grumbled, and he strode away.

  Pendric trudged through the woods, pushing branches out of his way. He didn’t care about the blood smeared across his face, or the welt swelling around his eye. No, those t
hings did not concern him one bit.

  Away from the encampment and the wall, he finally found a boulder upon which to sit. A beam of sunshine broke through the canopy of the woods and fell softly upon him, warming him. Alton had won again, as he always won. He had won the approval of Pendric’s own father. His father was blind—he had to be! Maybe Alton had cast some evil spell on him; infected him.

  Just as I’ve been infected.

  Pendric shivered. Ever since Alton had arrived, voices swarmed in his mind like a mass of silvery eels. There were so many and they slithered so easily in his head; he could not understand the words, but they intensified every time he neared the breach in the wall.

  Inexorably they pulled on him, hooking tentacles into his soul. He resisted. He would not let himself succumb to evil magic.

  He whimpered in exhaustion and put his head in his hands. He just wanted to go home and get away from this place, but his father wouldn’t let him. Landrew insisted he stay because of his duty to his clan.

  Pendric did not know how much more of this he could take, how long before he was finally overcome by the taint of Alton’s evil magic.

  Deep in the heart of the dark tangled forest, the sentience slept. The guardians of the wall continued their ancient vigil, weaving songs of tranquility and peace. The discord continued to undermine the harmony, but they still retained enough power to lull the sentience into its deep slumber.

  The guardians, however, had no control over its dreams.

  Dreams of a land called Arcosìa, a land of many lands, many oceans away. A land of soaring architecture and culture. A land of diverse peoples all united into one. A land of powerful magic.

  As the dream meandered on, the beauty, people, and especially the magic, faded into a gray, dismal landscape, with only crumbling towers and solitary columns amid bleak windswept grasses to mark the existence of a once-vast civilization, now extinct.

  The sentience, still enwrapped in the dream, called out in sorrow. The forest trembled. Trees toppled over, beasts screamed, and rain poured down from the clouds that covered all of Blackveil.