“That . . . That actually happened. I remember that incident just the way you’ve described it. You speak truth.”
Karigan was rattled by the captain’s intensity.
“I’ve not called him a ‘moonling’ in years,” the captain murmured.
Karigan thought there was more underlying the captain’s reaction—unhappiness, distress.
Her gift is failing.
Karigan jerked her gaze about wondering who had spoken the words, but no one else was nearby.
She decided it must have been her own thought, but she wondered about the word “gift.” Did it refer to the captain’s special ability? If so, it was not a word she, or anyone she knew of, used to describe a magical ability.
Karigan shrugged and continued her tale. She described seeing the bier of King Agates Sealender and listening in on the conversation between the castellan and the priest. As she spoke, she felt strongly that someone else watched and listened, but none of the soldiers were near enough to hear a word, and none looked their way. Then she sensed a presence just beyond Captain Mapstone, and in a blink, it was gone.
“Something wrong?” the captain asked.
Karigan hadn’t realized she’d let her story trail off. She shook her head. “N-no. I—I don’t know.”
Captain Mapstone raised an eyebrow.
Karigan began to wonder if one of Dakrias Brown’s ghosts had followed her from the records room, but she shuddered it away, and began telling the captain the rest of her incredible story. The ending became a bit jumbled, as Karigan had been unable to distinguish past from present, or present from future at the time.
When she finished, Captain Mapstone turned toward the vista, folding her hands atop the crenel. She was silent for many moments.
Finally she spoke. “I’m not sure what to make of your tale, but every part of it rings true.” Here she hesitated, and Karigan thought she was about to reveal something, but instead she simply continued. “It’s extraordinary, Karigan, to see what you’ve seen, to see our history—the First Rider even.” And here she smiled. “I’d have loved to be in your boots.”
Karigan rocked back on her heels, stunned. She hadn’t looked upon the traveling as a privilege, but as an extremely strange and frightening experience.
“Tell me again,” the captain said, “what did she look like? How did she act?”
Karigan thought hard, trying to recall all the details she could, amazed by the expression of delight on the captain’s face.
After she finished, there was another long silence. The captain grew distant as she continued to gaze out to the horizon. She rubbed her chin with her forefinger.
“I cannot even begin to guess what brought this experience upon you. It has a tang of the Wild Ride.”
The Wild Ride had allowed Karigan to travel a great distance in a very short time. “There were no ghosts this time, and I didn’t really cover a distance.”
“Not a physical distance,” the captain said.
“The feeling was different. With the Wild Ride, I felt carried away by the ghosts. This time I felt pulled by . . . I don’t know.”
Captain Mapstone shrugged. “I guess we’ll never truly understand any of it, but you seem to have an extra dimension to your ability, of being able to slip between the layers of the world.”
Karigan didn’t know what to say. Whatever caused the traveling, it wasn’t something she had control over.
“Report to me,” the captain said, “if anything remotely like this ever happens again.” Then she grinned. “Perhaps you’ll be able to fill in the missing gaps of our history. I don’t ever recall hearing of Mornhavon’s friend—”
“Hadriax,” Karigan filled in. “Hadriax el Fex.”
“Yes.” The grin vanished. “I’m going to tell you that yours is not the only strange story I’ve heard recently. You may have heard some of the rumors.”
“About D’Ivary Province?”
The captain frowned. “No, that’s not what I was alluding to, though it is a matter consuming much of the king’s attention these days.”
Karigan thought she detected some deep sadness within the captain.
“No, I meant tales brought to us from folk in the countryside. One such was of an entire forest grove turned to stone in Wayman.”
Yes, Karigan had heard rumors of this, but when the captain told her of the game warden’s report, she found the rumors hadn’t been too far off the mark.
“There is also talk of something haunting the western fringes of the Green Cloak,” the captain continued, “a dark presence that freezes the souls of men and frightens the forest creatures into silence.”
Karigan shuddered involuntarily. “The wraith from the clearing?” She had avoided thinking about it, hoping the nightmare creature would simply evaporate into the ether.
“Who’s to say? I just want you to be aware that there are unexplained things going on, and to be watchful. I’ve already discussed this with Mara. With the king’s attention focused on D’Ivary, someone has to be paying attention to these oddities. Most people just see them as superstition, or isolated occurrences. I don’t.”
“I don’t think I do either,” Karigan said.
The captain put her hand on her shoulder and sighed, as if relieved by her support. “Maybe it only makes sense to those of us who use magic.”
Without another word, the captain strode away toward the door that led back into the castle. Karigan hesitated before following, taking in one more grand view of the countryside, wondering what force was at work out there.
Journal of Hadriax el Fex
It is long since I last wrote in this journal. The taking of Argenthyne was over a year ago. Many died in this campaign, even among our mages. Alessandros’ device, the Black Star, and our concussives overpowered the Elt.
Renald has grown into a fine young man, and saved several soldiers, including me, in the latest action, with much risk to himself. Alessandros awarded him a medal of valor, and I found a tear of pride in my eye for my young man. He has become like a son to me. There is talk he’ll be inducted into the elite Lion regiment. It would be a tremendous honor.
Meanwhile, Alessandros occupies himself with many things these days, such as examining his captives. He has taken a scientific interest in them, he says. Many escaped during the battle, including the queen, we presume, but there are enough left for Alessandros to do with as he wishes. He has left it to General Spurloche and the clan chieftain Varadgrim to begin the assault on the clan territories to bring them to heel once and for all. Alessanadros helps where he wishes. He drained the mirror lake the clans had so revered, and I find myself regretting its demise, for it was beautiful.
Our latest shipment of troops and supplies from the Empire is several months late. Perhaps they have run into foul weather.
FALLING OFF THE SIDE OF THE WORLD
Alton swiped his hand through his lank hair and paced back and forth alongside the wall like an angry catamount. Why wouldn’t the wall respond to him? Every time he tried to make contact, the magic was just out of reach, slipping through his fingers like a handful of water. For days now, he had spent most of his time at the wall, even the evening hours, trying to reach the voices that sang within rock, but he couldn’t hear them.
Instead, the wall towered above him in stolid quiescence. He sensed a tension about it. He snorted, thinking it had be his own tension at not making any progress. Then there was a restlessness that rolled over the breach from Blackveil. An intelligence that chilled him from the inside out.
He paused, gazing at the breach and the heavy gray mist hanging over the repairwork. The wall, he supposed, could not communicate with him because it was focused on other things. Maybe the wall and Blackveil were having a stand-off.
But wasn’t that what had been going on for centuries now? The wall had been built, after all, to hold back Blackveil, to prevent its spread into Sacoridia.
Something’s different, he thought. Blackveil is mor
e . . . active.
His reverie was broken by his uncle calling to him. He turned to see his uncle wave and stride toward him with a servant bearing a picnic basket a step behind.
“It’s well past supper, my boy,” Landrew said, “and you missed the midday meal.”
Alton scratched his head. He had? Trying to remember, he found only that one day merged into the next. He was hungry, now that he thought about it, and the sun was steadily descending to the west. The servant spread a blanket on the ground and started setting out biscuits, cold chicken, slices of watermelon, and a bottle of his uncle’s wine, a Rhovan white.
“Sit and eat,” his uncle ordered. “I won’t have you collapsing from overwork.”
Alton obeyed, noting with some amusement from the corner of his eye, how Sergeant Uxton licked his lips when the servant withdrew a slab of blueberry pie. Alton smiled—he did not intend to share.
His uncle sat on the blanket joining him for a cup of wine.
“No luck today, eh?”
Alton shook his head, not missing his uncle’s flicker of disappointment. They remained silent as Alton polished off two plate-loads of chicken and biscuits, then dug into the pie. He almost laughed when Sergeant Uxton’s hopeful expression wilted.
Landrew swallowed the last of his wine and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I suppose there is always tomorrow.”
“I plan to work more this evening. I am close to a breakthrough, I know I am.” Alton had said it with confidence he did not feel.
“You just take care of yourself,” Landrew said. “I’ve got one boy who won’t come near the wall, and one who won’t leave it.” He rolled his eyes.
The one blessing for Alton was that he’d hardly seen his cousin Pendric since their fight. Word was he went riding every morning to keep his distance from the encampment until sunset. From Alton’s glimpses of him, Pendric was unkempt, his hair a mess, his face unshaven, and his clothes unclean.
Sort of like me. Alton scraped at the bristles on his chin.
Landrew stood up and patted Alton on his shoulder. “We may not have answers yet, but we will soon. Your diligence is making me proud.”
Landrew lumbered off, and Alton stood, staring at the breach. He hoped he’d live up to his uncle’s praise, but now he was assailed with doubt more than ever. Even if he was able to communicate with the wall, it didn’t mean he’d be able to fix it.
The light breeze shifted, pushing the billowing mist back into Blackveil. Maybe Alton needed to look at the wall in an entirely different way. There was something he hadn’t done yet . . .
A ladder the soldiers used to make periodic observations of the forest lay nearby, leaning against a boulder. It was not the most sought after duty, especially after the avian creature’s attack, but Sergeant Uxton always managed to talk someone into “volunteering,” and had made several observations himself.
Alton retrieved the ladder and hauled it over to the wall, Sergeant Uxton eyeing him with interest.
“Decided you’re going to make an observation?” he asked.
“Yes. I just want to look at things differently. Maybe it will inspire something.” Alton leaned the ladder against the repairwork of the breach.
“You aren’t going up there without me,” the sergeant said.
“I didn’t figure,” Alton muttered. Actually, the sergeant hadn’t turned out to be so bad after all, despite first impressions, even keeping a respectful distance while Alton mulled over the wall.
He climbed the ladder without hesitation, eager now to see if it would jog any ideas. He stepped off the ladder onto the top of the repairwork itself. The stone slabs they had used to fill in the breach were as wide as the wall, and comfortable enough to stand on.
On either end of the breach rose the magical barrier that mimicked the look, strength, and texture of the stone portion of the wall. Alton touched it, but even knowing the difference, he could not discern it.
He moved aside for Sergeant Uxton to join him. The sergeant held his crossbow level, a bolt locked into place.
Alton peered into the misty world of Blackveil, but he could not see far. Snaking black tree limbs wove together in a dense net, stringy lichen hanging from them. Some beast cackled in the distance. Growth, such as it was, did not approach the wall. The ground was sterile for a few yards between the wall and the forest, except at the breach. Moss crept up the base of the repairwork, and flakes of brown lichen gave the ashlars a sickly look.
As he surveyed the murk of the forest, he thought he felt its attention focus on him, its—its curiosity.
He shook his head. Surely it was simply his imagination, but the sensation did not dissipate. Was there really some intelligence within the forest? Did it have a soul?
He turned to his companion to ask what he thought, but the butt of Sergeant Uxton’s crossbow hurtled toward his head, and he fell off the side of the world.
Westly Uxton stared down at the seemingly lifeless form of Alton D’Yer. He lay crumpled at the base of the wall. With any luck, the young man had broken his neck in the fall and was now dead. How easily the young lord had brought about his own undoing by climbing atop the wall. It was just the sort of opportunity Uxton had been waiting for.
In one sense, he felt some regret, for D’Yer wasn’t a bad sort, but in the greater scheme of things, he was a threat. Oh, yes. He had seen how D’Yer’s touch had ignited the magic of the wall, and if anyone was going to effect a repair, it had to be this young man. Uxton could not permit any such thing.
As he stood there trying to think of what to do next, he heard a rustling on the forest floor, like a snake winding its way through fallen leaves and grasses. It turned out not to be a snake, but a black vine. It slithered toward Alton D’Yer, paused to assess its prey, then proceeded to coil around his ankle. Then with sickening ease, it dragged Alton D’Yer into the forest and out of sight.
Uxton swallowed back his revulsion even though he knew this made his situation much easier.
Luck, he thought, uneasily.
He supported the power that was Blackveil, but its seeming intelligence unnerved him.
He realized time was elapsing quickly and any moment someone was going to notice him standing alone for too long atop the wall.
“Help!” he shouted toward the encampment. “Come help! The forest has taken Lord Alton!”
The soldiers on guard duty mobilized at his cry. He would tell them that a vine had shot out from the forest and grabbed Lord Alton. The closer he kept his story to the truth, the easier it would be to make them believe him.
As the soldiers hastened for the breach, Uxton suddenly noticed the blood staining the butt of his crossbow. He cursed and wiped it off with his hand.
Hell.
Now it was smeared across the tattoo on his palm. He wiped his hand off on his trousers even as the first soldier mounted the ladder, hoping the blood would not be detected on the black fabric.
PENDRIC
No matter how far away Pendric rode from the encampment and the wall, no matter how hard he tried to bend his thoughts elsewhere, the voices followed. They called to him in song, pleaded with him, tried to command him . . . He didn’t understand what was happening to him, or why they harassed him so, except that it was Alton’s fault for awakening the evil magic of Blackveil.
It was evening when Pendric reluctantly started to lead his horse back through the woods, trudging alongside it as if to delay his return to the encampment. The voices might call to him no matter where he went, but it was always worse near the wall, as though it would draw him to it against his will.
He tried to focus on the forest sounds around him—the distant, repetitive knock of a woodpecker against a tree, the rustle of undergrowth as some small creature foraged nearby, the thud of his horse’s hooves. Biters buzzed around his ears, and birds burbled and railed throughout the forest.
Pendric thought this might even be working, until the voices screamed in his head.
They overpowered all the gentle forest sounds, they overpowered his own thoughts. They overpowered everything. He fell to the ground burying his head beneath his arms. When this did nothing to dampen the keening voices, he rose to his knees and smashed branches against a downed log and screamed out his own anguish, unable to distinguish his voice from the others.
Finally he stopped, panting with exertion. Something must have happened at the wall, and he needed to find out what. His horse was gone, he had spooked it into running off. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and trotted in the direction of the encampment.
Eventually he found his horse grazing on leaves alongside the trail. He approached it carefully, speaking softly so as not to spook it again, and collected the reins. Once mounted, he slapped the horse with his riding crop, sending it into a breakneck charge.
The sky was darkening when finally his exhausted horse stumbled into the clearing of the encampment. Bonfires burned everywhere, and many torches and lanterns were clustered at the breach. Pendric kicked his horse onward, until bloody foam dripped from its mouth, and its sides heaved. He’d kill it if he had to, to get him to the wall. The horse took up a tired trot. When he reached the breach, he swung out of the saddle and simply let go the reins of his horse, not caring if it fell over and died.
A couple of soldiers stood atop the breach, peering into the forest. Others crowded around his father, who spoke rapidly with officers. Pendric shoved aside several soldiers to reach him.
“Corporal, I want you to carry the news to Lord D’Yer with all haste,” Landrew was saying to a soldier in D’Yerian blue and gold.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Sergeant, as the only witness to this event, you are to ride straight to the king so he may know what has befallen here.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The sergeant was Uxton, if Pendric remembered rightly. Both the corporal and sergeant left the group at a run to attend to Landrew’s orders.
“What’s happened?” Pendric demanded.
First Rider's Call Page 24
