If anyone should know, it was Lady Estora, and Laren bowed her head in thanks to her. The lady nodded gravely in return. Lord Spane’s mouth narrowed to a thin line but he made no retort.
“Let those who go be volunteers,” Colin said.
“They will all volunteer,” Laren replied.
“Then you must use your discretion.”
This was not particularly helpful advice from the man who oversaw the Weapons, whose motto was Death is honor! In any case, she’d known it would come down to her to decide who to send on what could very well be a suicide mission. She sighed, knowing who at least one of those Riders would be.
Old Castellan Sperren shook himself as if waking from a nap. “What of the wall, sire?” he asked. “You’ve got that book about its construction. Shouldn’t we forego this expedition and use the book to fix the breach?”
Everyone looked to the king.
“It is not so simple,” Zachary replied.
“Has the translation not yet been completed, then?”
“It is done.” Zachary pressed his hands flat against the tabletop and rose. Everyone stood with him, but he gestured that they should remain seated. He opened the chamber door, gave some quiet instructions to someone outside. He remained standing, but in silence, his hands clasped behind his back.
It was not long before a page returned bearing a manuscript tied with a leather thong. The boy placed it on the table and left.
“You see before you,” Zachary said, “the translation of the book of Theanduris Silverwood, his account of the creation of the D’Yer Wall.”
A swell of excited murmuring arose from the king’s advisors. Zachary raised his hands to quiet them.
“It is the only true account we know of that survives,” he said. “Ever since the wall was breached, we have bemoaned the loss of secrets, the loss of craft. Even the D’Yers could find little about the wall’s making in their own archives. Lord Fiori of Selium was unable to find anything useful, either. Much knowledge of the arcane was purged following the Long War, for anything, and anyone, associated with magic was despised and deemed evil. So while written records failed to survive the ages, spoken histories failed as well.”
“How did this one book survive?” Colin asked.
“Here and there oddments of our magical heritage can be found,” Zachary replied. “But the Silverwood book? It is hard to know its history, except that if you were to look at the actual volume, you would find its pages blank, and it would have appeared as nothing more than an unused journal. But despite appearances, the book does contain copious writing, and it speaks not only of magical things, but is itself an object of magic. There is only one place, for instance, where it can be seen for what it truly is and be read.”
He did not mention that the only place the book could be read was in the light of the high king’s tomb. The tomb of the current high king, who was Zachary. Down below, in the halls of the dead, a sarcophagus already awaited him.
“And so in this one place, our translator strove with the words of Theanduris Silverwood to draw the story out of the book. As a thing of magic, the words were often volatile, and our translator found himself in the care of menders more than once.”
Poor Agemon, Laren thought. Agemon was the chief caretaker of the tombs and fluent in many archaic tongues, including Old Sacoridian. Since the tombs were forbidden to all but royalty, Weapons, and caretakers, the duty of translation fell to Agemon.
“I don’t understand,” Lord Spane said. “How could words injure someone?”
“It is not easy to explain,” Zachary said, “except that there are spells woven into combinations of words or letters, or in the ink, or even in the way a letter is written. Just reading a sentence can create an unpleasant reaction. And not all words are read, precisely. They are presented in a very ... visceral manner.
“A great mage of Theanduris Silverwood’s caliber might have read the book without harm, but it still would have taken a while to decode the spells. Our translator did this at great personal risk in service to his king and country. The copy he made for us—” Zachary tapped the manuscript “—retains nothing of the magic from the original, and so is safe to be read. It is ordinary paper and ink.”
It was just as well, Laren thought, that if the original was so dangerous it could not be read anywhere but in a forbidden place like the tombs.
“It is impossible to know what became of the book,” Zachary continued, “after Theanduris Silverwood died, except that it eventually made its way into the private library of a collector of arcane objects, a Professor Berry. He himself is long dead, and his estate obscure, located somewhere in the depths of the Green Cloak Forest. It was from his library that Second Empire found the book and stole it. They brought it here in hopes of translating it themselves.”
“Please, sire,” Colin said, “do not keep us in suspense any longer. Have you read the translation? What does it say?”
Zachary smiled. “Yes, I have read it. More than once. More than twice. I learned much about the construction of the D’Yer Wall.”
Laren felt the excitement building in the chamber, her own hope surging.
“I have learned from my reading,” Zachary said, “that it was perhaps a good thing that all other records of the wall were purged so such a feat could not be duplicated.”
Excitement turned to confusion.
Zachary placed his hand on the manuscript. “Not only were the words written in the book volatile to readers, but as mere language, they describe a bloody time in our history. The book corroborates what Riders Alton D’Yer and Dale Littlepage have been able to find out about the wall’s construction. Thousands upon thousands of magic users were sacrificed to the wall. Each granite block, every mortar mixture, was fed the blood of people, and their souls sealed in the wall to remain guardians of it for as long as it stood.”
This revelation was met with silence, and Laren could tell the others didn’t quite grasp the enormity of it, except maybe Lady Estora, who paled. Laren had been privy to Alton’s and Dale’s reports, but nevertheless shuddered to hear that the book confirmed all those sacrifices took place.
“It required the destruction of so many lives,” Zachary said, “during a time when the realm’s population of magic users was already hit hard by war and plague and persecution. In fact, for those opposed to the existence of magic, the building of the wall served the dual purpose of protecting the lands while ridding the world of even more magic users.
“If we wished to reconstruct the breach using the same methods, we’d have to sacrifice those with magical ability and bind their blood and souls to granite and mortar. We’d also need a great mage of Theanduris Silverwood’s power to do the binding.”
Most at the table were aghast, but Lord Spane shot to his feet. “We must find a great mage then! Surely one with that power survives somewhere in the lands.”
“Sit, Richmont,” Lady Estora said in a soft voice, and she pulled at his sleeve.
He gazed about the chamber in confusion, but at last he complied and sank into his chair.
“It may be there is a great mage somewhere out there the likes of which we’ve not seen in three ages,” Zachary said. “And it may be there are enough individuals in our population with remnant magical ability in their blood to accomplish the task, but I am doubtful. Even if there were, I would not sanction the slaughter of my own citizens, or any others, for this purpose. I can only imagine what forces were at work when King Jonaeus decided he must take this course. His was a young kingdom almost destroyed by war, with factions attempting to wrest power from him and one another.” He shook his head. “Dark times. I cannot help but think that all records, except this one, were destroyed to prevent another wall from being built.”
“So it is worthless,” Lord Spane said.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Zachary slipped back into his chair. “It contains a measure of music.”
“Music?” Spane said in disbelief. “What does th
at have to do with it?”
“Just as words have power, so may music. The souls who remain as guardians within the wall sing a song to maintain the binding. This music, too, may have some application in maintaining the wall. Theanduris Silverwood, however, did not explain its purpose.”
“Music,” Spane muttered. “Words and spells. It seems we are being pushed backward in time to our primitive past.”
“Primitive?” Zachary mused. “It is our history for good or bad. In any case, I have sent Lord Fiori a copy of the musical notation to see what he makes of it. In the meantime, a second copy of the Silverwood book will go to Alton D’Yer down at the wall. He may see something in it I do not.”
“Our only hope is a bit of song?” General Harborough said in incredulity. “To maintain the wall? Maybe?”
“Maintenance is important,” Zachary replied. “The wall has deteriorated since the initial breach. Alton D’Yer has managed to halt much of it, but if those affected parts can be strengthened further, it is all to the good.
“We must not forget,” he added, “that had the book remained in the hands of Second Empire, they would have learned what they needed to destroy the wall. It was a Green Rider, as you may recall, who rescued it.” This last was directed at Spane. “Alton D’Yer will be instructed to burn his copy once he has read it. This one,” and he thumped the manuscript, “will be hidden away, and no others shall read it.”
It was not uncommon for Laren to linger behind after a meeting to speak with Zachary, in much the same way her Riders tried to catch up with her between meetings.
“May I have a few words?” she asked.
The others conversed among themselves and collected their papers and coats. Zachary hesitated, then gestured they should go into an adjoining chamber. It was set up with a few chairs for smaller conferences, but they did not sit.
“What is it?” Zachary asked. “You are not going to plead with me to allow you on the expedition, are you? That was well done, but I’ve already expressed my feelings on the matter.”
“Yes, you have,” Laren replied.
“Then what?”
She took a deep breath. It was now or never, and she would likely incur his anger, but it had to be done. She should have addressed this long ago.
“I saw you out on the practice field before our meeting. You were observing a bout.”
“Yes?” His expression was guarded.
“You were watching Karigan.”
“Do I not have the right to observe the training of those who serve me?”
“Certainly, but it is Karigan I’m specifically concerned about since you hold her, I believe, in a good deal of esteem.”
Zachary said nothing. In that forbidding silence was an implicit warning that she not cross the line regarding his “esteem” for Karigan.
Laren cleared her throat, “She will be, of course, one of the Riders I choose to send into Blackveil.”
“No!”
“No?” she asked, unsurprised by his flash of anger.
He turned his back to her as if to collect himself. When finally he faced her again, his demeanor was neutral, but Laren knew him too well not to perceive how rigid his posture had become.
“No,” he said with deceptive mildness. “Has she not done enough for us?”
“It is precisely because of what Karigan has done, what she’s been through, that I must choose her. She’s been in Blackveil before, though she recalls little of the experience, and she has faced some of its denizens in battle. She’s also dealt with Eletians more than anyone else, and has faced the supernatural. Despite all the dangerous situations she has found herself in, she has somehow managed to survive time after time. Shall I go on? Do you need more reasons?”
“I do not wish to send her.”
Zachary was very rarely an obstinate man. Usually he would hear reason, but this was not one of those times, showing just how deep his feelings for Karigan went. Laren could only try to convince him of the wisdom of her choice.
“She is the one Rider with the best chance of returning from Blackveil alive.” She paused, realizing how tense she was, how tightly she clenched her hands at her sides. Zachary moved to the cold hearth and gazed up at the painting of a hunting scene above the mantel, but she doubted he really saw it.
“I know how you feel about Karigan,” Laren said.
Zachary glanced sharply at her, but she did not quail from him.
“I know that it isn’t just ‘high esteem’ you feel for her. You love her and that is the reason you do not wish her to go into Blackveil.”
He faced her dead on, and she could feel the storm emanate from him.
“I believe it is my duty to bring this up,” Laren hastily continued, “as Karigan’s captain and as your advisor, but mainly as your friend. I realize feelings are difficult to tame, especially when they move in a direction contrary to duty, but you must not allow your heart to cloud your judgment. Our country needs your strong marriage to Lady Estora. I can’t tell you not to love Karigan, but you must let her go. Let her go.”
“I think I have heard enough, Captain.” And that was all he said. He strode out of the room, through the larger meeting chamber, and out into the corridor. She cringed when he slammed the door behind him.
She’d expected his fury, but it didn’t make it any easier to be on the receiving end of it. If it was any consolation, his vehemence indicated to her he knew she was right. Perhaps, with time, he’d come around and allow what was only sensible, that Karigan should be one of the Riders to enter Blackveil.
She’d needed to confront the issue of his feelings for Karigan before someone with ill intentions caught wind of it. The political repercussions, the danger to Karigan ... It had to be done, and as his friend and confidant, she was the best one to broach the touchy subject.
She could live with his wrath if it meant she’d averted larger problems. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.
Richmont Spane fussed with his papers and his coat as all the others filed out of the meeting room. He watched as Captain Mapstone and the king stepped into the adjoining chamber to have a few words. He’d another appointment to attend, but he was extremely curious and one never knew when a bit of eavesdropping might provide some useful intelligence.
With another glance to make sure the rest had departed, he crept to the doorway of the adjoining room. The door was ajar, so it was easy to hear the king and the captain speaking, though it was the captain who did most of the talking.
“Certainly,” the captain said, “but it is Karigan I’m specifically concerned about since you hold her, I believe, in a good deal of esteem.”
Richmont grew still, listening with great interest to the exchange that followed. When finally the king said, “I think I have heard enough, Captain,” Richmont scuttled from the chamber and into the corridor just in time. He watched as the king emerged and slammed the door shut behind him. There was a wild look in his eyes as he stormed off, his Weapon peeling away from his post at the door and following briskly.
Richmont rubbed his chin. From the king’s behavior, he deemed the captain had been right on the mark: the king was in love, in love with a Green Rider.
Richmont struck off in the opposite direction, thinking the captain was also correct to believe that love could cloud the king’s judgment in terms of the betrothal, and that would be a disaster for the alliance with Clan Coutre, for the country, and most important, for Richmont’s own ambitions. The Green Rider was a threat.
If this particular Rider was indeed going to Blackveil, it was quite possible she wouldn’t survive, and that would solve any potential problem.
It was also possible she’d return alive and well. He’d have to ensure the odds were in his favor. He smiled and hastened his step so he could set his plan into motion at once. This was, after all, what Lord Coutre wished him to do, wasn’t it? To make certain the marriage moved forward unhindered. He would do his duty to clan and country and eliminate any
threats to that marriage.
THEIR MYSTERIOUS WAYS
Karigan limped away from the practice field, tired and soaked through from mud and sweat. Flogger had made her pay for the kill point she got on him earlier. At least she hadn’t disgraced herself in front of the king.
It occurred to her King Zachary hadn’t stopped by the practice field to observe her at all, that it was just coincidence he came by when she was there for her session. Maybe he paused there long enough only to spare her a quick glance, if even that much. She had not seen him at all, so she did not know.
She slicked loose hair back from her forehead. Did she really want him to see her looking like this anyway? Painfully, she just wanted him to see her, but even after her experiences in the tombs, even after her knighting, he had not called upon her to attend him.
All for the best, she decided, but such reasoning did not assuage her feelings, only made her more miserable.
So absorbed in her thoughts was she that she nearly walked into someone. Someone well-dressed and clean.
“Sorry, my lord,” she mumbled, and stepped aside to go around him.
But he moved into her path, blocking her. She looked up, startled.
“Well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t the vanishing lady.”
It took a moment for Karigan to recognize the man, for he was attired in a fine frock coat and breeches, with a spotless silk shirt and cravat. He wore his raven hair tied back, and his light gray eyes glinted with amusement. The last time she’d seen Lord Amberhill, he’d been in a much more travel-worn and ragged condition.
“If I did not know better,” he continued, “one would think you were trying to dance with me.”
“Hardly,” she muttered, annoyed by his mocking tone. “I didn’t even see you.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you can’t see through all that mud.”
Karigan blushed, even more acutely aware of how she must look.