Blackveil
Page 63
“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.”
“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.”
