The High King's Tomb
Page 101
“I am a magical projection of the great mage Merdigen.”
“Yes, but what does it mean?”
“It means I am Merdigen, his personality and memory, though his corporeal form long ago ceased to exist.”
“So you are illusion—”
“No. This is illusion.” Merdigen flashed his hand out in a wave and a black bear suddenly appeared rearing over Dale, swiping its claws through the air, its growl resonating through the chamber. Dale was so surprised she almost tipped over backward in her chair.
“It has no personality, no soul, and it’s certainly not self-aware,” Merdigen explained. With another wave of his hand the bear vanished, much to Dale’s relief. It might have been an illusion, but it sure seemed real. “Unlike the bear,” he continued, “the spirit of Merdigen exists within the tower. I am a projection of it.”
“A ghost?”
“No, no, no. Ghosts are shadows of the dead. I guess you could say I am a shadow of the living. I am not unlike the guardians of the wall with my spirit anchored in place, but unlike the guardians, I exist as an individual.”
Dale still didn’t completely understand it, but she supposed it didn’t matter. Aside from the history lesson, interesting though it was, all she really learned was no, Merdigen had no additional information about the wall that could help Alton unravel its mysteries.
“Merdigen,” she said, “can any of the wall guardians help us understand the wall?”
His comb had reappeared in his hand and he stroked it through his beard again. “No. They are no longer individuals. They are song. They bind the magic of the wall together. They’ve no memory, except the memory of stone, and of the song they must sing.” He paused his combing and became reflective again. “Theirs was a much greater sacrifice than ours. Perhaps the lack of memory is a mercy for them.”
It was not something Dale could conceive of, this sacrificing of one’s spirit to the wall and existing only as song.
The interview over, she took leave of Merdigen to report back to Alton, who must surely be going mad by now to hear what she had learned. She was afraid he was going to be disappointed. She stepped into the wall, but somehow it felt even worse this time, less fluid around her, almost rigid. Crackling chimed in her ears, a primordial sound, if she knew it, of a time before people, a time before light brightened the Earth; before time itself was measured. It was a sound of liquid rock cooling and fracturing, and forming crystals; a sound heard, had there been anyone to hear it, when the Earth’s bedrock formed.
The wall was solidifying.
Through the chiming she heard the voices, voices in lament, despairing, and others chanting, Hate, hate, hate…
Blinded in the darkness and seized by panic, she thrust forward, hardened rock abrading her flesh, crushing the breath from her body, crushing her. Like one who is submerged and drowning, she could only scream within herself.
THE WALL SPEAKS
From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, we are—
Cracking.
Hear us!
Never forget his betrayal.
Help us!
Do not trust him.
Heal us!
Hate him.
Yes, hate…hate…hate…
The voices of the guardians are tinged with uncertainty and conflict with one another, and now the one on whom the Deyer depends moves through the wall as she has many times before. Can they permit this trespass to continue? If she is affiliated with the Deyer, is she not tainted by his evil? Yes, some say. No, say others. They must sing with one voice, but they have splintered, lost harmony, their rhythm gone astray.
Do not trust! Capture, crush, turn to stone. Hate!
We hear. We hate. We obey.
Merdigen seeps into the wall, filled with alarm, for Dale is caught between, and the guardians are behaving erratically, driven by the hateful commands of the Deyer’s cousin, the Pendric. Merdigen must intervene. “Release her!” he cries.
We must stand sentry, capture, crush, turn to stone.
“She has done you no harm.”
Do not listen.
A void of silence surrounds Merdigen, and this is almost more frightening than the disarray of the guardians’ voices.
“She seeks only to help heal you!”
We sacrifice as we were sacrificed. We must stand sentry.
“She cannot be one of you,” Merdigen insists. “You cannot make human flesh stone.”
Her blood holds magic.
“It is meager, not worthy, not enough to heal you. Hear me! She seeks only to help you. You must trust her—let her go!”
Do not listen.
Once again silence envelops Merdigen as the guardians consider his words. He is overcome by their fear, their confusion. He wants to help them, but he hasn’t the power. Everything they were, everything they should be, is unraveling and the Pendric has a strong voice that turns them against reason. Merdigen must find a way to convince them to release Dale or she will die.
MERDIGEN SETS OFF
Alton paced furiously before Tower of the Heavens. What was taking Dale so long? He could only hope that Merdigen was providing her with mountains of information that would lead to the repair of the wall.
He paused and took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. The day was fine, the fevers hadn’t afflicted him as severely as the night of the storm, and if Dale was taking a long time to gather information, it was all for the good, right?
And then there was the guilt that he’d actually struck Dale to the ground that night. How could he have done such a thing? What had possessed him? The fever had crazed him, had stoked his anger at the wall and his inability to fix it.
“Yes, but what does it mean?”
“It means I am Merdigen, his personality and memory, though his corporeal form long ago ceased to exist.”
“So you are illusion—”
“No. This is illusion.” Merdigen flashed his hand out in a wave and a black bear suddenly appeared rearing over Dale, swiping its claws through the air, its growl resonating through the chamber. Dale was so surprised she almost tipped over backward in her chair.
“It has no personality, no soul, and it’s certainly not self-aware,” Merdigen explained. With another wave of his hand the bear vanished, much to Dale’s relief. It might have been an illusion, but it sure seemed real. “Unlike the bear,” he continued, “the spirit of Merdigen exists within the tower. I am a projection of it.”
“A ghost?”
“No, no, no. Ghosts are shadows of the dead. I guess you could say I am a shadow of the living. I am not unlike the guardians of the wall with my spirit anchored in place, but unlike the guardians, I exist as an individual.”
Dale still didn’t completely understand it, but she supposed it didn’t matter. Aside from the history lesson, interesting though it was, all she really learned was no, Merdigen had no additional information about the wall that could help Alton unravel its mysteries.
“Merdigen,” she said, “can any of the wall guardians help us understand the wall?”
His comb had reappeared in his hand and he stroked it through his beard again. “No. They are no longer individuals. They are song. They bind the magic of the wall together. They’ve no memory, except the memory of stone, and of the song they must sing.” He paused his combing and became reflective again. “Theirs was a much greater sacrifice than ours. Perhaps the lack of memory is a mercy for them.”
It was not something Dale could conceive of, this sacrificing of one’s spirit to the wall and existing only as song.
The interview over, she took leave of Merdigen to report back to Alton, who must surely be going mad by now to hear what she had learned. She was afraid he was going to be disappointed. She stepped into the wall, but somehow it felt even worse this time, less fluid around her, almost rigid. Crackling chimed in her ears, a primordial sound, if she knew it, of a time before people, a time before light brightened the Earth; before time itself was measured. It was a sound of liquid rock cooling and fracturing, and forming crystals; a sound heard, had there been anyone to hear it, when the Earth’s bedrock formed.
The wall was solidifying.
Through the chiming she heard the voices, voices in lament, despairing, and others chanting, Hate, hate, hate…
Blinded in the darkness and seized by panic, she thrust forward, hardened rock abrading her flesh, crushing the breath from her body, crushing her. Like one who is submerged and drowning, she could only scream within herself.
THE WALL SPEAKS
From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, we are—
Cracking.
Hear us!
Never forget his betrayal.
Help us!
Do not trust him.
Heal us!
Hate him.
Yes, hate…hate…hate…
The voices of the guardians are tinged with uncertainty and conflict with one another, and now the one on whom the Deyer depends moves through the wall as she has many times before. Can they permit this trespass to continue? If she is affiliated with the Deyer, is she not tainted by his evil? Yes, some say. No, say others. They must sing with one voice, but they have splintered, lost harmony, their rhythm gone astray.
Do not trust! Capture, crush, turn to stone. Hate!
We hear. We hate. We obey.
Merdigen seeps into the wall, filled with alarm, for Dale is caught between, and the guardians are behaving erratically, driven by the hateful commands of the Deyer’s cousin, the Pendric. Merdigen must intervene. “Release her!” he cries.
We must stand sentry, capture, crush, turn to stone.
“She has done you no harm.”
Do not listen.
A void of silence surrounds Merdigen, and this is almost more frightening than the disarray of the guardians’ voices.
“She seeks only to help heal you!”
We sacrifice as we were sacrificed. We must stand sentry.
“She cannot be one of you,” Merdigen insists. “You cannot make human flesh stone.”
Her blood holds magic.
“It is meager, not worthy, not enough to heal you. Hear me! She seeks only to help you. You must trust her—let her go!”
Do not listen.
Once again silence envelops Merdigen as the guardians consider his words. He is overcome by their fear, their confusion. He wants to help them, but he hasn’t the power. Everything they were, everything they should be, is unraveling and the Pendric has a strong voice that turns them against reason. Merdigen must find a way to convince them to release Dale or she will die.
MERDIGEN SETS OFF
Alton paced furiously before Tower of the Heavens. What was taking Dale so long? He could only hope that Merdigen was providing her with mountains of information that would lead to the repair of the wall.
He paused and took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. The day was fine, the fevers hadn’t afflicted him as severely as the night of the storm, and if Dale was taking a long time to gather information, it was all for the good, right?
And then there was the guilt that he’d actually struck Dale to the ground that night. How could he have done such a thing? What had possessed him? The fever had crazed him, had stoked his anger at the wall and his inability to fix it.
