The High King's Tomb
Page 158
“If you notice further changes,” Alton told the watch sergeant, “anything that doesn’t look right, let me know at once.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
With that, Alton reined Night Hawk back east along the wall, looking at it more closely. He found some efflorescence he’d missed on his way to the breach. In a couple of spots, crimson dribbled down the granite facade in long runnels.
And this time, he saw images of faces formed by the cracks. More deranged, more tortured than those he’d seen before, with eyes scratched out and features twisted.
Sweat glided down Alton’s face. He passed his hand over his eyes and the images were gone. Just cracks remained. He wondered if the wall was going insane, or himself. If only he could enter the tower and merge with the wall; if only he could try to make things right.
He patted Night Hawk’s neck, taking comfort in the texture of a soft winter coat growing over solid muscle.
Alton’s cousin Pendric had sacrificed himself to the wall, claiming he would mend it, that he would be the one to accomplish it, but all he succeeded in doing was turning the guardians against Alton and spreading his madness.
Alton moved on and did not pause till he reached the spot he and Dale had visited. This time he thought he saw the cracks form a pair of giant eyes that peered at him. They were malignant and crazed and they followed him no matter where he moved. He imagined it was Pendric peering out at him, full of hatred.
Alton dug his heels into Night Hawk’s sides and left behind whatever it was he thought he saw as fast as he could.
Dale paced in front of the tower, kicking a stone, while the encampment went about its business around her. Where was Alton? She knew he used his mornings to inspect the wall, but usually he was back well before now, dragging her out of bed and rushing her through breakfast to get her in the tower as soon as possible.
Maybe it was just a continuation of his avoidance of her. Ever since he’d woken her up from her wonderful dream and had nearly frozen himself to death sleeping by the wall, he’d been more distant, gloomier, and he no longer came to her to clarify his notes. She thought she had made progress with him, but apparently not as much as she’d hoped.
“Men,” she grumbled. “Crazy and moody.”
She was about to return to her tent to pass the time when Alton came riding up on Night Hawk from alongside the wall. His face was hard to read as he dismounted and led his horse over to her, but as he approached, she sensed something disturbed him deeply. He looked pale.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning. Thinking about going to see your mages?”
My mages? She thought about giving Alton a good, swift kick in the shin, but didn’t think it would improve their strained friendship.
He must have realized how it sounded for he said, “Sorry. It’s not been a good morning. When you go into the tower, would you ask the mages about why the wall is bleeding?”
She gaped. “The wall is bleeding?”
“And I saw the eyes again,” Alton said, and he told her of his inspection ride.
“That can’t be good,” Dale murmured. “Yes, I shall certainly see what Itharos and the others have to say about it.”
He nodded. That was it. No “be careful” as was once usual. Maybe it was just that he was preoccupied by what he’d seen this morning. She hoped so.
She plunged through the wall, and when she emerged into the tower chamber, the scene was typical, more or less. Itharos was standing between Boreemadhe and Cleodheris, moderating an argument. Dorleon sat at the table carving a fish lure while Fresk and Winthorpe were deep in discussion over mugs of ale. Dale frowned, thinking the hour too early for ale. Their voices, except Dorleon’s, echoed about the chamber.
“Ahem,” Dale said. When no one heard her, she said more loudly, “Ahem.”
“Hello, Dale,” Itharos said, and the others stopped what they were doing to greet her.
“Now I know why,” she said, “they put you in separate towers. How did you ever get any work done at your lodge?”
They all started to speak at once and Dale held her hand up to stop them. “Never mind. Any sign of Merdigen?”
“No,” Itharos said, “he has not appeared. Fear not, he is a most able pathfinder and will soon return.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sure you understand the urgency of the situation.”
“Better than most, child,” Boreemadhe said, “but there’s not much we can do about it. We can only await the others and find out what Merdigen intended by calling us together.”
“I suppose that means more parties and games.” Dale loved a good party as much as anyone, but she knew time was running out, especially after what Alton reported this morning.
“Of course we must have a party when the others arrive,” Itharos said. “We have not seen them in ages.”
Dale folded her arms. “So, while the wall cracks and bleeds, you’re planning the next party.”
All six of the tower guardians gazed at her, stunned. “Say again,” Itharos requested.
“The wall,” Dale said, “cracks and bleeds.”
All the mages scrambled to their feet and hurried across the chamber and beneath the west arch. Their voices reverberated as they conversed among themselves. They reemerged, looking unhappy.
“We knew the cracks were progressing,” Winthorpe said, his hands tucked into opposite sleeves of his robe.
“Yes, m’lord.”
With that, Alton reined Night Hawk back east along the wall, looking at it more closely. He found some efflorescence he’d missed on his way to the breach. In a couple of spots, crimson dribbled down the granite facade in long runnels.
And this time, he saw images of faces formed by the cracks. More deranged, more tortured than those he’d seen before, with eyes scratched out and features twisted.
Sweat glided down Alton’s face. He passed his hand over his eyes and the images were gone. Just cracks remained. He wondered if the wall was going insane, or himself. If only he could enter the tower and merge with the wall; if only he could try to make things right.
He patted Night Hawk’s neck, taking comfort in the texture of a soft winter coat growing over solid muscle.
Alton’s cousin Pendric had sacrificed himself to the wall, claiming he would mend it, that he would be the one to accomplish it, but all he succeeded in doing was turning the guardians against Alton and spreading his madness.
Alton moved on and did not pause till he reached the spot he and Dale had visited. This time he thought he saw the cracks form a pair of giant eyes that peered at him. They were malignant and crazed and they followed him no matter where he moved. He imagined it was Pendric peering out at him, full of hatred.
Alton dug his heels into Night Hawk’s sides and left behind whatever it was he thought he saw as fast as he could.
Dale paced in front of the tower, kicking a stone, while the encampment went about its business around her. Where was Alton? She knew he used his mornings to inspect the wall, but usually he was back well before now, dragging her out of bed and rushing her through breakfast to get her in the tower as soon as possible.
Maybe it was just a continuation of his avoidance of her. Ever since he’d woken her up from her wonderful dream and had nearly frozen himself to death sleeping by the wall, he’d been more distant, gloomier, and he no longer came to her to clarify his notes. She thought she had made progress with him, but apparently not as much as she’d hoped.
“Men,” she grumbled. “Crazy and moody.”
She was about to return to her tent to pass the time when Alton came riding up on Night Hawk from alongside the wall. His face was hard to read as he dismounted and led his horse over to her, but as he approached, she sensed something disturbed him deeply. He looked pale.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning. Thinking about going to see your mages?”
My mages? She thought about giving Alton a good, swift kick in the shin, but didn’t think it would improve their strained friendship.
He must have realized how it sounded for he said, “Sorry. It’s not been a good morning. When you go into the tower, would you ask the mages about why the wall is bleeding?”
She gaped. “The wall is bleeding?”
“And I saw the eyes again,” Alton said, and he told her of his inspection ride.
“That can’t be good,” Dale murmured. “Yes, I shall certainly see what Itharos and the others have to say about it.”
He nodded. That was it. No “be careful” as was once usual. Maybe it was just that he was preoccupied by what he’d seen this morning. She hoped so.
She plunged through the wall, and when she emerged into the tower chamber, the scene was typical, more or less. Itharos was standing between Boreemadhe and Cleodheris, moderating an argument. Dorleon sat at the table carving a fish lure while Fresk and Winthorpe were deep in discussion over mugs of ale. Dale frowned, thinking the hour too early for ale. Their voices, except Dorleon’s, echoed about the chamber.
“Ahem,” Dale said. When no one heard her, she said more loudly, “Ahem.”
“Hello, Dale,” Itharos said, and the others stopped what they were doing to greet her.
“Now I know why,” she said, “they put you in separate towers. How did you ever get any work done at your lodge?”
They all started to speak at once and Dale held her hand up to stop them. “Never mind. Any sign of Merdigen?”
“No,” Itharos said, “he has not appeared. Fear not, he is a most able pathfinder and will soon return.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sure you understand the urgency of the situation.”
“Better than most, child,” Boreemadhe said, “but there’s not much we can do about it. We can only await the others and find out what Merdigen intended by calling us together.”
“I suppose that means more parties and games.” Dale loved a good party as much as anyone, but she knew time was running out, especially after what Alton reported this morning.
“Of course we must have a party when the others arrive,” Itharos said. “We have not seen them in ages.”
Dale folded her arms. “So, while the wall cracks and bleeds, you’re planning the next party.”
All six of the tower guardians gazed at her, stunned. “Say again,” Itharos requested.
“The wall,” Dale said, “cracks and bleeds.”
All the mages scrambled to their feet and hurried across the chamber and beneath the west arch. Their voices reverberated as they conversed among themselves. They reemerged, looking unhappy.
“We knew the cracks were progressing,” Winthorpe said, his hands tucked into opposite sleeves of his robe.
