Blackveil

  “My lord,” she said, halting before them, “I thought you should know that Private Tomsen did not make it.”

  Tomsen. The man injured in last night’s attack. Alton bowed his head.

  “He lost too much blood,” Leese continued. “And what was left was poisoned by the creature’s bite. We worked through the night to save him but to no avail.”

  “You did all you could,” Alton said.

  The mender nodded. “I fear our skills are inadequate for the dangers the forest presents.”

  Before Alton could respond, Leese turned and walked slowly back into the encampment, the very picture of defeat. He gazed at Estral Andovian wondering if he’d made the right decision in bringing her back.

  “Don’t you dare change your mind,” she told him as though able to read his thoughts. “I take on this risk myself.”

  Alton wondered if her father and Karigan would see it that way should something bad happen. He shook his head and nudged Night Hawk forward, Estral falling in behind.

  Alton emerged from the tower with the one page of manuscript that held the music. When he handed it to Estral, she gazed hard at it for some moments.

  “The script is very old-fashioned,” she said, “but that’s no surprise considering when Theanduris lived. The copyist seems to have made a very faithful representation of the original. And if that is the case ...” She fell into silence.

  “If that is the case what?” Alton pressed.

  “If that is the case, then the original measure of music was written in Gerlrand’s hand. I’d recognize it anywhere.” She frowned.

  Alton did not think an “I told you so” would be appreciated, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Five simple notes,” she murmured. Then almost inaudibly she hummed.

  There was nothing extraordinary about the brief tune that Alton could perceive, but it was almost as if Estral’s voice were enfolded in a current of air and carried off to the heavens.

  She hummed the tune again, louder, and this time there was a slight resonance—not an audible resonance, but Alton could feel a tingling on the back of his neck. Maybe it was just the sweetness of her voice.

  “Doesn’t sound like much,” Estral said. “I can’t see how this has anything to do with the wall. Can you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It feels incomplete,” Estral mused, “as if that last note is wanting an answer.”

  Answers, Alton thought. All we ever want is answers, but all we ever have are questions.

  “If you don’t mind,” Estral continued, “I’d like to hold onto this and play with it. It might not do anything for the wall, but as an artifact of Gerlrand’s, it’s of interest.”

  “I’d prefer you make a copy and return this one to me.”

  “Of course.” Estral hurried off, presumably to Dale’s tent to do just that.

  Alton faced the wall wondering if he should have mentioned the resonance he had felt. It had been so subtle he almost couldn’t credit it. He’d keep it to himself for now and see if Estral came up with anything more as she studied the piece of music. He wanted to keep his expectations low since he’d already been disappointed time and again. He could not help but wonder, however, why Theanduris would include the music if it weren’t important. The great mage had thought much of his own cleverness and Alton did not doubt he’d delight in confounding anyone who tried to solve his riddle.

  Did Theanduris and Alton’s ancestors have any idea that one day their great wall would be broken? Did they know the menace of Mornhavon could survive for so many centuries?

  It seemed to Alton they must have known and prepared as best as they could by provisioning the wall with keepers, making sure it was patrolled. What they did not count on was the frailty of human memory, of human needs and priorities. A time had come when those other priorities overrode the importance of maintaining the wall. The keepers disappeared, the tower mages slept, and the wall was left to itself, unguarded and unmaintained.

  What was needed was a permanent solution. The wall, for all its impressive craftsmanship and magic, had proved itself impermanent. It almost felt like a betrayal to Alton’s ancestors to think it, but the realization was dawning on him that the wall was not the final answer. Like Karigan carrying Mornhavon into the future, the wall only bought them time. He guessed King Zachary had come to this very conclusion himself a while ago and that was why he was sending Sacoridians into Blackveil with the Eletians.

  When Alton first read the king’s letter informing him of the expedition, he believed lives were being needlessly thrown away. He had barely survived Blackveil himself and it had taken him a long time to recover from his experiences in the forest. However, with this new understanding, he recognized the importance of the expedition in seeking a permanent solution to the problem of Mornhavon the Black.

  Even knowing this, Alton’s drive to fix the wall remained undiminished. If he could fix it, keep it intact for another thousand years, maybe it would give his people the protection and time they needed to find a way of finally defeating Mornhavon forever.

  Alton could only do his part.

  He sighed. He supposed he need not worry about keeping busy, what with the mysteries of the wall to solve and a journeyman minstrel to keep his eye on.

  STATIONERY AND GOLD INK

  The same day Karigan learned she was being sent into Blackveil, she received an invitation. It had been slipped beneath her chamber door in the Rider wing and she found it after she returned from her ride among the Scangly Mounds. Her name was neatly scripted on the envelope in gold ink, and when she flipped it over she discovered two seals: the royal seal of King Zachary and the cormorant seal of Clan Coutre.

  She sat on her bed gazing at the seals in trepidation. If this had something to do with the betrothal, which appeared likely, she was sure she didn’t want to even look at it. Her curiosity, however, soon got the best of her and with a rattling sigh, she slipped her thumb beneath the seals and opened the envelope.

  Within was a piece of fine stationery, again inked with gold. It was an invitation from both King Zachary and Lady Estora to ... to a masquerade ball? Yes, a masquerade ball to celebrate the forthcoming end of the winter and the arrival of spring. Was this all aristocrats did? Invent reasons to hold balls and banquets and parties? Ever since the betrothal, it surely seemed to be the case.

  More important, would she have to go? The very idea of it spawned even more dread within her than going into Blackveil, albeit dread of a different nature.

  There was, of course, the discomfort of having to be out among so many aristocrats in one place, but worse was having to see Lady Estora and King Zachary together.

  Why have I been invited?

  There had been plenty of other events she’d not been invited to. Why this? Why now?

  She decided to ask the captain her opinion on the matter, for this was after all, an invitation. The last time she attended a ball put on by the king, she’d been ordered to go. Her chance to address the situation with the captain came the following afternoon when finally completed the payroll. When she reached officers’ quarters, the captain ushered her right in and together they went over Karigan’s figures.

  “I’m glad you untangled this as quickly as you did,” Captain Mapstone said, settling into her chair behind her worktable. “Otherwise we’d have some anxious and unhappy Riders on our hands. I know there are a few who send their pay back home to their families. Have you, by the way, thought of anyone to back you up on the accounts when you’re away?”

  Karigan nodded. It had not been difficult. “Daro.”

  Captain Mapstone appeared pleased. “Yes, that’s who I thought of as well. I understand her family runs a dry goods store in Childrey.”

  “Yes,” Karigan replied. “She’s very good at figuring and knows how to keep a ledger.”

  “Excellent.”

  They discussed Daro for a while longer and how to work some time into her schedule to train with Kar
igan. When the discussion ran its course and the captain looked ready to dismiss Karigan, Karigan spoke up.

  “Captain,” she began.

  “Yes? Was there something else?” The captain looked eager to be helpful and Karigan remembered she’d been told to come to her with any questions after their conversation about Blackveil. The captain did not send her Riders into dangerous situations blithely, Karigan knew, and would do anything in her power to be supportive. Karigan had spent enough time around the castle and military to know many officers were not of that mold; they cut themselves off from the people in their command and sent them into jeopardy without a second thought as if they were not people but pieces on a game board. It only elevated her respect for her captain.

  “I received this.” She handed the invitation to the captain who regarded it with dismay. Why it should dismay her, Karigan couldn’t guess, but maybe it meant she wouldn’t have to attend the masquerade ball.

  “I heard they were planning a masque,” Captain Mapstone murmured. She gazed at the envelope and Karigan’s name in gold ink.

  “I was wondering if it’s something I have to attend.”

  “Have to? I think not, but you’ll have to consider your position and what it represents.”

  “My position?”

  “Yes. You are now a knight of the realm. The only knight of the realm. See here, it’s not addressed simply to Karigan G’ladheon, or even Rider G’ladheon, but to Rider Sir Karigan G’ladheon. Your position, your status, is now more prominent and your absence would be notable to those who take account of such things, both friends and enemies of the king. You see, the king’s highest officers and vassals are symbols of his power and authority and if one of those symbols is missing? Some may view such an absence as a weakening of the king’s authority, a lack of support from one of his allies. Do you understand my meaning?”

  Unfortunately, Karigan did.

  “If you want to support your king, I’m afraid it’s highly recommended you at least make an appearance at the ball.” The captain frowned and gazed out her arrow-slit window. “I should have known this was coming, that you’d be drawn into the affairs of the court.” When she returned her gaze to Karigan she looked no happier. “I would guess this is not the last such invitation you’ll receive. If you decide to attend the masque, you must keep your wits about you. You are now more than a mere Rider, one whose position is of importance to the king. What you say and do will not only reflect on the king, but will be interpreted and misinterpreted by members of the court. You never know when something you say will come back to cause trouble years later. The wrong words or actions may be used against you; may be used to undermine the authority of the king and cause great harm.

  “You are worthy of the honor Zachary bestowed upon you, but I wonder if he considered the consequences ...” She handed the invitation back to Karigan shaking her head. “I’m afraid with your knighthood you are entering the very thorny world of the royal court.”

  The captain’s speech and grim expression were not at all reassuring. Karigan’s sense of dread increased tenfold.

  And if what the captain had said was not enough, she added, “Yours is an unusual position, Karigan. I know you will choose wisely and act accordingly.”

  Karigan tucked the invitation into the pocket of her shortcoat wishing the captain would offer some reassurance, but she only sat behind her table still looking troubled.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” Captain Mapstone called.

  The door opened and a tall and rangy man in buckskin stepped inside. He was a Rider rarely seen and Karigan almost did not recognize him.

  Captain Mapstone stood and rounded her table to clasp his hand. “Lynx! Welcome back.”

  Not all Riders were always engaged in carrying messages. Sometimes they proved useful to the king in other capacities. Lynx, for instance, used his wilderness skills to keep watch on the northern boundary, aided by his special ability to communicate with the local wildlife.

  Karigan greeted him in turn and sensing it was time to go so the captain could speak with Lynx in private, she slipped outside, closing the door behind her.

  She strode across castle grounds with hands in pockets against the chill. The pathways were strangely empty and she supposed people were keeping close to their hearth fires today. Winter wasn’t gone yet and even in spring they were apt to get a snowstorm or two.

  Karigan sighed, expelling a steamy breath as she sorted out the captain’s words. She’d known that there would be some extra duties expected of her with the knighthood, but since nothing in her life had seemed to change since the knighting and everyone treated her the same, she thought maybe life would continue along normally. It appeared this was not to be so.

  As for the masque, the decision to attend belonged to her alone, but as presented by the captain, it was not much of a choice. Attend and show support for her king, or by her absence dishonor him. Her absence, the captain said, would be notable.

  When she was younger, she would have been thrilled by the prospect of a royal masquerade ball. According to her aunts, one or two balls had been held at the G’ladheon estate while her mother was still alive, but those would have been humbler affairs attended by business associates, minor officials, family, and friends, not a castleful of lords and ladies.

  With your knighthood you are entering the very thorny world of the royal court, the captain had said.

  Karigan shuddered. She would attend the masquerade ball to support her king, but she would stay for as short a time as was courteous.

  As she neared the main castle entrance, she saw the prison wagon leaving the grounds. She was not close enough to see who was within the vehicle—pretty much a cage on wheels—or how many. Guards in Sacoridian black and silver strode alongside the wagon. The prisoners must have just received judgment from King Zachary and were either being transferred to the city jail or being taken to the gallows. She had not heard about any public hangings of late, but then again, she chose not to pay much attention to such things. She’d attended one public execution, that of old Lord Mirwell, and that had been one too many.

  When she mounted the steps of the castle entrance, she discovered Yates there, arms crossed, watching after the prison wagon and chatting with the guards on duty at the doors.

  “You missed the excitement,” he told her.

  “What excitement?”

  “One of the prisoners went berserk,” said the door guard, Mikel. “Sent Jenks to the mending wing.”

  “I guess the prisoner didn’t like his sentence,” Yates said. “He’s one of Immerez’s men. Took part in Lady Estora’s abduction.”

  The naming of Immerez brought Karigan up short. Immerez, formerly of the Mirwellian militia, had been in on his old lord’s scheme to overthrow King Zachary, and when that failed, he escaped justice and became an outlaw working with Second Empire. He had been behind the plot to abduct Lady Estora, but in the end she was rescued and Immerez and his men captured.

  “That prisoner ought to give ’em a show down at the Hanging Square,” Mikel said, and he placed an invisible noose around his neck and pretended to flail, his face contorting in a grotesque expression. His fellow door guard laughed.

  Disgusted, Karigan headed inside, Yates following along.

  “Was Immerez in that wagon?” she asked.

  “No. The king’s still holding him for whatever reason.”

  Karigan didn’t know what more they could possibly get out of the man, but his fate was all but assured. He’d have his turn at the gallows.

  “Lynx came in a little while ago,” Yates said as they strode through the castle toward the Rider wing.

  “I know. I just saw him. I wonder what’s brought him back.”

  “I have my guess,” Yates said.

  Karigan waited, but he didn’t explain. “Well?” she demanded.

  Yates started whistling some tuneless melody.

  “You’re not going to tell m
e?”

  “Nope, don’t think I can.”

  “Can’t, or won’t?”

  Yates smiled enigmatically. “Yes.”

  “You’re awful! I should throttle you!”

  Yates side-stepped away in mock horror almost bumping into an annoyed administrative clerk hurrying along the corridor. “Please, Sir Karigan! Please don’t hurt me!” He gave her his most woebegone expression.

  “Oh, you are pathetic,” she told him.

  “Why thank you!” He resumed his whistling.

  “You don’t have to be so bloody smug about it.”

  “About being pathetic?”

  “You know what I mean!”

  He only gave her that maddening smile. As they turned down the Rider wing Karigan could not help wondering what he knew that he couldn’t and wouldn’t tell her. And how would he know about what brought Lynx back?

  It began to dawn on her what it might be, and if she were right? The last thing Yates should be was happy about it.

  INVITATION AND A MULE CART

  The wheels of Amberhill’s carriage rumbled over the cobblestones of the Winding Way. Yap sat across from him on the verge of dozing off, a contented smile on his face and eyelids drooping. After a six course meal at the Red Coach, he ought to be content. Amberhill felt as if his own full belly would burst his trousers and waistcoat. They’d taken their meal in a private alcove where Amberhill was able to continue Yap’s instruction in manners at table. Yap was a quick learner, but sometimes it was all Amberhill could do to restrain the former pirate from wolfing down everything in sight in mere seconds.

  With Yap freshly shaved and his hair trimmed, and attired in brand new well-fitted clothing, he looked not only content, but dapper, like a proper gentleman, though his specs, now repaired, gave him a somewhat scholarly demeanor. No one would mistake him for a pirate, at least by appearances alone.