First Rider's Call (43 page)

How could she do this to him? In his heart he knew it wasn’t intentional, but the fire of his fever seemed to have stoked the fire in his heart, too, and here she was being so gentle, so caring.

“Karigan, I—”

“Shhh.” She placed her finger across his lips. “Do not tire yourself.”

“But—”
He really wanted to tell her, to finally express himself.

She gave him a playful tap on the nose, and leaned over him so that her hair brushed his cheek.

“I will talk,” she said, “and you will listen.”

And she did talk. She spoke of the wall and how it was inhabited by the souls of those who had made it. They were the guardians whose magic made the wall so impenetrable. It was they who sang to keep the forest at peace, and now their voices were failing.

“They were singing the wrong words,” she said, “and the wrong melody. This is causing the wall to fail. You must get them to sing the correct song, a counter-song to mend the wall.”

Alton faded in and out, comforted by her voice, her soothing, light touches. This was the Karigan he loved. If he survived this, he would see about making her his wife, no matter his father’s protests, no matter her common blood.

He came to after an unknown amount of sleep, her voice still murmuring comfortingly to him. She continued to sit beside him, her hand resting on his chest, over his heart. His heart throbbed faster, harder.

“I am going to teach you the song to sing,” she was saying, “to mend the wall.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice weak. “Mend the wall.”

She started to sing. He knew Karigan was rather tone deaf, but now she sang harmoniously. He did not understand the words, but she made him repeat them.

“Mordech en trelish est,”
she said.

“Yes, you do well.”

It was a trial to concentrate on what he was doing, to overcome his fever to do as she asked, but he found he wanted to please her.

There were more and more words, and she gave him more water whenever his voice faltered. How many hours had passed? Had it been days? He did not know, but her voice was continuous in his mind, whether he dozed off or awakened.

At times he twisted and turned in feverish dreams, calling out her name. Sometimes behind her beauty he saw some monstrous visage, but her words and gentle touch would always ease him.

When he awakened once again, he discovered her hands were on his legs.

“What are—?” he croaked.

She smiled at him. “I am taking the pain from your legs so you may walk.”

“Walk,” he whispered. “I haven’t the strength.”

“I will help you.”

He must be feather-light for Karigan helped him up without difficulty. He nearly fainted away, but she propped him against her.

“Think of the song I taught you,” she said. “Sing it to me, and it will help you overcome your weakness.”

His awareness was vague at best. She put his arm over her shoulders, and she put her arm around his waist. It all seemed very distant.

“Sing,” she said, “and walk.”

He did, his awareness dimming still more, the walking a dream. She must have been supporting most of his weight because it felt like he walked on air. She had taken the pain from his legs, though pus seeped from the wounds with each step.

When his voice faltered, she spoke again in soothing, encouraging tones. “When you are in the tower, you must sing the song to the stone with your mind. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” He wasn’t sure he did, but his answer pleased her.

He continued along in his dream, the forest not feeling threatening in the least. His feet navigated the terrain without trouble so long as he leaned on Karigan. Yes, he was safe with her. She took care of him.

 

He must have passed out, for he was lying on the ground again. When his eyes fluttered open, Karigan was right there next to him, as serene as ever.

“You have come far and reached your destination,” she said, “but now you must eat a little to help you with your strength.”

She dropped golden berries into his mouth, and when he protested, she assured him they were safe. They were sweet and refreshing, like ambrosia. Their juice moistened his dry mouth.

When she fed him the last berry, she said, “I am very proud of you. You have come far despite your illness, and you have learned the song. Now it is time for you to mend the wall.”

“Now?”

“First you must enter the tower.”

He rolled his head back and looked up. They were next to a tower that soared up into the clouds. It was doorless and windowless, and forbidding. It was one of the guard towers of the wall.

“I don’t know how.”

“First you must get up.” Effortlessly she hoisted him to his feet once again, and supported him to the tower. “Put your hands upon it.”

He did so. The granite of the tower seamlessly matched that of the wall that winged off from it in both directions. He liked the feel of the granite, so rough and so cool, so very solid.

“Now speak with the stone,” she said. “Let it know who you are. It should let you in when it knows you are Deyer.”

“I’m D’Yer,” he said to granite.

The first hint of irritation crossed Karigan’s face. “No, with your mind, as I instructed you.”

“You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Of course.” She kissed his cheek. When he leaned into her for more, she pushed her palm against his chest. “If you love me, you will enter the tower and mend the wall.”

“Yes. Mend the wall.”

Just as she had taught him, he sent currents of thought right through his fingertips into the wall. With his mind, he announced to stone who he was.

Haethen Toundrel,
Tower of the Heavens, absorbed Alton D’Yer through its granite.

Outside the tower, the glamour faded from the feral groundmite female the sentience had employed in its scheme. The ivory dress dissipated like smoke, revealing animal hide and the furry arms of a groundmite. She dropped to the ground, greedily popping “berries” into her mouth. The glamour faded from those, as well, revealing grubs.

Gone was the visage of a comely young woman. Deyer’s fever had been most propitious, further enhancing the illusion. It had been exhausting to play the part of Karigan and control the groundmite at the same time. She had wanted to rip Deyer’s head off.

In the end, it would all be worth it, the sentience thought. It allowed itself to be absorbed into the mossy ground. Deyer would sabotage the wall and bring it crashing down. Oh, the delicious irony of it, of a wall builder being its undoing.

There was more to look forward to. Varadgrim and Mirdhwell would find the one of Hadriax’s blood and bring her here.

It all meant waiting, but the sentience would do so exploring its memories.

VISIONS OF AN EMPIRE

Karigan wobbled atop the beam. It was only a couple feet off the ground, but last night’s indulgence of bitter ale, brought up from the Cock and Hen, and coupled with too little sleep, was more than enough to make her balance questionable at best.

She should have known better than to imbibe so much, but it had felt so good just to let her cares flow away amid the camaraderie of the other Riders . . . and the seemingly bottomless keg.

She wasn’t the only one who had arisen with a miserable headache this morning, but she had to get up earlier than most to prepare horses and provisions for messages that needed to go out. She pitied the Riders who with heavy heads and nauseated stomachs would spend their day in the saddle, but at least they didn’t have Drent screaming at them.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You’re lurching around like a drunkard.”

His voice ricocheted from one side of her skull to the other, and she scowled. Mara had insisted she keep up with these verbal and physical trouncings indefinitely.

She placed one boot in front of the other with utmost care as she made her way down the narrow beam. It didn’t help there was a goodly lot of spectators; soldiers who decided to take breaks from their own training bouts to watch such fine entertainment.

One day, she’d make Mara pay. She wasn’t sure how, but she would do it. She smiled grimly, thinking Tegan wouldn’t be adverse to helping.

Back and forth Karigan moved along the beam, still wobbly, but managing to keep her perch. She thought it must be boring to watch, but the spectators did not leave. It made her suspicious.

Then, without warning, Drent whipped a practice sword at her legs. She side-stepped just in time, somehow maintaining her balance. The sword came again and she hopped down the beam to avoid it, arms flailing. Drent kept right with her, and this time, when he swept the sword at her, he struck her calves.

Karigan knew he wanted her to jump the blade, but it simply took her foggy mind too long to send the message to her feet. The leather of her boots shielded her calves pretty well from the impact of the blow, but it still hurt like the five hells.

To make matters worse, she lost her balance and landed face down on one of the straw pallets beneath the beam. The soldiers who had been watching laughed uproariously. This is what they had been waiting for.

“What’s wrong with you?” Drent demanded again. “My granny could do jigs around you on that beam.”

Then let her,
Karigan thought sourly. She had had enough of these humiliating sessions. They were putting her into fine trim, but enough was enough. One of these days she was going to let Drent know just what she—

“On your feet,” he ordered.

With a groan she obeyed. It felt like a chisel was hammering against her skull. Was he going to make her run now that he had abused her legs?

“This Green Foot runner is here for you,” Drent said.

Her eyes registered the young girl in the green uniform who goggled at the arms master. Holly, she thought, was the girl’s name.

“Yes?” Karigan asked.

Holly’s eyes were just as big when they shifted to Karigan.

“Ma’am, Rider Brennyn requests you to attend the king in his study, to receive message errands. She is just now tied up in a meeting.”

Karigan nodded wearily. “Thank you.”

The girl ran off, and Karigan made to follow.

“We will finish this tomorrow promptly at nine hour,” Drent said.

Karigan was glad her back was to him so he couldn’t see her expression of dismay.

She hurried to barracks for a quick wash-up and change of uniform. One didn’t wear a work tunic to attend the king.

 

Karigan decided to cut through the courtyard gardens to reach the west wing. The king’s study, once Queen Isen’s solarium, was at ground level and looked out onto the gardens. Karigan had been there once before, but had not known what room it was at the time, for she had been seeking entrance to the castle—any entrance—in stealth and darkness, the night of Prince Amilton’s coup attempt.

That far-off memory was another lifetime ago, and as she hopped across the stepping stones of the trout pond in the brightness of morning, she was amazed at how great the contrast from those dire circumstances two years ago to today’s summons from the king.

It was quite a while since she had last seen King Zachary, and she found herself anticipating the meeting. She paused on the last stepping stone.

Ugh.
For a very long time, she had refused to acknowledge certain . . . longings where the king was concerned, finding such feelings impossible at best. Who was she to think the king would ever . . . ?

No, no, it wasn’t even worth bringing to the fore. It was all impossible. He was royalty, she was not even noble, and that was enough to create an unbridgeable gap between them. This was how she suppressed her feelings for him, but her heart did not always obey her head.

Bear up,
she ordered herself. It was best she saw him as infrequently as she did. The distance made her feelings for him easier to contend with.