“Any further word?” Malenarin asked.
The soldiers on watch shook their heads. Jargen tapped his foot, and Malenarin folded his arms to wait for a correction.
Nothing came. Rena Tower stood within the Blight these days, as it was farther north than Heeth Tower. Its position within the Blight was normally not an issue. Even the most fearsome creatures of the Blight knew not to attack a Kandori tower.
No correction came. Not a glimmer. “Send a message to Rena,” Malenarin said. “Ask if their flash was a mistake. Then ask Farmay Tower if they have noticed anything strange.”
Jargen set the men to work, but gave Malenarin a flat glance, as if to ask, “You think I haven’t done that already?”
That meant messages had been sent, but there was no word back. Wind blew across the tower top, creaking the steel of the mirror apparatus as his men sent another series of flashes. That wind was humid. Far too hot. Malenarin glanced upward, toward where that same black storm boiled and rolled. It seemed to have settled down.
That struck him as very discomforting.
“Flash a message backward,” Malenarin said, “toward the inland towers. Tell them what we saw; tell them to be ready in case of trouble.”
The men set to work.
“Sergeant,” Malenarin said, “who is next on the messenger roster?”
The tower force included a small group of boys who were excellent riders. Lightweight, they could go on fast horses should a commander decide to bypass the mirrors. Mirror light was fast, but it could be seen by one’s enemies. Besides, if the line of towers was broken—or if the apparatus was damaged—they would need a means to get word to the capital.
“Next on the roster…” Jargen said, checking a list nailed to the inside of the door onto the rooftop. “It would be Keemlin, my Lord.”
Keemlin. His Keemlin.
Malenarin glanced to the northwest, toward the silent tower that had flashed so ominously. “Bring me word if there is a hint of response from the other towers,” Malenarin said to the soldiers. “Jargen, come with me.”
The two of them hurried down the stairs. “We need to send a messenger southward,” Malenarin said, then hesitated. “No. No, we need to send several messengers. Double up. Just in case the towers fall.” He began moving again.
The two of them left the stairwell and entered Malenarin’s office. He grabbed his best quill off the rack on his wall. That blasted shutter was blowing and rattling again; the papers on his desk rustled as he pulled out a fresh sheet of paper.
Rena and Farmay not responding to flash messages. Possibly overrun or severely hampered. Be advised. Heeth will stand.
He folded the paper, holding it up to Jargen. The man took it with a leathery hand, read it over, then grunted. “Two copies, then?”
“Three,” Malenarin said. “Mobilize the archers and send them to the roof. Tell them danger may come from above.”
If he wasn’t merely jumping at shadows—if the towers to either side of Heeth had fallen so quickly—then so could those to the south. And if he’d been the one making an assault, he’d have done anything he could to sneak around and take out one of the southern towers first. That was the best way to make sure no messages got back to the capital.
Jargen saluted, fist to chest, then withdrew. The message would be sent immediately: three times on legs of horseflesh, once on legs of light. Malenarin let himself feel a hint of relief that his son was one of those riding to safety. There was no dishonor in that; the messages needed to be delivered, and Keemlin was next on the roster.
Malenarin glanced out his window. It faced north, toward the Blight. Every commander’s office did that. The bubbling storm, with its silvery clouds. Sometimes they looked like straight geometric shapes. He had listened well to passing merchants. Troubled times were coming. The Queen would not have gone south to seek a false Dragon, no matter how cunning or influential he might be. She believed.
It was time for Tarmon Gai’don. And looking out into that storm, Malenarin thought he could see to the very edge of time itself. An edge that was not far distant. In fact, it seemed to be growing darker. And there was a darkness beneath it, on the ground northward.
That darkness was advancing.
Malenarin dashed out of the room, racing up the steps to the roof, where the wind swept against men pushing and moving mirrors.
“Was the message sent to the south?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Landalin said. He’d been roused to take command of the tower’s top. “No reply yet.”
Malenarin glanced down, and picked out three riders breaking away from the tower at full speed. The messengers were off. They would stop at Barklan if it wasn’t being attacked. The captain there would send them on southward, just in case. And if Barklan didn’t stand, the boys would continue on, all the way to the capital if needed.
Malenarin turned back to the storm. That advancing darkness had him on edge. It was coming.
“Raise the hoardings,” he ordered Landalin. “Bring up the store hitchings and empty the cellars. Have the loaders gather all of the arrows and set up stations for resupplying the archers, and put archers at every choke point, kill slit and window. Start the firepots and have men ready to drop the outer ramps. Prepare for a siege.”
As Landalin barked orders, men rushed away. Malenarin heard boots scrape stone behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder. Was that Jargen back again?
No. It was a youth of nearly fourteen summers, too young for a beard, his dark hair disheveled, his face streaming with sweat caused—presumably—by a run up seven levels of the tower.
Keemlin. Malenarin felt a stab of fear, instantly replaced with anger. “Soldier! You were to ride with a message!”
Keemlin bit his lip. “Well, sir,” he said. “Tian, four places down from me. He is five, maybe ten pounds lighter than I. It makes a big difference, sir. He rides a lot faster, and I figured this would be an important message. So I asked for him to be sent in my place.”
Malenarin frowned. Soldiers moved around them, rushing down the stairs or gathering with bows at the rim of the tower. The wind howled outside and thunder began to sound softly—yet insistently.
Keemlin met his eyes. “Tian’s mother, Lady Yabeth, has lost four sons to the Blight,” he said, softly enough that only Malenarin could hear. “Tian’s the only one she has left. If one of us has a shot at getting out, sir, I figured