“I think you’ve had a little more than enough quiet if I do say so myself. It’s fine and good to brood about the future and what’s on the other side of the wall, but sometimes you have to let it go for a little while to remember why it’s so important to worry in the first place.”
Alton glanced at her in surprise, though all he could see of her was her outline sketched by the light of the bonfire. Hadn’t she said aloud what he had just been thinking?
“How about it?” she said. “There’s still some apple pie left.”
And she grabbed his arm and led him back into the light.
ITHAROS
Dale toddled into Tower of the Heavens the next day with a dull headache. She was hungover from last night’s party, but not nearly as miserable as Alton, who drank freely of his aunt’s whiskey and danced the remainder of the night away, even into the morning hours. The poor fellow came to her at breakfast with a pinched expression on his face and looking a bit green around the edges to ask if she was ready to check the tower. She smiled. It was worth it, worth it to see him let loose. She would find another excuse for another party somewhere down the line, but maybe remind Alton not to imbibe so freely. Maybe.
Because she was distracted by these happy thoughts, or by her own hangover, she nearly fell over when she stepped into the tower chamber to find a figure clad all in black floating menacingly above her with its caped arms spread wide like bat wings. She screamed and plastered her back to the wall.
The figure descended to stand on the floor and two pale hands emerged from sleeves to pull the cowl away from its face. His face. It was framed by silver hair and a beard like a shipcat’s ruff. His nose was long and his eyes so pale they were nearly white.
“Who?” she demanded. “Who are you?”
He swept his cape around in a manner that could only be called elegant and said, “I am Itharos of Glacea Toundrel, that is Tower of the Ice, seventh east of Ullem Bay. I am watching the cat.”
For several moments Dale could only stare. “Of–of course. You are one of Merdigen’s mages.”
“I do not belong to Merdigen.”
“No, I mean, you are a member of his order. The same one he belongs to.”
“Ah, yes. I see. I am. Did he not tell you of me?”
“He, uh, did not give me any names, just to expect company.”
“So like him,” Itharos said with a dramatic sweep of his cape.
“I’m Dale Littlepage.”
“Yes. Merdigen’s message mentioned you, by name I might add, and that you would visit from time to time. Now Rider Littlepage, I have missed much as I slumbered and Merdigen’s message was terse, but I sensed during my passage that all is not well with the wall. You’d best begin with King Eridian. He just ascended the throne.” Itharos conjured himself an ornate and comfortably cushioned chair fit for a king, and with a flourish he threw his cape over his shoulders and sat, waiting expectantly for her to begin.
Dale swallowed hard. King Eridian? She didn’t remember a King Eridian…
Fortunately Itharos was forgiving when it came to lapses in her knowledge of history. Eridian, it turned out, was the first of the Sealender kings.
“He did come of the sea,” Itharos said, “a seafarer and fisherman from the east, and he was called the King of Fish by those of noble blood who thought themselves loftier than he. Accordingly, he took as his personal heraldic device a flatfish of gold so the nobles would never forget who he was.” Itharos laughed heartily. “And I expect they did not forget. By all accounts his reign was off to a good start.”
Dale didn’t know how many Sealender kings there had been, but she knew how the line had ended, with the beginning of the Clan Wars, and Dale filled him in.
“Disappointing,” he said, stroking his beard. “All I know of the Hillanders is that they, too, were of the sea, but from the more tame Ullem Bay.”
“Sacoridia has done well under their rule,” Dale said, and she continued to relay to him all the major events that led to her sitting in Tower of the Heavens with him.
“Fascinating,” Itharos said. “A pity we were not awakened sooner or that the corps of wallkeepers was not maintained. A pity, but not really surprising.”
“Why?” Dale asked.
“Human beings are naturally flawed when it comes to time and memory. The past is forgotten, or it is believed bad things will not recur, and people become bound in their current problems. That which afflicted the grandfathers of their grandfathers is a distant, dim thing, and not as important as present concerns, no matter how trivial.”
“You sound like someone who knows,” Dale said. She found Itharos more to her liking than grumpy Merdigen. He bore himself with greater dignity, which made him seem more like a great mage ought to be.
“You must keep in mind,” he said, “that I’ve existed for centuries in one form or another. I have seen the forgetfulness time and again.” He tapped his chair’s arm with a long fingernail. “The greatest mistake that I’ve seen in all my time, however, was forgetting the upkeep of the wall, and the danger it holds at bay.”
He straightened suddenly in his chair. “Someone comes.”
Dale glanced around, expecting Alton or another Rider to pass through the wall where she had entered, but Itharos rose and strode to the center of the chamber next to the tempes stone, drew his cowl over his head, and did the menacing, floating thing again.