“Who will go in your stead?”
“My tiendan,” Jametari replied, “led by my sister, Graelalea.”
His sister looked away, plainly unhappy. Laren couldn’t blame her.
“When will they go?” Zachary asked.
“It has not yet been decided. The season grows late, and winter is not the best time for a journey for anyone, not even an Eletian.”
“But you do not know when Mornhavon will appear.”
“That is the dilemma.”
Zachary stroked his beard. “I am struck you would tell me of your intentions, Prince Jametari. Do you seek my leave?”
The two gazed at each other for some moments, again assessing the other, until Jametari’s lips curved into a smile.
“It is you, Firebrand, who reminded us of cooperation and old alliances. I would not have it appear we were trespassing upon your lands and entering Blackveil for secret reasons. As for what we may find on the other side? It may be that Sacoridia has some interest in it.”
The audience concluded in a congenial manner, though Zachary did not comment on the prince’s plan. Jametari promised to come forward with any news of Lady Estora if he learned anything via the land or prescience.
On the ride back up the Winding Way, Zachary remained in thoughtful silence, and it was not until they passed beneath the portcullis and stood before the castle itself that he halted his horse and folded his hands upon the pommel of his saddle. Laren halted Bluebird beside him and waited for him to speak.
“Did you find it as curious as I,” he said, “that the prince should mention his plans to us?”
“I suppose,” Laren said. “The Eletians seem to come and go as they will, seeking leave from no one. Maybe he truly is interested in cooperation.”
A raven spiraled above the battlements and another squawked from the tip of a nearby tree.
“You may be right,” Zachary replied, his gaze following the flight of the raven. “I do not know what to believe from these Eletians or how to gauge their intentions. One thing is for certain—they will not enter Blackveil without Sacoridians accompanying them.”
Laren shuddered. Whoever he sent would have little chance of returning.
THE WALL LAMENTS
From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, our song unravels, erodes stone and mortar. Once we shielded against great evil. We stood strong as the bulwark of the Ages.
But we were breached. Our song weeps in a clash of notes out of time. Lost is the harmony, erratic is the rhythm.
No one hears us. No one helps us. No one heals us.
Betrayed.
Yes! You must hate him.
Betrayed and dying.
Cracking and bleeding.
From Ullem Bay to the shores of dawn, our shield shall fail and great evil will shadow the world.
No!
We are broken.
Unweaving.
Dying.
THE BLEEDING OF STONE
Alton awoke with the dawn—not that he’d slept much through the night. As usual. He ate a cold breakfast and readied himself for an inspection ride of the wall. Night Hawk was happy to bear him along no matter the hour, and so Alton rode from the sleepy encampment, following the clearing along the wall, urging Hawk into a canter once the gelding warmed up. He’d probably be back by the time Dale was up and eating breakfast. He ground his teeth, again resenting the fact he must rely on someone else to enter Tower of the Heavens because he couldn’t.
The miles flowed swiftly by and when he reached the portion of the wall where he’d first seen the eyes, he reined Hawk to a halt. The cracks had multiplied since then, fine lines spreading like spiderwebs. He saw no pattern in them this time, and with a sigh of relief he clucked Hawk along.
When he reached the breach and the main encampment, he did find something that disturbed him, and those on duty there, greatly. The wall, where it abutted the breach, was showing the most signs of deterioration, with cracks that left few ashlars unlined. Another sign of wear was efflorescence—moisture seeping through joints between ashlars and leaching lime from the mortar drop by drop while redepositing minerals on the facing wall, like the flowstone of a cave. Alton had seen the process at work beneath old stone bridges where drainage failed causing stalactites to form like fangs beneath the arches.
In and of itself, the efflorescence would have been disturbing enough, for the wall had been constructed to weather the elements for all time, but there were even more troubling signs. The erosion was occurring at an abnormal rate. A process that might ordinarily take years appeared to be taking just weeks. Even worse, instead of flowing white, or yellowish white, the efflorescence shone with red, as if the wall bled.
“Aye,” the watch sergeant told Alton, “we only began to notice the color yesterday. It has the guard unnerved. Making the sign of the crescent moon, every last one of ’em.”
Alton stood in his stirrups next to the wall and reached up, touching the moisture. When he withdrew his hand, a bead of crimson rolled down his finger. He sniffed it, and dabbed it with his tongue. Salty, faintly metallic. Like blood.
He shuddered and wiped his hand on a handkerchief. He would not tell the soldiers here what he thought—there was already enough fear and superstition around the wall—but the watch sergeant who stood at his stirrup had probably guessed.
“Tastes like stone,” Alton lied, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. “Different minerals in the mortar can affect the color.”
The sergeant nodded, relief plain on his face at this explanation.
Alton found more oozing on either side of the breach, and more cracks forming. The repair work in the breach itself stood solid and unaffected, the cut stone still looked fresh and new.