Another dig. Alton could not make out whether the sergeant chose to be impudent on purpose, or was simply naturally abrasive. Whatever the case, Uncle Landrew was either used to it, or chose not to notice.
“I will escort you to the wall if you wish,” the sergeant announced.
“I don’t need—”
Landrew raised his hand to quell Alton’s protests. “Things have changed since you were last here. We’ve procedures to follow. It’s just a precautionary measure that we’re accompanied by an armed guard when we approach the wall.”
Alton was not pleased. He’d be unable to move about the wall without eyes constantly following him, but it appeared he had little choice.
“If you will follow me.” Uxton turned to lead them into the wall’s shadow.
ALTON AT THE BREACH
The cold of the wall’s shadow penetrated Alton’s shortcoat, causing an unexpected shiver to course through his body. He stood before the breach, and instantly the presence of his uncle and Sergeant Uxton were shunted to the back of his mind. There was nothing else but him and the wall.
The breach was as wide as his arms outstretched. It had been filled in with granite cut from ancient quarries once used in the making of the original wall they had uncovered nearby. The stonecutters, Alton among them, had sized blocks of granite to match exactly those of the wall. Craft-masters examined the original mortar and came up with their best binding material ever, and the repairwork was put in place, painstakingly and precisely matched with the original wall and its materials.
It was some of Clan D’Yer’s best work in a hundred years, maybe more; painstakingly crafted to the minutest detail. Yet it was not enough. One essential ingredient was missing: magic.
The illusory magic of the wall did not extend above the repairwork of the breach. As though a slice of stonework had been cut right out of the wall, Alton saw only sky.
Then the wind picked up again and sulfurous mist from Blackveil roiled and drifted over the repairwork. Alton remembered the mist well. As he had worked to repair the wall, it had clung to him, to his skin and clothes. He’d felt soiled by it, and though he washed vigorously every night, he was never quite able to cleanse himself of it.
He remembered glancing into Blackveil, as if to catch someone or something watching him, but observed nothing—just the shifting mist animating the black branches of trees into snakes or tentacles.
There were creatures that lived in Blackveil, one of the reasons the wall was so important a bulwark, and Alton fancied it was these twisted monstrosities that had watched him and the other laborers. And if they could not see the creatures, they were certainly able to hear their hoots and screams.
Then there was the night a big laborer named Egan slipped away from the campfire to relieve himself. He was never seen alive again. The only trace they found of him the next morning was blood staining some of the stonework he’d helped place in the breach the day before. No one dared venture into the forest to search for more evidence of Egan’s demise. From then on, the night watch was augmented by additional troops sent by Landrew.
Alton frowned as he drew his gaze along the repairwork. The granite ashlars he helped cut, shape, and set a couple years ago looked duller, older, than the rock around them, which had been cut and set a thousand years ago. The old rockwork retained its pink hue as though freshly cut. Black lichen splotched the repairwork, but none marred the original wall—not even a fleck of lichen, as though it were impervious to the weathering of nature and time.
It was very strange, he thought, how the same granite, drawn from the same quarry, could look so different.
Yet the wall was not impervious to all damage. Cracks radiated outward from the breach. Alton trailed his fingers across the rough texture of the wall, tracing one of the spidery cracks. He walked for several yards, following it. From one crack was born dozens of others, and no amount of re-pointing fixed the problem. The mortar merely cracked, too.
His frown deepened as he saw the extent of the damage. It had nearly doubled since his last visit.
How were they ever going to fix it?
“What do you think, nephew?” Landrew asked.
Alton had forgotten about the presence of his uncle and Sergeant Uxton. To his dismay, he saw that Pendric had joined them.
Rubbing his chin, he said, “Doesn’t look good.”
Pendric snorted. “We knew that. I told you, father, that he’d be of no help.”
“Perhaps if I had some time and less of an audience,” Alton said, glowering at his cousin.
“Of course,” Landrew said. “There will be time enough for you to examine the wall in detail during the days to come. We will leave you for now, though Sergeant Uxton must remain. Don’t linger too long, however, for your aunt will wish to see you.”
Alton waited until his uncle and cousin were well away before he turned to the sergeant. “Would you move off some paces, please, so I can think in peace?”
“A few paces, my lord, aye.”
Alton wasn’t sure why he was so self-conscious about having anyone witness him work. Maybe it was just more difficult to think and act when someone’s eyes were trained on him. Or maybe, because the Riders were so careful to conceal their special abilities, he did not want to expose himself before others should any magic come into play.
Somehow, he sensed the exposure of magic wasn’t going to be a problem just now. Despite the pull he had felt for so long, the wall remained as immutable as, well, stone, as though to mock him. No voices called to him, and the pull was inexplicably absent.