First Rider's Call (60 page)

Nearby, an old man with long, drooping white whiskers, sipping at a cup of tea, sat at a table regarding Alton with some curiosity. At his elbow was a game of Intrigue draped in cobwebs.

Alton took in his surroundings, the feathery clouds stretched across the sky, and the sun warming his face. The silvery-green grasses of the plain rustled and bent in the light wind.

“Where am I?”

“
Haethen Toundrel,
boy, where else?”

A familiar name among much that was unfamiliar. “Tower of the Heavens . . .”

“Indeed.”

It was unlike any tower Alton had ever been in. “I—I don’t understand . . .”

The old man made an impatient noise. “What better way to view the heavens, boy, than from a wide open plain?”

“Then I’m not
in
the tower?”

“This is Tower of the
Heavens.
”

The old man said no more as if this were explanation enough. Alton supposed logic existed in his words somewhere—the odd sort of disconnected logic one found only in dreams.

“And you,” Alton said to the old man, “who are you? Some kind of ghost?”

The old man snorted in derision. “I am no such thing. I am Merdigen, great mage and guardian. Er, a magical projection of Merdigen, anyway. Far more sophisticated and useful than a mere specter.”

“You’re not . . . real?”

Merdigen sputtered on his tea. “Not real? I am a real projection of the great mage Merdigen.”

“Oh.” Alton’s vision dimmed and he swayed, hanging onto the pedestal before him so he wouldn’t fall over.

“You awakened me when you touched the tempes stone,” Merdigen said.

“Tempes stone?”

“Beneath your hands, boy.”

The green stone atop the pedestal was polished into a sparkling oval. “The tourmaline?”

“Yes, yes, yes. I am a guardian. I assist the wallkeepers in assessing the wall’s condition when summoned. Are you not a wallkeeper, boy?”

“No. Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. And a Green Rider.”

Meridgen’s eyes brightened with interest and he eagerly leaned forward. “How goes the war?”

“War . . . ?” Alton was having trouble making sense of it all.

“Yes. Has old Smidhe beat back the Mirwells yet? Last Orla heard was that the Riders had thrown in their lot with Hillander.”

“Clan Wars.” Alton shook his muzzy head. “Two hundred years ago.”

“What?”
Merdigen hopped to his feet, spry for an old man, or a projection of an old man. “Two hundred years have gone by and no one has checked with me since? What madness is this?”

If Alton had been able to, he would have explained how the wallkeepers were drawn into the war one by one until none remained, and how the wall, seemingly indestructible, was left to stand on its own, its corps of keepers never to return. Before he could say a word, however, he collapsed.

 

Alton rolled his head and groaned.

“The wall is in a terrible state, boy. What are you going to do about it?”

Alton blinked open his eyes to find Merdigen standing over him. “Water . . .” he whispered.

“I am a guardian, not a water bearer! Besides, I cannot carry anything material. It would slip right through my fingers. Only illusion.” A large sea turtle suddenly appeared in his hands, looking every bit like the real thing, even propelling its flippers through the air. Then with a
poof,
it was gone.

Alton rubbed his eyes. He was having delusions again—serious delusions. “I need water.”

“Very well then. Follow me.”

The guardian strode away from him, his robes stirred by the breeze that flowed across the grasslands. He paused expectantly between a pair of columns.

“This way,” Merdigen said.

Alton crawled painstakingly after him, across stone. Curiously, the stone was dusty, as though unexposed to the open sky. His fingers felt broken bits of clay pipes, a button or two, and even a large belt buckle, all fragments, he supposed, of the lives of the wallkeepers who had once served in this most unusual tower.

He followed Merdigen between the two columns and his world altered yet again—the light dampened and was no longer sunshine, but a glowing orb that floated overhead. Stone walls surrounded him, the grasslands banished. Banished to where?

He gazed over his shoulder. The columns encircled the middle of a chamber and supported the ceiling above. The two arches remained across the chamber from one another and were embedded in walls, leading not to the horizon, but into darkness only.

Merdigen’s table, with its unfinished game of Intrigue on top, stood snug against one wall. In the very center of the chamber sat the tempes stone on its pedestal, and above it floated a glowing cloud of green and blue that captured all the essence of the grasslands and sky.

Alton rubbed sweat out of his eyes, uncertain of what was real and what was not, and thinking how extremely ill he must be to have fallen prey to such dreams.

Merdigen stood beside a stone basin in the wall, his hands clasped behind his back. Alton crawled to him and rested his face against the cool floor. After his brief respite, he hauled himself to his feet, using the basin to support himself. At his touch, water spouted from the mouth of a copper fish and filled the basin.

He glanced in wonder at Merdigen. “This is real?”

“Try it.”

Alton dipped his hands into the streaming water. It was clear, cold, and wet, and very real, unless his fever had sent him into total delusion. The water did not smell foul, so he let it fill his cupped hands and he drank of it. He kept drinking till his thirst was slaked, splashing his face and chest in the process. He paused, leaning against the basin, water dripping from his chin. It cooled his fever and cleared his mind.

“Magic?” he asked Merdigen.

“An elemental conjuring, performed by Winthorpe. He did it in each tower for the convenience of the keepers.”

“Thank the gods,” Alton said. He rummaged through a nearby cabinet and found some crockery, including a cup. He filled it from the basin, and slid to the floor, his back against the wall.

Merdigen conjured himself a stool, and a teacup and saucer. Perched atop his stool, he looked down at Alton and asked, “Who won?”

“Won what?”

“The war, boy, the war! I have been waiting in suspense for you to regain your senses so I could find out.”

“Oh. Smidhe Hillander became king.”

Merdigen let out a whoop, spilling illusory tea on his robes. “Orla said he’d make a fine king, and that the D’Yers would join forces with him.”

“We did.”

“And he was a good king, this Smidhe?”

Alton shrugged. “Guess so. His reign was considered bloody, but he had to bring the renegade clans to heel in order to unify the country.”

Merdigen’s teacup clinked onto its saucer. “And this was two hundred years ago . . .”

Alton nodded.

“Dear, dear. Do the Hillanders still rule?”

“Yes. Since Smidhe’s time, Sacoridia has had peace. King Zachary now sits in the high throne in Sacor City.”

“King Zachary,” Merdigen said, as if testing the name for himself. “Such a shame that Agates Sealender fellow never named an heir, starting the war in the first place.” He tsked, tsked, and sipped at his tea.

Alton reflected it was surely odd to be discussing history with a magical projection—whatever precisely that was. An illusion? “How long have you been here, Merdigen?”

“Since they built the
Haethen Toundrel.
Since the closure of the Long War.”

If his mind were less fuzzy, if he had felt well, Alton might have marveled at Merdigen’s words, and at Merdigen himself. He’d have asked endless questions about the past, and about the building of the wall. As it was, he had a hard enough time keeping his eyes open.

He surveyed his legs, to take in the extent of the poison within him. The thorn scratches were still an angry red, swollen, and weeping pus.

“I don’t suppose there’s a way to make this water hot,” he said.

Merdigen gestured at a kitchen hearth nearby. “A wood fire should do it.”

Alton frowned. There was no wood to burn, unless he broke the furniture. He did not think he had the strength.

“Making the water hot would have required transformative power, and Winthorpe was no good at it, y’see. He was only good at elemental. Though,” he added on reflection, “he could’ve started a roaring fire.”

Alton let Merdigen rattle on, and set to bathing his wounds best as he could with cold water. His body shivered with more chills, and when he was done, exhaustion took hold and he slept where he sat.

He dreamed of Karigan coming to him, singing to him a song he remembered. Yes, he must remember it. She sat in a sunlit glade, her legs tucked beneath the skirt of her dress. White flowers were woven into her hair.

Remember, dearest,
she told him.

Alton would do anything for her. “I’ll remember,” he promised.

 

He came to with a groan. Sleeping in a sitting position had produced an ache in his back, adding to his misery.

Merdigen remained perched on his stool, paging through some old tome. Alton wondered if such activity actually engaged the magical projection in some way, or if Merdigen did it to simulate life and bring an added sense of comfort to the keepers. For an illusion, if that’s what a magical projection was, Merdigen certainly retained a good amount of personality, memory, and intelligence.

“Well?” Merdigen asked, noting Alton’s wakefulness. His book popped out of existence.

“Well, what?”

“There is a breach in the wall. What are you going to do about it?”

“Fix it.”

“Very good.” Merdigen applauded. “When you are finished, we can pick up the game where Orla left off.”

When Alton didn’t move, Merdigen shifted impatiently on his stool.
“Well?”

“I don’t know quite where to begin,” Alton said.

“Look here, boy, it is not my job to provide instruction. What are your clan elders thinking by sending me a novice, eh?”

“They didn’t send me. Not exactly, anyway.”

Merdigen sat back in surprise. “And what precisely does
that
mean?”

It was taking quite a bit of energy to converse with the cantankerous Merdigen, energy Alton could not spare.

“I am a D’Yer,” he said, “and I came to fix the wall. Will you help me or not?”

Merdigen squinted and tapped a finger on his knee. “Hmm. Two hundred years since last there was a keeper. There ought to be a good explanation for
that.
”

There isn’t,
Alton thought, but he did not comment aloud for fear of sending the chatty magical projection off on another tangent.

“So, after two hundred years everyone has forgotten how to join with the wall. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” Alton said.

Merdigen puffed out his mustaches. “Very well, follow me.” He hopped off his stool—which promptly disappeared—and headed for the center of the chamber where the tempes stone sparkled on its pedestal, dark night and stars now clouding above it.

Alton followed as best he could, lightheaded and with pain stabbing his legs with each step. He stepped between the columns and into night, the columns and arches delicate and bone-white against the black, the grasslands empty and infinite around him. The change was so abrupt, so drastic, he found himself off kilter and fought to restore balance before he fell over.

“First let me show you the schema,” Merdigen said. He fluttered his hands in mid-air, and silvery dots glittered into being right before Alton’s eyes. The dots flew apart, slicing through the air, leaving behind spidery lines etched into the night. The lines changed direction and angle, creating depth and dimension, continuously growing and branching until they formed a floating, shining image of the wall, much like an architect’s rendering. The length of it spanned the area encircled by the columns.

Merdigen pointed to a tower located near the center of the wall. “We are here,” he said. “This is
Haethen Toundrel.
” He then pointed to his right along the wall, where swirling runes blinked in alarm. A chunk of wall was missing there. “The guardians have been screaming for a very long time, but no one has heeded their call.” Merdigen tsked, tsked, again. “This is where the wall has been breached, to our west.”

“I know,” Alton said.

“You
know?
Then why am I going to all this trouble?”

Before Alton could stop him, Merdigen wiped away the schema with a sweeping gesture of his hand. “I suppose I’ll go through the whole procedure and then you’ll tell me you know how to do it.”

“I know something of it, of talking with stone. The song.”

“You don’t need me then, hmm?” Merdigen grumped. He pointed at the arched doorway to their right. “The breach is to the west, so use the west portal.”

“Just—just like that?”

“Yes. Now leave me, I’m busy. I must feed the cat.”

Alton shook his head as Merdigen walked away and vanished. “And I thought Karigan had all the strangest experiences . . .”

Karigan.
She had taught him a song.

He turned and the arched entry of the west portal stood before him, beckoning, mysterious, and imposing. The fascia framing the arch appeared plain, except when he shifted his stance and runes embedded in the stone suddenly shimmered to life. What material could do that? he wondered. So much stonecraft lost. Enchanted, he traced a rune with his forefinger. It was as smooth as marble, but made of some other unknown mineral or ore. They required no light to come to life.

He vowed to one day discover the process and replicate it. It was his dream to restore the old craft to Clan D’Yer.

His eyes roved to the center of the arch, to the key-stone, and there, carved in relief, were the tools of the stone-worker’s trade—hammer, drill, wedges, chisel. This more than anything called to him; it was his birthright to be here now, his destiny as a D’Yer, a worker of stone. He would fix the wall.