First Rider's Call

Estora did not miss her reaction and laughed gently. “Now, don’t give me that look, Karigan G’ladheon. You did mention his name just often enough for me to make some guesses, and even now in your expression, I see them confirmed.”

Karigan frowned. Was she always so transparent?

“You see, life in court has taught me the art of observation,” Estora explained. “Expression, voice, and even gestures can tell one much that is not revealed in words.” Her eyes twinkled at Karigan’s discomfiture. “Do not worry, I am much practiced, and you did not reveal yourself easily.”

There was that, Karigan supposed. “What is it you think you know?”

“I know you are good friends, and it was once almost more. It is not such a bad thing for those who would be lovers to find friendship instead. Sometimes it makes the binding closer.”

Binding? How close was that binding? Karigan wondered. The fact was, she and Alton rarely saw one another. This, as much as anything, had quelled any romantic feelings they might have entertained. It was awfully hard to carry on a relationship when both parties were constantly on the run, but such was the life of a Green Rider.

Karigan had taken some leave time with Alton to Woodhaven, the stronghold of Clan D’Yer, and it had been a special time. Yet it reinforced the fact that both of them had changed over the year she was away from Sacor City; time had opened a gulf between them.

Yet she intensely missed Alton and wished he were here for her to talk with. More so than even Estora, he would’ve understood all that she had gone through while on delegation duty. Estora was right about the binding of friendship—it allowed a freedom of openness between them, and dispensed with the awkwardness they had felt as almost-lovers.

Mostly she worried about him being near the wall. What could he do to stop its deterioration? He was but one man against an ancient bulwark built by his ancestors so long ago. At the wall he’d be at the threshold of Blackveil Forest and its legendary darkness.

Karigan had learned the importance of friendship time and again. Alton had once saved her life by putting himself between her and an arrow. Would she ever have a chance to show him the depth of her friendship when he was in need?

Currently he was too far away, and Estora was all too correct about the dangers Green Riders faced.

Journal of Hadriax el Fex

Alessandros has been in a state ever since the Elt rebuffed his overtures. I have never seen him so angry. They wish to have no part of us or the Empire, and have, in fact, told us to leave these shores and never return again. They will be dismayed to learn that additional ships bearing imperial troops and supplies are en route.

Still, as stubborn and high-minded as these Elt have proven to be, they are entrancingly beautiful, and gifted in the art. In fact, their land fairly reeks of etherea, which we detected though they did not permit us far beyond their border.

It is as though meeting them has awakened something in Alessandros that he cannot shake off—a longing. They are all he speaks of. He has commanded our patrols to capture any Elt they encounter.

WITHIN SHADOW’S REACH

A burst of wind plastered Alton D’Yer’s hair back from his face and pelted him with dust and debris. He tore off his glove to rub grit from his eyes. All around him understory trees lunged and thrashed like wild beasts, and far above, the spires of great pines swayed against a backdrop of rapidly moving clouds.

Change of weather, he thought, undismayed. The wind kept the biters off, and he’d be at the wall encampment long before any storms rolled in.

He guided Night Hawk along at a leisurely walk, resting him after the driven pace they’d already traveled that day. Alton found it hard to settle in to the slower pace, what with a wide path recently carved into the woods before him and the wall drawing him like a spark to tinder.

The wall. Slowly he tugged his glove back on, looking ahead to see if he could glimpse it, but no, the thick forest still hid it. He would see it soon enough.

Or would he?

Alton had felt the unrelenting pull of the wall for some time now; as unrelenting as the Rider call. He heard voices calling out to him when his mind was quiet and subdued by sleep. Voices of grief and alarm, and they grew increasingly urgent as time passed.

Simple dreams?

Dreams that would not leave him then, if dreams they were. The voices were many, male and female, and twined with song and a strong beat, as of a hammer on rock. There was also a discordance that went against the rhythm, part of the wrongness within the wall.

Maybe his ancestors of old once knew the voices, or maybe it was something yet buried in the minds of the other members of his bloodline, but not awakened. If it wasn’t just some wishful thinking of his own, might he be able to tap into the powers of the wall and gain some understanding of it, and maybe even fix it?

He had a proven magical ability. This gave him more of a chance of succeeding where the rest of them failed, or so his father and uncle reasoned. Odd how his father, Lord-Governor Quentin D’Yer, felt his son’s vocation as a Green Rider beneath him, yet wanted to use at the wall the very abilities that made him a Rider.

Alton’s ancestors used magic to build the wall, but in the years following had shunned it as had much of the rest of Sacoridia. Many users of magic had died in the scourge of disease that followed the Long War, their secrets dying with them. At first the D’Yers had faithfully watched the wall; guarded against whatever menace lay behind it in Blackveil Forest, but at some point that watchfulness faded, until none of the clan even bothered visiting the wall. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">