First Rider's Call

“Yes.” He wasn’t sure he did, but his answer pleased her.

He continued along in his dream, the forest not feeling threatening in the least. His feet navigated the terrain without trouble so long as he leaned on Karigan. Yes, he was safe with her. She took care of him.

He must have passed out, for he was lying on the ground again. When his eyes fluttered open, Karigan was right there next to him, as serene as ever.

“You have come far and reached your destination,” she said, “but now you must eat a little to help you with your strength.”

She dropped golden berries into his mouth, and when he protested, she assured him they were safe. They were sweet and refreshing, like ambrosia. Their juice moistened his dry mouth.

When she fed him the last berry, she said, “I am very proud of you. You have come far despite your illness, and you have learned the song. Now it is time for you to mend the wall.”

“Now?”

“First you must enter the tower.”

He rolled his head back and looked up. They were next to a tower that soared up into the clouds. It was doorless and windowless, and forbidding. It was one of the guard towers of the wall.

“I don’t know how.”

“First you must get up.” Effortlessly she hoisted him to his feet once again, and supported him to the tower. “Put your hands upon it.”

He did so. The granite of the tower seamlessly matched that of the wall that winged off from it in both directions. He liked the feel of the granite, so rough and so cool, so very solid.

“Now speak with the stone,” she said. “Let it know who you are. It should let you in when it knows you are Deyer.”

“I’m D’Yer,” he said to granite.

The first hint of irritation crossed Karigan’s face. “No, with your mind, as I instructed you.”

“You’re coming with me, aren’t you?”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Of course.” She kissed his cheek. When he leaned into her for more, she pushed her palm against his chest. “If you love me, you will enter the tower and mend the wall.”

“Yes. Mend the wall.”

Just as she had taught him, he sent currents of thought right through his fingertips into the wall. With his mind, he announced to stone who he was.

Haethen Toundrel, Tower of the Heavens, absorbed Alton D’Yer through its granite.

Outside the tower, the glamour faded from the feral groundmite female the sentience had employed in its scheme. The ivory dress dissipated like smoke, revealing animal hide and the furry arms of a groundmite. She dropped to the ground, greedily popping “berries” into her mouth. The glamour faded from those, as well, revealing grubs.

Gone was the visage of a comely young woman. Deyer’s fever had been most propitious, further enhancing the illusion. It had been exhausting to play the part of Karigan and control the groundmite at the same time. She had wanted to rip Deyer’s head off.

In the end, it would all be worth it, the sentience thought. It allowed itself to be absorbed into the mossy ground. Deyer would sabotage the wall and bring it crashing down. Oh, the delicious irony of it, of a wall builder being its undoing.

There was more to look forward to. Varadgrim and Mirdhwell would find the one of Hadriax’s blood and bring her here.

It all meant waiting, but the sentience would do so exploring its memories.

VISIONS OF AN EMPIRE

Karigan wobbled atop the beam. It was only a couple feet off the ground, but last night’s indulgence of bitter ale, brought up from the Cock and Hen, and coupled with too little sleep, was more than enough to make her balance questionable at best.

She should have known better than to imbibe so much, but it had felt so good just to let her cares flow away amid the camaraderie of the other Riders . . . and the seemingly bottomless keg.

She wasn’t the only one who had arisen with a miserable headache this morning, but she had to get up earlier than most to prepare horses and provisions for messages that needed to go out. She pitied the Riders who with heavy heads and nauseated stomachs would spend their day in the saddle, but at least they didn’t have Drent screaming at them.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “You’re lurching around like a drunkard.”

His voice ricocheted from one side of her skull to the other, and she scowled. Mara had insisted she keep up with these verbal and physical trouncings indefinitely.

She placed one boot in front of the other with utmost care as she made her way down the narrow beam. It didn’t help there was a goodly lot of spectators; soldiers who decided to take breaks from their own training bouts to watch such fine entertainment.

One day, she’d make Mara pay. She wasn’t sure how, but she would do it. She smiled grimly, thinking Tegan wouldn’t be adverse to helping.

Back and forth Karigan moved along the beam, still wobbly, but managing to keep her perch. She thought it must be boring to watch, but the spectators did not leave. It made her suspicious.

Then, without warning, Drent whipped a practice sword at her legs. She side-stepped just in time, somehow maintaining her balance. The sword came again and she hopped down the beam to avoid it, arms flailing. Drent kept right with her, and this time, when he swept the sword at her, he struck her calves.

Karigan knew he wanted her to jump the blade, but it simply took her foggy mind too long to send the message to her feet. The leather of her boots shielded her calves pretty well from the impact of the blow, but it still hurt like the five hells. 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">