She dreamed of her friend Estral scribbling madly on a slate with a piece of chalk. Or was it a dream? She shook her muzzy head and the dream, or vision, or whatever it was, continued. In it, Estral held the slate up for someone—Alton?—to see. At first Karigan could not read the writing, as if it was formed in arcane symbols her dreaming eye forbade her to understand, but she concentrated, and the words blurred and came into focus: Have they found my father yet?
After a pause, Estral lowered her slate to the table, gazing as if listening to a speaker Karigan could not see or hear. Then Estral wiped the slate clean with a rag and started writing madly again, worry creased across her forehead. When she raised the slate once more, Karigan had no trouble reading the words, and it was then she realized she was no longer dreaming and that the scene was playing out on the mirror shard.
Yes, he wanders, Estral had written, but he always returns to Selium in time for the spring convocation. Estral seemed to listen to some response, then dropped the slate and turned away, placing her face in her hands. The scene vanished, leaving Karigan staring slack-jawed at her own reflection.
She shook herself to make sure she was awake. What was that scene about? Why was Estral writing on a slate to communicate? It couldn’t have been for Karigan’s benefit, because Estral seemed unaware of her looking in. Some singers went to great lengths to protect their voices, but Estral wasn’t like that. Perhaps she simply had a sore throat or laryngitis. And why did she seem to need her father, the Golden Guardian of Selium, so urgently? She had looked so worried. And she was right, he never missed the spring convocation when journeymen minstrels were raised to masters and awarded their gold knots.
Karigan was happy the looking mask shard had finally revealed one of her friends to her, but the scene had not been at all reassuring.
In the present: Alton D’Yer
Alton slipped out of his tent, fists clenched and ready to batter something hard, like the D’Yer Wall, but he didn’t do that anymore and hadn’t for a long while. But how was he to vent his frustration on Estral’s behalf? For the loss of her voice, the voice that had begun to mend the cracks in the wall? He, himself, tried to coax the guardians of the wall along with song, but his voice lacked the magic Estral’s held. Or had held.
The guardians had grown dispirited without her. The cracks stopped mending. Thank the gods the established repairs hadn’t reversed themselves.
The worst part was how powerless he felt in the face of Estral’s despair. Voice, song, music were as integral to her as the blood flowing in her veins. He did his best to soothe her, hold her, love her. Estral had once written out on her slate for him, that without music, she’d rather die. The spell that had stolen her voice had taken more: her very musicality. She no longer knew how to play her lute, and reading musical notation was like trying to read a foreign language.
If he ever found the caster of that spell, he’d crush the life out of him with his bare hands. He balled his fists compulsively and scowled at nothing but the air in front of him. The other tents, the trees, were all a blur, the sounds of the encampment far away. He had very strong hands, a stoneworker’s hands. He smiled grimly, savoring what he’d do to that spellcaster.
It did not help that Estral’s father, Lord Aaron Fiori, the Golden Guardian, seemed to have gone missing. He was known for his penchant for traveling anonymously, as an ordinary minstrel, but Estral insisted he was actually missing, that it was not like him to overlook certain events. They’d sent messages hoping to call him down to the wall so he could help Estral, and perhaps his voice would revive the interest of the guardians and the mending could continue, but the only word they’d received was that no one knew the whereabouts of the Golden Guardian. Last that was heard of him was that he’d been somewhere in the north of Adolind Province. The north was dangerous, what with all the Second Empire activity in that general direction.
“I promised to write the king,” Alton murmured. He’d promised Estral he would ask King Zachary to investigate the Golden Guardian’s disappearance. From what Alton gathered from some of Estral’s scribblings, Lord Fiori, along with some of his capable master minstrels, often made informal observations of what was happening in the realm and shared that information with the king as necessary. It did not take much imagination to conclude he’d gotten into trouble. Alton would also request that Captain Mapstone alert her Riders for any sign of the Golden Guardian.
The tent flap rustled open behind him, and he stepped aside so Leese, the encampment’s chief mender, could stand beside him.
“I’ve given Estral a draught to help her sleep,” Leese said. “But we can’t just keep dosing her.”
“I don’t know what to do,” Alton replied, gazing at his feet.
“Keep doing what you’ve been doing. Be with her, comfort her. She needs you right now. But, for all that love is a miraculous thing, you need to persuade her to eat when she wakes up, even if it’s a weak broth. I don’t like seeing her grow so thin so fast.”
“I know, I know.”
Leese placed her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it before moving off among the tents with her mender’s satchel slung over her shoulder.
Alton took a deep breath and plunged back into the dim interior of the tent. Estral lay on the cot on her side, the peace of sleep erasing the torment and worry from her features. He sat on the stool next to the cot and caressed her hair back from her face, the hands that had been so ready to kill just moments ago now gentle.