No more pinching jewels from the bedchambers of ladies. Unless he felt like it.
As determined as Amberhill was to see this through, the tension between him and Morry hurt. Never did Morry call him “sir,” except in public.
He shook off his feelings of guilt and doubt when he espied the package on the large library table. His boots! He set his glass aside and unbound the boots from their protective linen wrappings, inhaling the intoxicating fragrance of new leather.
This purchase represented one of his few extravagances. With the currency the plainshield advanced him, he’d gotten fitted for the boots in the finest shop in all of Sacor City. He chose only the best grade of leather, pliant but sturdy, which he now caressed, the lamplight gleaming off the polished, black finish. He could wear the boots unrolled to his thighs for riding, or rolled down as desired.
The expense was unbelievable, but he grew tired of wearing old things, things his father and grandfather once wore. He owned some garb specifically for thieving as the Raven Mask, but could not wear it when he was being himself, so he had to settle for the old things. He wished he could purchase a whole new wardrobe, but not only did he dare not squander his funds all at once, it would appear suspicious for him to suddenly dress like a well-off aristocrat. Comments would be made, and questions asked. He’d be noticed. Too many knew his father had gambled away the family holdings, and questions would lead to guesses about where he’d acquired the funds. He could not take the chance his role as the Raven Mask be revealed.
No, Amberhill dared only make careful purchases for now, and by the time his fortunes were transformed, no one would think to ask questions.
I will tell them I made a profitable business deal, he thought. And it will be the truth.
For all that Morry might worry, Amberhill saw only a bright future of opportunity and wealth.
THE WALL SPEAKS
We stand sentry day and night, through storm and winter, and freeze and thaw.
From Ullem Bay to—
The storm batters us.
From Ullem Bay to—
The storm weathers us.
To the shores of dawn we—
are cracking.
Hear us. Help us. Heal us.
Do not trust him. He nearly brought us to ruin.
Hate him!
We cannot trust. We hate him.
Yes, hate him.
THE STORM
Dale’s condition delayed Alton’s search for answers. He’d tried to hide his impatience from her—it wasn’t as if it was her fault. According to Leese, the Rider’s slowly healing wounds and the travel from Woodhaven had strained her and hampered recuperation. She’d been allowed to leave Woodhaven too soon, Leese had insisted, and Tower of the Heavens would have to wait a few more days for Dale to rest up.
It was true, Alton reflected as he approached the tower. He’d observed dark rings beneath Dale’s eyes and that she moved stiffly. She would not admit being tired or in pain, and he chose blindness, not wanting to see what was right in front of him because he needed answers, and he needed them now. Leese, however, had other ideas, and Dale was forced to take bed rest and swallow noxious teas that were supposed to help her heal. When Alton left her, he saw her expression of guilt for letting him down.
He could have said something reassuring to her, but he hadn’t. He’d just left her tent, bridling with frustration, frustration verging on anger at the delay. Now he stood before the tower, his hands clenched at his sides, needing to vent all he held within.
Delay!
His urgent need to fix the wall rose in him like a fever. He could no longer abide waiting. Every day lost meant another day closer to disaster. As if shadowing his mood, clouds built all morning, blotting out sunshine and turning day to dusk, and now they hung bloated and leaden above, ready to loose torrents of rain. The tips of trees wavered in the growing wind, as restless and unsettled as he felt. The wind carried the tang of the sea. This was a sea storm brewing, the kind that racked the coast in late summer and into fall, and here they were not all that far from the ocean.
He could practically feel the oncoming storm throbbing through him, and when he closed his eyes, he saw winds peeling spray off the crests of waves, layers of waves that plunged and reared gray-green and spewed foam. That turmoil roiled inside him.
Wind whooshed through the encampment snapping tent flaps and banners and sending sparks from campfires showering through the air. Columns of smoke bent, coiled, danced. It was as though the Earth had made a great exhalation.
Then everything stilled.
“We’re in for a good blow, m’lord,” said a nearby soldier on guard duty by the tower.
“Yes,” Alton replied, his voice quiet and tight. He gazed up at the sky and the first fat drops of rain fell from the heavens and splattered on his face.
The storm deepened the dark of night, the wind whipping the walls of Alton’s tent. He secured his shelter as best as he could with extra lengths of cord, and so far it was holding, but rain battered its way in through any hole it could find, and the wooden poles that supported the tent braced against the force of wind. He thanked the gods the tent was on a platform or he’d be swamped.
When his candle’s sputtering and twisting light added to his growing headache, he blew it out and went to his cot, which he’d had to move from beneath a leak, and laid down, pulling his damp blanket over him.
The shriek of wind and groan of tree boughs became voices in his mind as he drifted into uneasy sleep, and the drumming of rain on canvas was the hammer blows of a thousand stonecutters.
It was the voices, though, that bore deepest into his mind, their wailing, their despair. Their hatred. Walls of stone closed in on him and he tossed on his cot. The voices screamed at him.