Blackveil
Page 92
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Before she could even open her mouth, he was on to Yates. Karigan sat there at a loss. Had she heard him right? She bit her bottom lip. It had happened too quickly, and now he had already mounted the steps and paused on the landing. “May the blessings of Aeryc and Aeryon be upon you all,” he said.
General Harborough ordered them to ride out. Karigan reflexively reined Condor around, all of it a blur. However, as she rode away from the castle, she did not see the road ahead of her, but the image of the king standing straight and strong on the castle steps with his two terriers sitting on either side of him, the gleam of dawn on his amber hair, and his longcoat flapping in the wind.
She would keep that image, she knew, tucked away in her mind forever.
The sharp clip-clop of hooves on the street below awakened Galen Miller from a deep slumber. He rose from his pallet in a panic fearing an opportunity missed, and flung himself across the attic room to the window, his body ungainly from the sleep and the shaking disease that afflicted him. Could his long wait finally be over? He swung the window open and leaned out over the sill into the crisp air.
It was, he discovered, only a small military detachment riding two abreast at a smart trot down the nearly deserted street. The time was just past sunrise and the Winding Way remained darkened by the shadows of buildings, but he could discern the blue uniforms of the light cavalry and the green of messengers. There were a couple of soldiers in black and silver, and a pair of riders in what looked like forester’s garb. An odd assortment to be sure, and something Galen hadn’t seen before during his many hours of surveillance of the Winding Way, but certainly not what he’d been waiting for all this time.
After the company disappeared around a bend in the street, he sagged down to the floor beside the window and just sat there. The detachment was of no matter to him. He did not care what business hurried them on. No, they’d been a passing curiosity was all. He’d have to continue his vigil until what he wanted came into the view of the attic window.
He kept his longbow and quiver close by and now he reached out with a trembling hand to caress the inlay work and carvings of the bow, its graceful curves. It was truly the work of a master, both beautiful and deadly. He’d won it in a tournament when he was Clay’s age, a young man still, and an archer in old Lord Mirwell’s militia. He’d been the best. When he retired from duty, he used the bow for hunting and had taught Clay the ways of the woods and how to track quarry. Galen passed his hand over his eyes remembering good days spent in the woods with his son.
Clay had grown into a fine man and an expert tracker. He followed his father’s path and joined the militia. Everything would have been fine, but Lord Mirwell’s coup attempt failed and Clay went into hiding in the Teligmar Hills with his captain. Captain Immerez. Then there’d been the whole plot to abduct Lady Estora. Why had Clay gotten mixed up in all that?
The last image he had of his boy, before the undertaker nailed the lid of his coffin shut, was of Clay’s swollen, blackened face, his thickened tongue jutting between his teeth, his neck ravaged by the noose. At least he’d gotten a decent burial. Thanks to the stranger who’d given Galen those silvers, Clay was put to rest with dignity in a cemetery not far away from the inn. He’d even have a marker for his grave: Clay Miller, beloved son of Galen and Rosaline.
There was enough coin left over from the burial, and from the sale of his old mule and cart, for Galen to keep his attic room at the Cock and Hen with its all important view of the street, as well as to purchase the bitter weed from the herbalist he chewed to calm his shakes.
Sometimes the weed, however, gave him waking nightmares of seeing his boy dangling from the noose—not the adult man, but the tow-headed boy of about ten—his legs kicking, his body swaying, his struggles answered only by the jeers of the mob assembled to see him die. In these hallucinations, Clay struggled till he moved no more, the rope creaking on the gallows from his dead weight.
Just the memory of the visions set Galen off into choking sobs. “My boy, my boy ...” Morning bells chimed in the distance, a bright counterpoint to the shroud of darkness that perpetually lay upon him.
His only comfort was his longbow and arrows, and what he could do with them. Rightfully the bow should have been passed down to his son, but now Galen could only use it to honor him. He would maintain his vigil over the street and soon find peace.
THE MELODY OF THE WALL
“He does seem to like looking at walls.”
“You should have seen him last fall, staring at it all day long.”
Alton rolled his eyes wondering why he’d invited Dale and Estral along on this excursion if all they were going to do was make fun of him the whole time. Currently he faced the wall of Tower of the Earth, companion to Tower of the Heavens and the eight others that were part of the D’Yer Wall. He’d made contact with all the mages who, like Merdigen, existed in the towers, except for Haurris, who was responsible for Tower of the Earth. Even the other mages could not reach him, and though Alton tried, he could not gain entrance to the tower either. Merdigen said they’d have to assume the worst about Haurris.
What would be “the worst” for a noncorporeal projection of someone who lived a thousand years ago? Not existing at all, he supposed. He shrugged, for such questions entered a realm of philosophy he was in no mood to pursue at the moment.
He pressed his hand against the wall, feeling the cold, nubbly texture of the granite beneath his palm. The guardians of the wall sang their normal song and did not show any resistance to him, or any alarm for whatever was wrong with the tower, yet he could not enter. Dale had tried with similar results.
General Harborough ordered them to ride out. Karigan reflexively reined Condor around, all of it a blur. However, as she rode away from the castle, she did not see the road ahead of her, but the image of the king standing straight and strong on the castle steps with his two terriers sitting on either side of him, the gleam of dawn on his amber hair, and his longcoat flapping in the wind.
She would keep that image, she knew, tucked away in her mind forever.
The sharp clip-clop of hooves on the street below awakened Galen Miller from a deep slumber. He rose from his pallet in a panic fearing an opportunity missed, and flung himself across the attic room to the window, his body ungainly from the sleep and the shaking disease that afflicted him. Could his long wait finally be over? He swung the window open and leaned out over the sill into the crisp air.
It was, he discovered, only a small military detachment riding two abreast at a smart trot down the nearly deserted street. The time was just past sunrise and the Winding Way remained darkened by the shadows of buildings, but he could discern the blue uniforms of the light cavalry and the green of messengers. There were a couple of soldiers in black and silver, and a pair of riders in what looked like forester’s garb. An odd assortment to be sure, and something Galen hadn’t seen before during his many hours of surveillance of the Winding Way, but certainly not what he’d been waiting for all this time.
After the company disappeared around a bend in the street, he sagged down to the floor beside the window and just sat there. The detachment was of no matter to him. He did not care what business hurried them on. No, they’d been a passing curiosity was all. He’d have to continue his vigil until what he wanted came into the view of the attic window.
He kept his longbow and quiver close by and now he reached out with a trembling hand to caress the inlay work and carvings of the bow, its graceful curves. It was truly the work of a master, both beautiful and deadly. He’d won it in a tournament when he was Clay’s age, a young man still, and an archer in old Lord Mirwell’s militia. He’d been the best. When he retired from duty, he used the bow for hunting and had taught Clay the ways of the woods and how to track quarry. Galen passed his hand over his eyes remembering good days spent in the woods with his son.
Clay had grown into a fine man and an expert tracker. He followed his father’s path and joined the militia. Everything would have been fine, but Lord Mirwell’s coup attempt failed and Clay went into hiding in the Teligmar Hills with his captain. Captain Immerez. Then there’d been the whole plot to abduct Lady Estora. Why had Clay gotten mixed up in all that?
The last image he had of his boy, before the undertaker nailed the lid of his coffin shut, was of Clay’s swollen, blackened face, his thickened tongue jutting between his teeth, his neck ravaged by the noose. At least he’d gotten a decent burial. Thanks to the stranger who’d given Galen those silvers, Clay was put to rest with dignity in a cemetery not far away from the inn. He’d even have a marker for his grave: Clay Miller, beloved son of Galen and Rosaline.
There was enough coin left over from the burial, and from the sale of his old mule and cart, for Galen to keep his attic room at the Cock and Hen with its all important view of the street, as well as to purchase the bitter weed from the herbalist he chewed to calm his shakes.
Sometimes the weed, however, gave him waking nightmares of seeing his boy dangling from the noose—not the adult man, but the tow-headed boy of about ten—his legs kicking, his body swaying, his struggles answered only by the jeers of the mob assembled to see him die. In these hallucinations, Clay struggled till he moved no more, the rope creaking on the gallows from his dead weight.
Just the memory of the visions set Galen off into choking sobs. “My boy, my boy ...” Morning bells chimed in the distance, a bright counterpoint to the shroud of darkness that perpetually lay upon him.
His only comfort was his longbow and arrows, and what he could do with them. Rightfully the bow should have been passed down to his son, but now Galen could only use it to honor him. He would maintain his vigil over the street and soon find peace.
THE MELODY OF THE WALL
“He does seem to like looking at walls.”
“You should have seen him last fall, staring at it all day long.”
Alton rolled his eyes wondering why he’d invited Dale and Estral along on this excursion if all they were going to do was make fun of him the whole time. Currently he faced the wall of Tower of the Earth, companion to Tower of the Heavens and the eight others that were part of the D’Yer Wall. He’d made contact with all the mages who, like Merdigen, existed in the towers, except for Haurris, who was responsible for Tower of the Earth. Even the other mages could not reach him, and though Alton tried, he could not gain entrance to the tower either. Merdigen said they’d have to assume the worst about Haurris.
What would be “the worst” for a noncorporeal projection of someone who lived a thousand years ago? Not existing at all, he supposed. He shrugged, for such questions entered a realm of philosophy he was in no mood to pursue at the moment.
He pressed his hand against the wall, feeling the cold, nubbly texture of the granite beneath his palm. The guardians of the wall sang their normal song and did not show any resistance to him, or any alarm for whatever was wrong with the tower, yet he could not enter. Dale had tried with similar results.
