RESONANCE
As they rode back toward the encampment, Alton
explained about the book of Theanduris Silverwood, but Estral was
already well aware of it. Then he remembered Karigan had gone to
Selium looking for it. This Estral confirmed.
“After Karigan
left,” she said, “we pretty much tore apart the archives looking
for the book even though we were sure it wasn’t there. Word came
later from the king that it had been found elsewhere.” She sighed
heavily. “Then we had to put the archives back in
order.”
Alton gathered from
her expression and tone of voice it had not been the most
pleasurable of experiences. As he gazed at her, he couldn’t help
noticing how the morning sun falling through the branches of trees
dappled her hair making golden strands shine among the more
subdued, sandy ones.
He cleared his
throat and went on to explain how Theandris documented the making
of the wall and all the sacrifices required. Estral nodded as if it
only confirmed her suspicions.
“A lot of blood was
shed in those days,” she said, “even when the war was over. But the
way in which the wall was built was kept secret, even from the
first Golden Guardian, or especially
from him.” She lapsed into deep thought as their horses plodded
along, eventually saying, “It’s not exactly the sort of thing you
want the minstrels to sing about. I imagine back then King Jonaeus
found ways to keep Gerlrand—he was the first Golden Guardian—busy
and out of the way. He had the school at Selium to establish and
all.”
“Perhaps he was in
on it,” Alton suggested, “but kept it quiet.” When Estral glared at
him, he added, “My ancestors were certainly in on it whether they
wanted to be or not, and managed to keep the methods used for
building the wall a secret. I do not think they wished such
necromancy to be repeated, and perhaps it was the same with
Gerlrand.”
As quickly as it
came, the anger vanished from Estral’s face. “I do not think
Gerlrand could keep a secret like that. It’s not our
way.”
They rode on in
silence and Alton could tell his words had disturbed her and she
was now less certain.
“So how is it you
think I can help save the wall?” she asked. “You’re not planning to
sacrifice me to it, are you?”
“I’d need more than
just you for that,” Alton replied.
“I don’t know
whether to be relieved or insulted.”
Though she was
smiling when she said it, Alton decided it was better not to
attempt a direct response and get into deeper trouble with
Karigan’s friend, but he couldn’t help a small smile of his own.
“It’s a measure of music,” he said. “In the middle of Theanduris’
ramblings about how clever he was, he put down a measure of music.
There is no explanation as to why or what it is.”
“And you think this
measure of music will help the wall?”
Alton shrugged. “Who
knows? Maybe Theanduris had the notion of composing some great
piece of music in his own honor. But I think it’s more. It is song,
after all, that keeps the wall guardians unified.”
Estral played with
her horse’s mane as she rode along, flipping it from one side to
the other. “It’s an interesting combination,” she said. “Blood and
song to make the wall strong.”
“And good
craftsmanship,” Alton could not help adding. “In any case, I
thought maybe you could look at that measure of music, see what you
make of it.”
It was almost all
Alton could do to keep from leading them back at a gallop. He
refrained because Estral appeared content to amble along at a
thoughtful walk. He fell into his own ruminations, which though
they started out about the wall, veered to his wondering how much
he could pry out of Estral about Karigan. Oddly enough, there were
some basic things he did not know about her. What, for instance,
was her favorite color? It was hard to tell when all they ever wore
was green. It seemed there was always something else crowding out
the small details—message errands, battles, walls. Alton’s own very
bad behavior ...
He’d have to proceed
with caution when broaching the subject of Karigan with Estral. The
journeyman minstrel, he could tell, was shrewd and would protect
her friend no matter how innocent his questions.
Eventually they
arrived at the main encampment at the breach. Alton reined Night
Hawk east to head toward the tower encampment, but someone called
out to him. It was Leese, the chief mender. As she approached he
noted her haggard condition, the rings beneath her eyes, the slump
to her shoulders. With a sense of foreboding, he knew this was not
going to be good news.
“My lord,” she said,
halting before them, “I thought you should know that Private Tomsen
did not make it.”
Tomsen. The man
injured in last night’s attack. Alton bowed his head.
“He lost too much
blood,” Leese continued. “And what was left was poisoned by the
creature’s bite. We worked through the night to save him but to no
avail.”
“You did all you
could,” Alton said.
The mender nodded.
“I fear our skills are inadequate for the dangers the forest
presents.”
Before Alton could
respond, Leese turned and walked slowly back into the encampment,
the very picture of defeat. He gazed at Estral Andovian wondering
if he’d made the right decision in bringing her back.
“Don’t you dare
change your mind,” she told him as though able to read his
thoughts. “I take on this risk myself.”
Alton wondered if
her father and Karigan would see it that way should something bad
happen. He shook his head and nudged Night Hawk forward, Estral
falling in behind.
Alton emerged from
the tower with the one page of manuscript that held the music. When
he handed it to Estral, she gazed hard at it for some
moments.
“The script is very
old-fashioned,” she said, “but that’s no surprise considering when
Theanduris lived. The copyist seems to have made a very faithful
representation of the original. And if that is the case ...” She
fell into silence.
“If that is the case
what?” Alton pressed.
“If that is the
case, then the original measure of music was written in Gerlrand’s
hand. I’d recognize it anywhere.” She frowned.
Alton did not think
an “I told you so” would be appreciated, so he kept his mouth
shut.
“Five simple notes,”
she murmured. Then almost inaudibly she hummed.
There was nothing
extraordinary about the brief tune that Alton could perceive, but
it was almost as if Estral’s voice were enfolded in a current of
air and carried off to the heavens.
She hummed the tune
again, louder, and this time there was a slight resonance—not an
audible resonance, but Alton could feel a tingling on the back of
his neck. Maybe it was just the sweetness of her
voice.
“Doesn’t sound like
much,” Estral said. “I can’t see how this has anything to do with
the wall. Can you?”
“I don’t
know.”
“It feels
incomplete,” Estral mused, “as if that last note is wanting an
answer.”
Answers, Alton thought. All we
ever want is answers, but all we ever have are
questions.
“If you don’t mind,”
Estral continued, “I’d like to hold onto this and play with it. It
might not do anything for the wall, but as an artifact of
Gerlrand’s, it’s of interest.”
“I’d prefer you make
a copy and return this one to me.”
“Of course.” Estral
hurried off, presumably to Dale’s tent to do just
that.
Alton faced the wall
wondering if he should have mentioned the resonance he had felt. It
had been so subtle he almost couldn’t credit it. He’d keep it to
himself for now and see if Estral came up with anything more as she
studied the piece of music. He wanted to keep his expectations low
since he’d already been disappointed time and again. He could not
help but wonder, however, why Theanduris would include the music if
it weren’t important. The great mage had thought much of his own
cleverness and Alton did not doubt he’d delight in confounding
anyone who tried to solve his riddle.
Did Theanduris and
Alton’s ancestors have any idea that one day their great wall would
be broken? Did they know the menace of Mornhavon could survive for
so many centuries?
It seemed to Alton
they must have known and prepared as best as they could by
provisioning the wall with keepers, making sure it was patrolled.
What they did not count on was the frailty of human memory, of
human needs and priorities. A time had come when those other
priorities overrode the importance of maintaining the wall. The
keepers disappeared, the tower mages slept, and the wall was left
to itself, unguarded and unmaintained.
What was needed was
a permanent solution. The wall, for all its impressive
craftsmanship and magic, had proved itself impermanent. It almost
felt like a betrayal to Alton’s ancestors to think it, but the
realization was dawning on him that the wall was not the final
answer. Like Karigan carrying Mornhavon into the future, the wall
only bought them time. He guessed King Zachary had come to this
very conclusion himself a while ago and that was why he was sending
Sacoridians into Blackveil with the Eletians.
When Alton first
read the king’s letter informing him of the expedition, he believed
lives were being needlessly thrown away. He had barely survived
Blackveil himself and it had taken him a long time to recover from
his experiences in the forest. However, with this new
understanding, he recognized the importance of the expedition in
seeking a permanent solution to the problem of Mornhavon the
Black.
Even knowing this,
Alton’s drive to fix the wall remained undiminished. If he could
fix it, keep it intact for another thousand years, maybe it would
give his people the protection and time they needed to find a way
of finally defeating Mornhavon forever.
Alton could only do
his part.
He sighed. He
supposed he need not worry about keeping busy, what with the
mysteries of the wall to solve and a journeyman minstrel to keep
his eye on.