“Oh.” Alton’s vision dimmed and he swayed, hanging onto the pedestal before him so he wouldn’t fall over.

“You awakened me when you touched the tempes stone,” Merdigen said.

“Tempes stone?”

“Beneath your hands, boy.”

The green stone atop the pedestal was polished into a sparkling oval. “The tourmaline?”

“Yes, yes, yes. I am a guardian. I assist the wallkeepers in assessing the wall’s condition when summoned. Are you not a wallkeeper, boy?”

“No. Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. And a Green Rider.”

Meridgen’s eyes brightened with interest and he eagerly leaned forward. “How goes the war?”

“War . . . ?” Alton was having trouble making sense of it all.

“Yes. Has old Smidhe beat back the Mirwells yet? Last Orla heard was that the Riders had thrown in their lot with Hillander.”

“Clan Wars.” Alton shook his muzzy head. “Two hundred years ago.”

“What?” Merdigen hopped to his feet, spry for an old man, or a projection of an old man. “Two hundred years have gone by and no one has checked with me since? What madness is this?”

If Alton had been able to, he would have explained how the wallkeepers were drawn into the war one by one until none remained, and how the wall, seemingly indestructible, was left to stand on its own, its corps of keepers never to return. Before he could say a word, however, he collapsed.

Alton rolled his head and groaned.

“The wall is in a terrible state, boy. What are you going to do about it?”

Alton blinked open his eyes to find Merdigen standing over him. “Water . . .” he whispered.

“I am a guardian, not a water bearer! Besides, I cannot carry anything material. It would slip right through my fingers. Only illusion.” A large sea turtle suddenly appeared in his hands, looking every bit like the real thing, even propelling its flippers through the air. Then with a poof, it was gone.

Alton rubbed his eyes. He was having delusions again—serious delusions. “I need water.”

“Very well then. Follow me.”

The guardian strode away from him, his robes stirred by the breeze that flowed across the grasslands. He paused expectantly between a pair of columns.

“This way,” Merdigen said.

Alton crawled painstakingly after him, across stone. Curiously, the stone was dusty, as though unexposed to the open sky. His fingers felt broken bits of clay pipes, a button or two, and even a large belt buckle, all fragments, he supposed, of the lives of the wallkeepers who had once served in this most unusual tower.

He followed Merdigen between the two columns and his world altered yet again—the light dampened and was no longer sunshine, but a glowing orb that floated overhead. Stone walls surrounded him, the grasslands banished. Banished to where?

He gazed over his shoulder. The columns encircled the middle of a chamber and supported the ceiling above. The two arches remained across the chamber from one another and were embedded in walls, leading not to the horizon, but into darkness only.

Merdigen’s table, with its unfinished game of Intrigue on top, stood snug against one wall. In the very center of the chamber sat the tempes stone on its pedestal, and above it floated a glowing cloud of green and blue that captured all the essence of the grasslands and sky.

Alton rubbed sweat out of his eyes, uncertain of what was real and what was not, and thinking how extremely ill he must be to have fallen prey to such dreams.

Merdigen stood beside a stone basin in the wall, his hands clasped behind his back. Alton crawled to him and rested his face against the cool floor. After his brief respite, he hauled himself to his feet, using the basin to support himself. At his touch, water spouted from the mouth of a copper fish and filled the basin.

He glanced in wonder at Merdigen. “This is real?”

“Try it.”

Alton dipped his hands into the streaming water. It was clear, cold, and wet, and very real, unless his fever had sent him into total delusion. The water did not smell foul, so he let it fill his cupped hands and he drank of it. He kept drinking till his thirst was slaked, splashing his face and chest in the process. He paused, leaning against the basin, water dripping from his chin. It cooled his fever and cleared his mind.

“Magic?” he asked Merdigen.

“An elemental conjuring, performed by Winthorpe. He did it in each tower for the convenience of the keepers.”

“Thank the gods,” Alton said. He rummaged through a nearby cabinet and found some crockery, including a cup. He filled it from the basin, and slid to the floor, his back against the wall.

Merdigen conjured himself a stool, and a teacup and saucer. Perched atop his stool, he looked down at Alton and asked, “Who won?”

“Won what?”

“The war, boy, the war! I have been waiting in suspense for you to regain your senses so I could find out.”

“Oh. Smidhe Hillander became king.”

Merdigen let out a whoop, spilling illusory tea on his robes. “Orla said he’d make a fine king, and that the D’Yers would join forces with him.”

“We did.”

“And he was a good king, this Smidhe?”

Alton shrugged. “Guess so. His reign was considered bloody, but he had to bring the renegade clans to heel in order to unify the country.”

Merdigen’s teacup clinked onto its saucer. “And this was two hundred years ago . . .”

Alton nodded.