“I know,” Alton said.

“You know? Then why am I going to all this trouble?”

Before Alton could stop him, Merdigen wiped away the schema with a sweeping gesture of his hand. “I suppose I’ll go through the whole procedure and then you’ll tell me you know how to do it.”

“I know something of it, of talking with stone. The song.”

“You don’t need me then, hmm?” Merdigen grumped. He pointed at the arched doorway to their right. “The breach is to the west, so use the west portal.”

“Just—just like that?”

“Yes. Now leave me, I’m busy. I must feed the cat.”

Alton shook his head as Merdigen walked away and vanished. “And I thought Karigan had all the strangest experiences . . .”

Karigan. She had taught him a song.

He turned and the arched entry of the west portal stood before him, beckoning, mysterious, and imposing. The fascia framing the arch appeared plain, except when he shifted his stance and runes embedded in the stone suddenly shimmered to life. What material could do that? he wondered. So much stonecraft lost. Enchanted, he traced a rune with his forefinger. It was as smooth as marble, but made of some other unknown mineral or ore. They required no light to come to life.

He vowed to one day discover the process and replicate it. It was his dream to restore the old craft to Clan D’Yer.

His eyes roved to the center of the arch, to the key-stone, and there, carved in relief, were the tools of the stone-worker’s trade—hammer, drill, wedges, chisel. This more than anything called to him; it was his birthright to be here now, his destiny as a D’Yer, a worker of stone. He would fix the wall.

He limped through the arched entry of the portal into darkness greater than night. He put his hands out before him, groping in the air, but within a few paces he came to a wall of stone. The wall? It could be none other.

He settled his hands on it and opened his mind to it, just as he had been instructed. Silvery runes lit up around his hands.

Greetings, cousin, the guardians seemed to whisper.

Alton closed his eyes, and sank into the wall.

SPURLOCK

Spurlock fumed as he stomped through the abandoned corridor, a pool of lamplight shivering around him. Never was the girl alone, never! How could he carry out the will of Blackveil if he couldn’t get near her?

Constantly she was in attendance to the king, which meant she was constantly surrounded by guards, Weapons, and witnesses. At other times she was training with that monster, Drent. Spurlock didn’t dare venture near the training yard, knowing how suspicious it would look for him, of all people, to be there. On top of everything, she was currently housed in the diplomatic wing, which was also heavily guarded.

He entered a chamber and was welcomed by the glow of Sergeant Uxton’s lamp. They chose a new room to meet in every time now, after nearly running into a Weapon in their old place. This room was located above the records room, so Spurlock planned the meeting for early in the morning before Dakrias Brown reported to duty, for the old glass domed roof was still in place above it, despite the construction of more castle overhead. Their lights would shine right through it.

As if responding to his thoughts, their lamps rippled across the glass in swirling colors. Spurlock had an impression of figures dancing to life and horses stretched out in full gallop, swords being swung, and pennants snapping in a breeze. He didn’t know what events the stained glass depicted, and he didn’t care. It was, no doubt, the usual heroic nonsense.

Uxton regarded him curiously. Spurlock hadn’t invited the other members of the sect, deeming them unlikely to be as helpful as Uxton. The others were outsiders, for all they had business on the castle grounds, and he feared their too frequent visits would draw unwanted attention, especially after the “intrusion” of Lord Varadgrim. Security on the grounds had tightened perceptibly. Uxton, in contrast, was an insider, with a valid reason to be within the castle. He wore the king’s own insignia, and the black and silver of Sacoridia.

“We have had, as you know, a call to action,” Spurlock said, without even the pretense of a greeting. He dispensed with the ritual used to open meetings, as well. He was too irritated with Karigan G’ladheon, and he perceived there was too little time. After a thousand years, the time was now. He would honor his ancestors and the empire in actions, if not rituals.

Uxton waited expectantly.

“Our lack of progress is a disgrace to our ancestors. Karigan G’ladheon is too well protected.”

“Not much we can do about it,” Uxton said with an indifferent shrug, “unless we can get her alone.”

That was not a helpful reply, but what could Spurlock expect from an uneducated man? He had brawn, but lacked intellect. One day Spurlock would surround himself with only the best minds. “Blackveil is arising. Here is a chance to further our glorious mission of resurrecting the Arcosian Empire, a chance we have not had in a thousand years, and all you can say is that there isn’t much we can do about it?”

Uxton hooked his thumb into his belt. “You have an idea of how to move things along?”

Spurlock frowned. Why was it he had to find all the answers? Why was he surrounded by simpletons? “We must lure her away from the king and his protectors, and out of the diplomatic wing, to someplace where we can trap her.”

“You just need the lure,” Uxton said. “I think I know a way. It will require a little planning, and the help of our brothers and sisters.”