“Alton sent me.”

“The Deyer?”

“Alton D’Yer.”

Merdigen nodded. “Yes, the Deyer. That’s what I said.”

Dale put her hand on her hip and frowned. She could see this was going to take more than a little patience. “Right. The Deyer. He sent me in here because the wall won’t let him pass.”

Merdigen tugged on his beard. “That much I know.”

“Alton—the Deyer—wants to know the latest on the condition of the wall—anything you can tell him. He also wants to know if there is some way to get around the guardians to let him enter.”

“Hah! As if the wall would talk to him even if he got in! Tell me, has the book been found?”

Fortunately Dale knew what book he was referring to thanks to Garth’s briefing. “I don’t know. I’m sure King Zachary will see to it that it’s looked for.”

“Zachary of Hillander,” Merdigen muttered. “At least another two hundred years have not passed while you people dillydally about, trying to figure out what to do.”

“What? Two hundred years?” Dale scrunched her eyebrows together. “Er, no.”

“Well, I can only tell you what I told that big fellow, Garth, is that the guardians will have nothing to do with the Deyer. He betrayed them.”

“He did no—”

Merdigen raised his hand to silence her. “Knowingly or not, he betrayed them and nearly brought the whole of the wall down in spectacular and utter ruin. As it is, the guardians are in disarray, confused, and even if the wall would talk to him, I could not guarantee his success in calming it down. And there is another thing.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice as if afraid he might be overheard. “There is also a strand of hate and—and…” He shuddered. “And madness in the voices of the guardians.”

It was all beyond Dale’s comprehension. She knew the wall was inhabited by “guardians,” what she imagined to be spiritlike presences, and that somehow they wove the magical fabric of the wall together to keep it stable. What she didn’t understand was how the guardians accomplished this and what Alton had done to “betray” them. Once she finished with Merdigen, the two Riders would have a lengthy talk.

“Not only is there physical damage to the wall,” Merdigen continued, “but I think—I think the other Deyer, the Pendric who is now a guardian, I think it is his despair that is spreading to the others.”

Pendric, Pendric, Pendric… Then Dale remembered that Pendric was Alton’s recently deceased cousin. His name was mentioned in hushed tones in Woodhaven, but his death had not been explained to her, and she didn’t pry.

“So what does it all mean?”

“Hope that your king finds the book,” Merdigen said, “because if the wall falls into despair and madness, then all is lost.”

Alton scrounged up a “nip of something” from his private stores and splashed it into both Dale’s teacup and his own. The concoction scoured Dale’s throat as it went down and she had several breathless moments before she could speak, and when she did so, she would not want to be next to an open flame.

“Good tea,” she said in a hoarse voice.

Alton grinned. “My aunt, on my mother’s side, distills whiskey. Got a couple casks among the packages my parents sent.”

That was one aunt, Dale thought, she would like to meet someday. Her tongue tasted the cool, mossy water used in the distilling process, even diluted by the tea. Perhaps it was an extension of her special ability to recognize it, or maybe it was just the taste of good whiskey.

She eased back into her chair, the concoction relaxing her. She was tired, more tired than she imagined she’d be after her trip from Woodhaven and dealing with the tower. Her bones ached and her wound was sore, but the whiskey helped. Her return through the wall was silent, much to her relief. No voices touched her mind, but she felt a watchful presence around her, like thousands of eyes observing her passage.

Alton sat across from her, his legs sprawled out. They left the tent flaps open to allow fresh air to circulate within, and considering the state of Alton’s tent and the stale taint that clung to its walls, it was probably a good idea. His blankets were rumpled upon his cot, and uniform parts were strewn about and hanging over the sides of his travel chests. Books were stacked on his table next to a lamp and a nub of a candle, the tent roof stained with a circle of soot. Apparently servants saw to removing his used dishes, and the cleaning of the lamp’s chimney, and probably they laundered his clothes, but the place was still shabby and unkempt.

The Alton of old had been meticulous—perhaps not to the extent of Ty’s zeal for perfection—but his boots had always shone and he’d worn his uniform without stain or wrinkle. He used to comb his hair and keep his face free of whiskers. Now he possessed the look of someone forgetful of the world around him, and perhaps he was, because of his obsession with the wall.

As they talked, Alton’s expression darkened and his tea cooled, forgotten on the table. When Dale finished telling him about her visit with Merdigen, he chucked his tea out the tent opening and refilled his mug with plain whiskey which he swallowed in a single swig.

“I don’t believe it,” he said at last.

“Which part?”

“All of it. There has got to be some way to make the wall listen to me. I mean, how likely is it that the book will be found? And if it is found, who’s to say it will offer any help?”