Grandmother’s ancestors had had the foresight to steal and hold onto this finger bone, somehow knowing that it would one day be required for a then unknown task. That task was now apparent, and Grandmother was humbled that it should happen in her time. In order to find the book of Theanduris Silverwood, she needed something of his essence, and the finger bone would serve perfectly.

It was the full finger, the joints held together with faded, knotted yarn, the bone smooth ivory. She slipped it into the pouch, used the word of power, and flung it into the fire. The yarn of the pouch wiggled like glowing worms and the bone itself tried to probe its way out of the pouch, out of the fire, but it was trapped. The pouch melted into the bone until it all became one molten lump among the coals.

Grandmother was tired. Making the sphere had drained her, but she gathered what energy remained and blew on the coals. The flames leaped, and from them rose another sphere, a tiny orb of red-gold flame that wafted in the air.

“Lead Thursgad to the book of Theanduris Silverwood,” she commanded it.

The seeker floated through the air and slowly circled around Thursgad’s head. He licked his lips and a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“It will lead you along the most direct route,” Grandmother said.

Captain Immerez beckoned forth one of his soldiers, who waited with Thursgad’s horse and gear. Without a word, Thursgad mounted, his gaze cocked to the seeker.

“Go with my blessing,” she told him.

“Aye, Grandmother,” he said, and the seeker flared and sped to the east.

“What are you waiting for, idiot?” the captain yelled at Thursgad.

Thursgad spurred his horse after the seeker.

Captain Immerez muttered inaudibly as he watched Thursgad vanish from sight, then said, “I impressed upon him that he was not to fail. He isn’t the sharpest nail of the bunch, you know.”

Grandmother sighed. “I do know, but he will not fail me.”

The captain seemed about to walk away, but hesitated. He rubbed the curve of his hook against his chin the way he always did when troubled or in deep thought. “Grandmother, that other thing you made…What was it?”

“Just something to keep the king and his men busy. Yes, a little bit of yarn to shake the castle’s foundation.” But it was much more than that. So much more.

When it was clear nothing else was forthcoming, the captain left her, striding toward his side of the encampment.

Grandmother inspected her red and blistered hands, and before she knew it, Lala was at her side with a pot of healing salve without even being asked.

“Such a good girl,” Grandmother said. “I’m tired to the bone, but as soon as we take care of my old hands, we should help lay out Amala’s baby.”

Lala rubbed the salve into Grandmother’s hands, then helped her rise to get her aching bones moving. Grandmother hobbled toward Amala’s tent from which so much grief emanated.

“Her child died for the empire,” Grandmother murmured. “I will make her see that and she will be proud.”

MERDIGEN’S TALE

The storm hadn’t done any of them good, Dale reflected, except possibly Alton. It seemed to ease some turmoil within him; that is until he realized he was beset by yet more delays, namely having to deal with the devastation in both encampments. As the man of rank, it was his obligation to oversee recovery efforts.

The wind had peeled roofs off new cabins in the main encampment and trees had flattened tents. Every single person worked to secure shelter, rescue supplies, and tend the injured—even Dale, though Leese made her rest frequently.

Being struck by Alton and falling into the mud had not helped Dale’s injury, but it wasn’t so much the physical pain or telltale bruise on her cheek that hurt most. It was more the wound to her spirit. Rationally she knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her, that he’d been caught up in some inner battle the way he’d shaken his fist at the storm and yelled who-knew-what at the gods. He’d looked a madman in the flashes of lightning as the wind and rain lashed him.

She remembered how the moon priests used to talk about the demons that occupied the hells and how at times they escaped their imprisonment and infested the souls of people and changed their behavior. At their worst, the demons could provoke people to commit vile acts like murder. She didn’t think Alton struggled with actual demons, but it was a good metaphor for what he seemed to be battling.

In the days following the storm she’d heard the whispers circulating among the soldiers, laborers, and servants of the two camps, who thought him cracking just like his cousin had. Alton must have overheard the talk, too, for he’d worked dawn to dark to restore order, reshingling roofs, clearing broken boughs, mending tents. She believed only the thinnest of veneers, however, held his frustration and anger at bay.

Yes, rationally she knew he wasn’t himself when he’d hit her, but no matter how often he apologized, hurt lingered inside. He had not been able to stop himself from hitting her, his friend and fellow Rider.

Presently the sun beat down on her shoulders as she stood before the tower wall. She could not reconcile the day’s serenity with the howling tempest of that night, but the debris still strewn about the encampment was sufficient evidence of what had happened.

At breakfast, Alton declared enough work had been accomplished that he could once again focus on the wall and Tower of the Heavens, and now she sensed his presence behind her like a physical force urging her to pass through stone.