Blackveil

Grandmother was in awe for it was beyond her expectations. “My dear little child,” she murmured. “You are a true artist.” She hugged Lala and received a rare smile in return. When she called Lala a “true artist,” she did not mean one who was a master of aesthetics, though that element was certainly present in her granddaughter’s creations, but rather one who was gifted with the ability to shape etherea. Grandmother would have to carefully watch over the girl’s development.

Now, however, she must take advantage of the fire herself. She needed to check on Birch. She cast one of his fingernail clippings, wrapped in knotted yarn, into the flames. A vision blossomed in the roiling blaze of a small settlement in a clearing of the forest—not Blackveil, but the living green forest of the north. The rank smoke of the bonfire was replaced by the more pleasant scent of smoke that issued from chimneys. Birds awakened to the new spring chattered and called in the trees. Through Birch’s eyes, she peered from the concealment of the woods at the quiet settlement. A man chopped wood, while another harnessed a pair of oxen for the day’s work. A young girl helped a woman scrub laundry in a washbasin.

Birch’s gaze swept away from the settlement to his side and behind him. Other men, with weapons drawn, waited, hidden just as he was. The etherea allowed Grandmother to delve deeper into Birch’s mind and she learned that this was a training mission for his soldiers, that they were to take no prisoners. The point was to teach them not to pity the enemy, without regard for age or gender.

The settlement was located on Sacoridia’s northern boundary and was therefore largely unprotected and certainly no threat to Second Empire. Birch, however, wanted his soldiers to taste blood, to become initiated in the kill of battle before they had to face stronger, more seasoned opponents.

It was a good strategy, she thought, so long as it did not bring the wrath of King Zachary upon them prematurely, but she sensed Birch’s confidence that he and his soldiers would slip away into hiding long before the king even learned of the attack.

Birch gestured to his soldiers and they moved forward, ghosting between the trees, over patches of snow that clung to forest shadows, and they surged into the clearing with blades ready to strike down the unsuspecting settlers.

The battle cry of the soldiers was greeted by the screams and shouts of the enemy. The man chopping wood was the first to die, and a torch was set to his cottage. Grandmother observed the action as Birch did. He held back, allowing his subordinate officers to lead the attack. Some soldiers did to the women and girls as soldiers had always done while their menfolk were forced to watch. Birch did not stop them. When they finished, the women and men were slaughtered.

Grandmother watched dispassionately. Ravaging the enemy’s women was a way to further defeat those who would take up arms, and she sensed from Birch that he planned to somehow make this obvious by leaving a “message” for the king.

When she saw that the settlers had been slain to the smallest child and all their buildings set afire, she felt comfortable that Birch had everything well in hand. She decided to leave him and gaze elsewhere. She tossed another length of yarn into the fire, and the image of the settlement burned away from her vision.

A new vision did not come to her. She saw only the dance of fire, but she heard a thread of music, beautiful music, just above the roar of flames.

What’s this? she wondered.

She closed her eyes and the music flowed through her, joyful, serene, led by a crystalline voice. A haunting chorus echoed the singer, accompanied by the distant rhythm of hammers on stone, a sound of endurance and strength ...

It was, she realized, the whisper she’d sensed in the etherea at the wall. Grandmother snapped her eyes open before she could be sucked in any farther. “No,” she murmured.

Min touched her arm. “Grandmother? What is it? Are you well?”

Grandmother took Min’s hand, welcoming that human touch, the support.

“I am well,” she said, “but things at the wall trouble me.”

The wall was strengthening. Someone’s voice, a voice that could cultivate the art, shape etherea, was leading the wall guardians in song. Who could it be? Who still walked the Earth that could do such a thing?

The who did not matter. The result did. If the Sacoridians repaired the wall before the Sleepers were awakened and the forest arose, then all her efforts and hopes for Second Empire would fail. She would fail God Himself.

She’d made a critical mistake. She should not have entered the forest without the book of Theanduris Silverwood in her hands. Was it possible her people had failed to acquire it and the Sacoridians were now using it to mend the wall? She could not tell by observing through Birch’s eyes—he was busy with his own mission.

She should have waited for the book, but God had clearly told her to awaken the Sleepers. Perhaps He had His own plan, but if He did, it was not obvious to her.

Grandmother sighed and clung to Min. Her body shook with the effort she’d already expended seeking visions. To her surprise, the fire had burned down considerably, but Lala’s art still colored the flames.

“I must rest now,” Grandmother told the others.

As Min helped her to a blanket spread on the ground, she realized what was done was done. If the Sacoridians had obtained the Silverwood book and someone gifted with the art was singing the wall to strength, then there was only one thing she could do to prevent the mending of the wall: destroy the singer.

She eased down onto the blanket with Min’s assistance, already planning on how she might accomplish the task.