“Dear, dear. Do the Hillanders still rule?”

“Yes. Since Smidhe’s time, Sacoridia has had peace. King Zachary now sits in the high throne in Sacor City.”

“King Zachary,” Merdigen said, as if testing the name for himself. “Such a shame that Agates Sealender fellow never named an heir, starting the war in the first place.” He tsked, tsked, and sipped at his tea.

Alton reflected it was surely odd to be discussing history with a magical projection—whatever precisely that was. An illusion? “How long have you been here, Merdigen?”

“Since they built the Haethen Toundrel. Since the closure of the Long War.”

If his mind were less fuzzy, if he had felt well, Alton might have marveled at Merdigen’s words, and at Merdigen himself. He’d have asked endless questions about the past, and about the building of the wall. As it was, he had a hard enough time keeping his eyes open.

He surveyed his legs, to take in the extent of the poison within him. The thorn scratches were still an angry red, swollen, and weeping pus.

“I don’t suppose there’s a way to make this water hot,” he said.

Merdigen gestured at a kitchen hearth nearby. “A wood fire should do it.”

Alton frowned. There was no wood to burn, unless he broke the furniture. He did not think he had the strength.

“Making the water hot would have required transformative power, and Winthorpe was no good at it, y’see. He was only good at elemental. Though,” he added on reflection, “he could’ve started a roaring fire.”

Alton let Merdigen rattle on, and set to bathing his wounds best as he could with cold water. His body shivered with more chills, and when he was done, exhaustion took hold and he slept where he sat.

He dreamed of Karigan coming to him, singing to him a song he remembered. Yes, he must remember it. She sat in a sunlit glade, her legs tucked beneath the skirt of her dress. White flowers were woven into her hair.

Remember, dearest, she told him.

Alton would do anything for her. “I’ll remember,” he promised.

He came to with a groan. Sleeping in a sitting position had produced an ache in his back, adding to his misery.

Merdigen remained perched on his stool, paging through some old tome. Alton wondered if such activity actually engaged the magical projection in some way, or if Merdigen did it to simulate life and bring an added sense of comfort to the keepers. For an illusion, if that’s what a magical projection was, Merdigen certainly retained a good amount of personality, memory, and intelligence.

“Well?” Merdigen asked, noting Alton’s wakefulness. His book popped out of existence.

“Well, what?”

“There is a breach in the wall. What are you going to do about it?”

“Fix it.”

“Very good.” Merdigen applauded. “When you are finished, we can pick up the game where Orla left off.”

When Alton didn’t move, Merdigen shifted impatiently on his stool. “Well?”

“I don’t know quite where to begin,” Alton said.

“Look here, boy, it is not my job to provide instruction. What are your clan elders thinking by sending me a novice, eh?”

“They didn’t send me. Not exactly, anyway.”

Merdigen sat back in surprise. “And what precisely does that mean?”

It was taking quite a bit of energy to converse with the cantankerous Merdigen, energy Alton could not spare.

“I am a D’Yer,” he said, “and I came to fix the wall. Will you help me or not?”

Merdigen squinted and tapped a finger on his knee. “Hmm. Two hundred years since last there was a keeper. There ought to be a good explanation for that.”

There isn’t, Alton thought, but he did not comment aloud for fear of sending the chatty magical projection off on another tangent.

“So, after two hundred years everyone has forgotten how to join with the wall. Am I correct?”

“Yes,” Alton said.

Merdigen puffed out his mustaches. “Very well, follow me.” He hopped off his stool—which promptly disappeared—and headed for the center of the chamber where the tempes stone sparkled on its pedestal, dark night and stars now clouding above it.

Alton followed as best he could, lightheaded and with pain stabbing his legs with each step. He stepped between the columns and into night, the columns and arches delicate and bone-white against the black, the grasslands empty and infinite around him. The change was so abrupt, so drastic, he found himself off kilter and fought to restore balance before he fell over.

“First let me show you the schema,” Merdigen said. He fluttered his hands in mid-air, and silvery dots glittered into being right before Alton’s eyes. The dots flew apart, slicing through the air, leaving behind spidery lines etched into the night. The lines changed direction and angle, creating depth and dimension, continuously growing and branching until they formed a floating, shining image of the wall, much like an architect’s rendering. The length of it spanned the area encircled by the columns.

Merdigen pointed to a tower located near the center of the wall. “We are here,” he said. “This is Haethen Toundrel.” He then pointed to his right along the wall, where swirling runes blinked in alarm. A chunk of wall was missing there. “The guardians have been screaming for a very long time, but no one has heeded their call.” Merdigen tsked, tsked, again. “This is where the wall has been breached, to our west.”