Landrew lumbered off, and Alton stood, staring at the breach. He hoped he’d live up to his uncle’s praise, but now he was assailed with doubt more than ever. Even if he was able to communicate with the wall, it didn’t mean he’d be able to fix it.

The light breeze shifted, pushing the billowing mist back into Blackveil. Maybe Alton needed to look at the wall in an entirely different way. There was something he hadn’t done yet . . .

A ladder the soldiers used to make periodic observations of the forest lay nearby, leaning against a boulder. It was not the most sought after duty, especially after the avian creature’s attack, but Sergeant Uxton always managed to talk someone into “volunteering,” and had made several observations himself.

Alton retrieved the ladder and hauled it over to the wall, Sergeant Uxton eyeing him with interest.

“Decided you’re going to make an observation?” he asked.

“Yes. I just want to look at things differently. Maybe it will inspire something.” Alton leaned the ladder against the repairwork of the breach.

“You aren’t going up there without me,” the sergeant said.

“I didn’t figure,” Alton muttered. Actually, the sergeant hadn’t turned out to be so bad after all, despite first impressions, even keeping a respectful distance while Alton mulled over the wall.

He climbed the ladder without hesitation, eager now to see if it would jog any ideas. He stepped off the ladder onto the top of the repairwork itself. The stone slabs they had used to fill in the breach were as wide as the wall, and comfortable enough to stand on.

On either end of the breach rose the magical barrier that mimicked the look, strength, and texture of the stone portion of the wall. Alton touched it, but even knowing the difference, he could not discern it.

He moved aside for Sergeant Uxton to join him. The sergeant held his crossbow level, a bolt locked into place.

Alton peered into the misty world of Blackveil, but he could not see far. Snaking black tree limbs wove together in a dense net, stringy lichen hanging from them. Some beast cackled in the distance. Growth, such as it was, did not approach the wall. The ground was sterile for a few yards between the wall and the forest, except at the breach. Moss crept up the base of the repairwork, and flakes of brown lichen gave the ashlars a sickly look.

As he surveyed the murk of the forest, he thought he felt its attention focus on him, its—its curiosity.

He shook his head. Surely it was simply his imagination, but the sensation did not dissipate. Was there really some intelligence within the forest? Did it have a soul?

He turned to his companion to ask what he thought, but the butt of Sergeant Uxton’s crossbow hurtled toward his head, and he fell off the side of the world.

Westly Uxton stared down at the seemingly lifeless form of Alton D’Yer. He lay crumpled at the base of the wall. With any luck, the young man had broken his neck in the fall and was now dead. How easily the young lord had brought about his own undoing by climbing atop the wall. It was just the sort of opportunity Uxton had been waiting for.

In one sense, he felt some regret, for D’Yer wasn’t a bad sort, but in the greater scheme of things, he was a threat. Oh, yes. He had seen how D’Yer’s touch had ignited the magic of the wall, and if anyone was going to effect a repair, it had to be this young man. Uxton could not permit any such thing.

As he stood there trying to think of what to do next, he heard a rustling on the forest floor, like a snake winding its way through fallen leaves and grasses. It turned out not to be a snake, but a black vine. It slithered toward Alton D’Yer, paused to assess its prey, then proceeded to coil around his ankle. Then with sickening ease, it dragged Alton D’Yer into the forest and out of sight.

Uxton swallowed back his revulsion even though he knew this made his situation much easier.

Luck, he thought, uneasily.

He supported the power that was Blackveil, but its seeming intelligence unnerved him.

He realized time was elapsing quickly and any moment someone was going to notice him standing alone for too long atop the wall.

“Help!” he shouted toward the encampment. “Come help! The forest has taken Lord Alton!”

The soldiers on guard duty mobilized at his cry. He would tell them that a vine had shot out from the forest and grabbed Lord Alton. The closer he kept his story to the truth, the easier it would be to make them believe him.

As the soldiers hastened for the breach, Uxton suddenly noticed the blood staining the butt of his crossbow. He cursed and wiped it off with his hand.

Hell.

Now it was smeared across the tattoo on his palm. He wiped his hand off on his trousers even as the first soldier mounted the ladder, hoping the blood would not be detected on the black fabric.

PENDRIC

No matter how far away Pendric rode from the encampment and the wall, no matter how hard he tried to bend his thoughts elsewhere, the voices followed. They called to him in song, pleaded with him, tried to command him . . . He didn’t understand what was happening to him, or why they harassed him so, except that it was Alton’s fault for awakening the evil magic of Blackveil.

It was evening when Pendric reluctantly started to lead his horse back through the woods, trudging alongside it as if to delay his return to the encampment. The voices might call to him no matter where he went, but it was always worse near the wall, as though it would draw him to it against his will.

He tried to focus on the forest sounds around him—the distant, repetitive knock of a woodpecker against a tree, the rustle of undergrowth as some small creature foraged nearby, the thud of his horse’s hooves. Biters buzzed around his ears, and birds burbled and railed throughout the forest.