BLACKVEIL
Exhilarated. < That was the only way he could
think of to describe how he felt. She was coming. She with
the long brown hair and ready smile. She who was of Hadriax’s
blood.
He had pried into the mind of this young innocent,
a mind curiously unblocked and unprotected. He learned her loves
and loathings, followed her memories. He saw much of Hadriax in
her, his courage and sense of loyalty.
Betrayer.
Mornhavon fought to contain himself, to remind
himself that Hadriax was long gone. This young woman, this Karigan,
he could mold her and twist her mind, make her his, as Varadgrim
was his. He could bind her to him, and end his loneliness. He would
have her at his side when the wall failed.
The wild magic was within her, and all he’d have to
do is control it. She would shed all notions of being a Green
Rider. She would be his.
Wouldn’t this be his ultimate revenge against
Hadriax? To pervert one of his own blood?
You will come, he whispered to her.
There was no sense of time within the wall. A day
might have passed, or a million. The granite tried to coax Alton
away from his work with its memories.
He barely remembered what it was like to live
within a body of flesh, blood, sinew. He hardly remembered his
name.
He did know that he must sing, that he must make
the others sing with him. His voice resonated among the crystalline
structures and carried through the entirety of the wall. He
modulated his voice so it might overcome the others.
Sometimes when he paused, he heard their whispers
around him: anxiety, suspicion, hatred. Why should they feel such
for him when he was only trying to help?
Sometimes he pondered over the incongruity, but
then an image of Karigan would come to him, and he knew he must
continue his work for her. He could not disappoint her.